Back along the path stood two conical puys, each surmounted by its ruin; one must, from the map, be Calmont d'Olt, the other I could not fathom from the map - in fact, I could hardly be sure there were two, for it seemed that as one hid, the other appeared, in a slightly different place each time. The winds of the gorge had me in their coils; there was no north or south, only the python-like winding of the river below creating its own orientations. And Estaing, pretty Estaing, remained hidden in the tuck of the river, castle and all. To the south, lower and lower chains of mountain rolled away like dark billows in a haze of distance and late afternoon sun; above them, clouds in serried strata repeated the pattern, like waves breaking. I felt above the world, again, a huge distance above it; the vista had the same immensity as the Fenland sky, which never ceases.
A good end to the day. I made enquiries in Golinhac; the gîte was opened for me; I was well fed with Marks and Spencer biscuits; and I was delivered up to the gîte with a jerrican (the French word, too) of fresh water. A good fire was soon blazing downstairs, and I sat there in the dark watching the flicker of silver birch logs as the stripped tongues of bark caught the flame, and smoke rose half-visible to the rafters. Thinking of the days to come; Conques, a precious jewel, and the hardest part of the walk left behind until the Pyrenees.
A good night, though a little haunted, at Golinhac. Why did I dream of funerals?