I awoke this morning at 0620 hours stiff, and stinky from the fire I’d stoked for a large part of the evening. I had 45 minutes to pack up, clear up and clear out before the train departed. I set off at a jog but that didn’t last long. By the time I reached Xertigny train station three kilometers later it was 0735 hours and the train had left without me (damn inconsiderate, if you ask me).

I began to walk back to the town center to see about a taxi since the next train to Epinal (to anywhere for that matter) didn’t leave for another three hours.

Two hundred meters from the station I met a family loading up their car with suitcases. In a rush and unable to help (and unable to speak English) they directed me to the next house along the road. There I found Simone, a woman who appeared to be in her late 6os, with one heck of a smoker’s cough. She pulled out her Yellow Pages and sat on the doorstep. No number for a taxi service in Xertigny was listed.

“Nouveau taxi Xertigny,” she said and marked on my town map the new company’s approximate location.

“Bon voyage!”

I reached a bus stop where two men were chatting.

“Is there a bus to Epinal?” I asked. They both shrugged. One of them ran across the street to the butcher’s to enquire.

“Non,” he said when he returned. I continued in search of the taxi. Both men said goodbye to each other and one of them accompanied me (obviously, neither of them had plans to catch a bus). As with everyone else I’m meeting, he babbled away in French and from the intonation of his voice and the way he looked at me, I knew he asked several questions but I unfortunately couldn’t answer.

The door to the taxi firm was closed and no number was listed. Never mind, I’d grab a coffee and just head back to the station again and catch the 1044 train.

“Cappuecino, sil vous plais,” I asked the proprietor of the bar, just as his doors were opening.

“Non. Café?”

“Oui, merci. Au lait?”

“Non. Café?” No milk. Only black. I would do.

When I’d finished I schlepped back to the station and waited for the train. 1044 came and went. I ran back across the tracks to check the time of departures. Yes, it clearly said 1044, Monday to Friday.

It’s bloody Saturday!!! I was stuck. I called Joel and Edith, the people I stayed with the night before last.

“Non train pour Epinal. Je voudrais un number pour taxi.”

Joel understood and gave me two numbers. I called the first one.

“Non train pour Epinal,” I said again (hey, it worked the first time). “Je vourdrais un taxi Xertigny station pour Epinal station, sil vous plais.”

“Tout suit!” the woman said.

The taxi arrived 20 minutes later and I reached Epinal within plenty of time to catch the 1221 train to Nancy. Once there I just had enough time for lunch (Quiche Lorraine) at the Ibis Hotel Cafe across the street before catching the next train to Luxembourg.

The next day, after breakfast of coffee, bread, Mirabelle plums and homemade jams (peach, rhubarb, orange marmalade, confiture de mures and fleur de pissenlit) I’d changed my mind and decided that I would kick myself later on if I didn’t find a bed to sleep in which was actually in the town of Xertigny.

Joel drove me to the only hotel available. “Completement, full,” he said.

He dropped me at the tourist office (yes, there is actually one) to see if they knew of somewhere I could stay for the night. I said goodbye to Joel, not before he reminded me with a grin that “Rasey is Xertigny.”

Beatrice was at a loss. She made a few phone calls but none was successful.

“Pastor? Cure?” I asked, thinking that maybe the local priest would have a place for me to stay. Nothing.

“Gandamare?” Beatrice suggested. It was worth a shot. Maybe I could crash in one of the cells for the night.

After a demonstration with handcuffs I managed to figure out that it was against the law to place innocent tourists behind bars. But the police officer I spoke with, Jerome, did call the mayor for me to see if there were any other options for me. 

“There is utt,” Jerome said. “No key, but…” he used arm gestures to tell me that there was a roof. Great! That would be fine. It was one kilometer away. We set off in Jerome’s car but a barrier across the pathway through the trees prevented us from getting very far on four wheels. I put on my backpack and Jerome pointed me in the right direction to La Faisonderie.

