the angry pilgrim

I have been invaded by a pilgrim. On the main road, hacking back – as I repeatedly do – the honeysuckle that has a habit of strangling the hedge shrubs, I was hailed by a tall, balding guy in his early sixties hauling a 2-wheeled trolley to which was attached a rucksack. I checked him up and down: shorts, T-shirt, walking boots – he looked like a hiker; wheeling his life's possessions – a hobo?
"Do you know any gîte d'étapes round here?" he asked. Now this was weird. Gîte d'étape equals low-budget traveller looking for accommodation in the mountains. Shouldn't he have known that this is gîte desert. There are none within a 20km radius of here.
"Where are you heading for?" I asked.
"Jerusalem".
Whoa. "So is Jerusalem that way?" – I indicated the direction he was heading in, to Vizille. Some walk. "Where did you spend last night?" He showed me his map, on which he had highlighted all the gîtes. He had crossed the Chartreuse, pulling his trolley up and down the muddy footpaths, discovering its limitations. He had then made a massive deviation to avoid a similar experience in Belledonne massif. So had ended up at Vaulnaveys unplanned, with no accommodation info. It seemed a hilariously under-researched project.

I wondered how far I could put myself out.
"Would you like me to drive you up to Laffrey – there are more options up on the plateau?"
"Non non. I must walk all the way." Fair enough. "But you don't, by any chance, have a garage I could sleep in?"
I thought of our cement-dusty garage and couldn't really see it.
"Well yes. But not exactly. I do airbnb" (he hadn't heard of it). "You can stay in the house, if you like. My name's Rebecca."
"Bernard."

I liked the idea of providing shelter to a fellow walker and searcher. The reality is a little less romantic. No need to tell him to make himself at home. He had barely got foot inside the door when he was asking for a coffee, where he could wash his clothes, where he could hang them up, the wifi code... All entirely reasonable. But then he started yacking loudly on the phone. I couldn't concentrate, or listen to the radio – or do anything, really. And the man smells real bad!

But I get him to help me stuff the car with greenery and we do a quick trip to the tip.

Back at the house he is insistent on me stamping his carnet of places stayed at. And then accepts what was intended as a joke – my sticky, brown, marmite thumbprint, adjacent to which, "Rebecca, Vaulnaveys-le-Bas". The significance of this admin becomes clearer later on.

So I now have a view of his underpants, lined up on his string between the birch and the hedge.

He has brushed his shoes, cursing the while. And has now settled down on the terrace, shouting down the phone – banking admin, then booking his accommodation for the following night – muttering to himself, swearing non-stop. "Oh là là là là... c'est pas possible. Les gens..."

And am wondering which high-carb delicacy I can serve up for supper, and how I'm going to cope with his presence for the next 12 hours!

Later:
I drove us to Intermarché to scoop up some supplies, deciding on a heart-attack-inducing tartiflette + salad. It went down a treat. Between us we ate a whole reblechon. Nothing to be proud of.

Bernard is an ex-military man who's done service all over France's former colonies. His motivation for the pilgrimage is to give thanks to God for sparing him in his many battles. Unlike his mates, he still had four limbs when he retired from the army.

He had an interesting story about how contact with an orphanage in Cambodia led to him adopting a baby, now his 22-year-old daughter. Bernard ranted about how the république française is nothing more than a murderous warmonger. Well, he should know... I didn't ask him how a career spent killing people could square with his Christian conscience. Or what the psychological scars were.

He is convinced that France should reinstate its king (currently presiding over Spain, such is the Bourbon destiny). So I have met my first full-blown French monarchist. I mean truly: the man is seriously hopeful that it can be achieved. Why? Because the king is god-appointed (his T-shirt is emblazoned with the logo, "dieu et roi"). What...?!

6am:
The pilgrim is knocking on my bedroom door. I am already awake – his fairy footstep not conducive to sleep.
"J'ai un gros problème". Why am I not surprised. "I've lost my carnet – I think it must be at the supermarket."
"And?"
"You must take me there." How about: Rebecca, I'm sorry to be waking you up at this ungodly hour, but could you possibly...
"Without it I'll have to abandon the whole pilgrimage."
"Well, you've plenty of time to walk to Vizille – Intermarché doesn't open until 8.30am." I'm not feeling very Christian. I want Bernard to take a running jump.
"Very kind", he retorts, sarcastically. Clearly, neither is he.
"If I'm there early I'll be able to search the bins before they're taken away."
"Right. Ok."
We throw his muddy trolley into the car and, as we drive to Vizille, I try to put a positive spin on events: God doesn't need a filled carnet. The need for proof is just an ego thing. He knows this but rants the while. I turn towards Intermarché and he then remembers the boulangerie where we also stopped yesterday. And lo, the lord giveth. He had indeed left the carnet there, and it is now back in his hands.

A bloody miracle. I am delighted and give him a hug. "Rebecca, vous êtes top", he says.

Today's route is 43km, a boring slog along the Romanche valley between Vizille and Bourg d'Oisans, fetching up at Rivier d'Allemond. All on busy main roads. He'll be glad I shortened his route by 5km.

Phew. If this is what airbnb is like, I think I might give it a miss next time!