Burger King camp

Quietly, like a shadow, I watch this drama unfold scene by scene. I am the lucid one here, the dangerous one, and nobody suspects.

It's Sunday, but Lezignan is a big town, so I go down to a supermarket and restock on salami and cheese and apple and tomato. I'm going to hitch to Lodève, so I get some felt tip pens for signage too.

Back at the campsite I pack up in a leisurely way and apply more sutures to my ailing rucsac. I'm beginning to think it's the material that is the weak point, not the seams themselves. I'll have to treat it gingerly for the next ten days.

I walk to the péage at the start of the motorway. The sun is shining, it's lunchtime, and there's very little traffic. Soon another hitcher (Francisco) arrives, introduces himself, and asks for a cigarette, which I'm unable to provide. He's heading to Toulouse - the other direction. He starts by sitting down, then lying down in the shade, while I brandish my sign at all-comers to no avail.

Eventually Francisco rouses himself and comes back to talk to me. He talks fast, with plentiful colourful language, but it appears that he's telling me his life story. Possibly there's abuse involved, a mention of schizophrenia, and many other challenges that I fail to translate. The rant only ends when a car slows down and bears him off westwards.

Not long after, I get a ride with Fasiq to Narbonne. He's a market trader and locateur (landlord).  He drops me at the Narbonne péage, which is much busier than Lezignan. Within minutes I get picked up by two guys wearing Burger King crowns. They're from Orleans, but have been down at Narbonne beach, getting a bit of sun during their holidays. Now they're on their way back north, which means they'll be driving right past my destination.

At Lodève, I wander into town to load up on water. It's a good looking town, hewn out of ancient grizzled stone. Over the bridge, and I'm on the GR7, which immediately starts climbing out of the valley. Then it settles down into an easy, level stroll through farm lands to Fozière. From where the going gets really tough.

It goes up and up and I start eyeing up possible campsites. Approaching seven, the going gets even steeper. No longer a path, it's more like a steep rocky staircase. I'm hoping I'll reach the top and when I do, there's a beautiful, wide, flattish space. I rip off the rucsac and set to with the tent.

There's no way of getting the pegs into the rocky ground. I cut lengths of paracord that I've been carrying with me, and use rocks instead of tent pegs. The wind is howling, but they look like they'll hold fast.