Day thirteen.

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Another long day. Stopped twice to eat food I was carrying. My sack is very heavy. Actually it's the same as it was on leaving Limoges, but seems laden with rocks. This is a mental thing. And perhaps the heat is effectively hampering my day. Giant tiger mosquitoes in the Gîte ... I'm a pin cushion.

Centre of Mont-de-Marsan it's where the young of France hang out. Higher pitched voices call out to one another by the Halles de la Madeleine. Stopped for a extrapale Oldarki. It is a lager. Euro-Lager, but need one ...

French girls smoke longingly. It keeps them lean and chic ... Bullshit. Inside you're burning up baby. My pickle is beer today. Burnt or pickled but not both. The older Dutch ladies reappeared and I'm to return with Sausages: so much for no meat. Just passing through this town. Back to beggars, so it's quite large. Nearly in Basque country and nearly into the foothills of the Pyrenees.

Not only sausage but saussion picante a la Maison times two. Second beer is Fischer. Didn't know that still existed in its swing top bottle ... but what? Ding-dong ... 80% humidity and girl with the mouth nicked from Beatrice Dalle. That was French noir at it's seediest. The male character has nothing to do with the craziness of 37.2°C le matin. Rugby country Stade Montois and the kids smoke like rogues in a Camus novel.

Mont-de-Marsan is an air force town. And today I've stopped to stare at the jets traversing the Landes skies. France really is a fruitful nation. Agriculture is at its heart. Some areas have the engineering side, but it is of a very minor rank.

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