So having no key is okay but what Jerome forgot to mention was the fact that my shelter for the evening didn’t have four walls, either. All of the doors to the inside were locked. I’d have to sleep outside in the patio area. Never mind, after my recent expeditions with Bernd, it’d be a piece of cake. At least there was an outhouse I could use instead of squatting in the bushes getting my butt stung or scratch by goodness knows what.

I hid my bags behind a tree and walked back down the pathway to the supermarket. In addition to wine, cheese, bread and ham, I picked up 40 tea lights. Back at the utt I lit a fire in one of the barbeque troughs available for picnickers, laid out my sleeping bag and waited for nightfall to close in.

The fire hissed, grasshoppers chirped, and around 0230 hours a creature with a really scarey screech woke me.

Camping out with a crazy friend is one thing but sleeping out under the stars by myself is another matter entirely. I did it, which is great, but not sure it’s something I want to do on a regular basis.

Whilst in Nancy, I stopped by the tourist office to ask about possible accommodation in

“Oui, yes, there is a guesthouse. I will call for you.”

“They will meet you at the train station,” she said after hanging up the phone. I spent the day walking around Nancy then caught the train to Xertigny at 1730 hours.

Joel met me at the station.

“Parlez vous Anglais?” I asked.

“Non. Parlez vous Francais?”

“No.”

Oh well, we’d manage. We walked to his car, loaded up my bags and set off. Within minutes I saw the sign for Xertigny with a cross through it.

“Er, maison in Xertigny?” I asked.

“Non. Rasey.” Joel said. “Problem?”

It was too late for me to do anything about it. At least I’d have a bed for the night and would worry about a bed in Xertigny in the morning.

We arrived at the guesthouse within ten minutes. Only eight kilometers away, but not Xertigny. Rasey is part of the township/district of Xertigny. It’s the place where Joel and his wife Edith go to vote and is overseen by the Mayor of Xertigny, but it’s not the place I should be staying in order to fulfill me self-imposed rule of staying in the “letter” place. But boy is it beautiful!

Built in 1841, the old farmhouse with its beamed ceilings and stone foundations is nestled amongst trees, just off the roadside. A fountain is in the front yard and ducks, geese and chickens graze in the back yard, next to the Mirabelle plum trees. My bedroom had low ceilings, two beds and floral patterned curtains. There was a shower room and toilet adjoining the sleeping area. In order to look out of the windows I had to bend down.

I took a quick shower and changed before heading downstairs to join Jerome, Edith, and another guest, Lawence, for dinner. Everything we ate came from the garden: duck (”Qwack, qwack!”), goulash and roasted new potatoes. “Artur,” a suit of armor, looked on as we ate. In silence. No one spoke English and my Berlitz phrasebook proved pretty useless.

“Merde,” Joel said. We all agreed, and after several glasses of wine, our attempts at speaking became more frequent, even if ridiculously incorrect. By the end of the evening both Joel and Edith had convinced me that although Rasey was eight kilometers away from Xertigny, it did in fact come under the same jurisdiction and therefore would be sufficient for the purpose of my trip.

No problems with the 11-hour overnight train from Vienna, except the mother and two children I shared a compartment with. The kids were fine. It was the woman who didn’t seem to know the concept of whispering.

Am now in Nancy, France. Got here about 30 minutes ago (it’s 0830) and I can’t get a train to my next place, Xertigny, until 1730. Am revving myself up with coffee now for a day of wandering around doing nothing more energetic that putting one foot in front of other, on flat, smooth surfaces.

After my 19-hour trek up and down Mount Hochschwab (2247 m) a couple of days ago, my knees, feet and ankles have told me that if I dare to wear them out like that again, at least for a few days, they’ll give up the ghost and never function again. By the time I got to the bottom of the mountain, I was walking like a little old lady and needed not just the help of Bernd but also the assistance of the walking stick he made for me.