Day 32 - June 8th: Horses and The Barn
Giscaro to Toulouse: 28.92 miles / Total: 831
Yesterday was pure survival. The day blurred so completely that I didn’t notice a blister had taken over my entire left pinky toe until I peeled my shoes off. Even Jax, my rock, had to be picked up after 20 miles. When we got back, he stayed planted in his bed, not moving an inch.
Christina had found an auberge in Gimont, a converted church right on the main square. There was only one place serving food—Brasserie de la Halle—since a nearby village festival had turned Gimont into a ghost town. We didn’t mind. It was our first brasserie in France, and we went simple: cheeseburgers, salad, fries, and dessert. It hit the spot. We were both asleep by 9:30pm, ready for the last push before a much-needed day off.
I woke recharged. My chest didn’t feel worse—so maybe better. Christina helped with the blister: Neosporin, a trimmed Compeed pad, and a surgical hole in the shoe to cut the friction. First step: painless. Jackpot.
She dropped me at Giscaro, about 5 km east of Gimont. No more chilly mornings—it was humid and in the 60s, skies overcast. We gave Jax the morning off, checking in later to see if he was up for the city stretch. I didn’t want to push him.
The route rolled through wheat and cornfields. Early on, a shotgun-like blast echoed again. But I didn’t flinch. When Ted and I first heard one, we thought someone was shooting at us. Turned out it was just a bird-scarer—devices farmers use to keep birds off their crops. Sound only, no feathers flying.
This marks my fourth Sunday on the road—one each in Portugal, Spain, and now France. Sundays in Portugal and Spain are quiet, bars open but most shops shut. France is different. Village life buzzes. Locals are out at the boulangerie, fromagerie, and fruit markets—gearing up for their Sunday meal. Unlike Iberia, no French shopkeeper has tried English, though everyone offers a warm “bonjour.”
A Black Brie that was on display. The shop had a very, very strong smell!
I stuck to the road today to conserve energy. The direct route passed through L’Isle-Jourdain, Pujaudran, and Léguevin. In Léguevin, I stopped at a cookie shop that doubled as a café. There, I met a local named Félix who wanted to know what was really happening in the U.S. and how I was finding France so far. We talked for a bit—he was very kind. He wanted to know why I was running across Europe and I told him, “because I can!” He smiled then laughed and said with an accent, “oui, it makes sense!” I appreciated the moment. These little conversations break up the miles and remind me why I’m out here.
From there I passed through Béndines, En Jacca, and Arènes before crossing the River Garonne and entering Toulouse. Jax couldn’t help himself—he jumped out with 25 km to go, back in action.
The final stretch followed Avenue de Toulouse, lined with massive trees that looked like they’d been standing for centuries. I imagined pilgrims, merchants, and soldiers using this same route to enter the city long before me.
Toulouse didn’t disappoint. On the other side of the bridge, the city was alive—craft fairs, people in the streets, music, dancing, café tables full. It was the right kind of chaos.
Toulouse has long been a cultural and commercial hub of southern France. Known as “La Ville Rose” (The Pink City) for its distinctive rose-colored brick buildings, it was a Roman outpost, a medieval stronghold, and the seat of the powerful Counts of Toulouse during the Middle Ages. The city played a key role in the Cathar movement and later in the Inquisition that followed.
This closes out a major chapter. My shin is healed. The cough is hanging on, but I’ve got a rest day to knock it down and let my feet recover. Spirits are high. We’re 32 days in. If I can repeat this rhythm twice more, we’ll be in Istanbul.
Big thanks for your support and for following along.
Day off tomorrow!
Cheers,
David
