A rebel without a clue.

It went on and on. Apart for a couple of water stops I plunged on until, behold, a huge lake spread out before me. Then it was curving to right down from the hill and then left into Le Pin. Once I arrived everything was closed and the streets were quiet, except for one girl going passed on a bike who I hollered and she, Katherine, did what she could to try find to me a place to stop. The only option really is the Accueil Pelerin further along the Way, (and a bit back up these hills). €30 for a very comfortable room, but there was no chance of dinner (usually), however as it a Dimanche, and nothing will reopen this evening (and I'm not moving another muscle), he said don't worry. At seven I've chicken, potatoes and rice and a provençal sauce, a Danone vanilla dessert, some welcome (slightly dry) bread and a nice piece of a goats cheese. The host, who speaks no English, has been excellent - he also dropped me a couple of beers to quench my thirst - Kronenbourg - and sorted to...

The worst thing about Brexit is the utter silence of the Shelob at the centre of the web of deception: QE2, however some think she is without skin, blood or bone! Signposters for the Chemin in France take note: I much prefer to see the distance to walk in kilometres rather than hours. Time is such a subjective experience that I feel I am due to walk forever when, with the distance measurement, I feel at ease. Had a break to rebalance my body. Only 7.5kms to Le Pin, back up a steep incline. Much food was consumed as a swarm of flies descended to the Eglise. Symbolic of what I don't know, as I saw not a soul at Valencogne? The door to the church stood wide open, but no-one came out or went in, including me, then I dropped an avocado seed and it too rolled away from the church. Only the flies, avocado peel and tomato core remained to litter this empty space.

Overslept, but I think I needed it. It's a bit icy this morning. On the road side verges. Added logs every so often, as I was chilly in that big house alone, and applied a bellows to keep the wood smoldering. Donativo this place. Jolanda and Jean-Michel fine people, but I only had €12 left. Think I was talking their heads off. Jolanda understands more English, and we could jump a little to German, but JM went running for dictionary most times. We realized we both have issues with pronunciation. So funny I thought it was just one way! La Massotte. 31st March. April fool's Day tomorrow. Pay attention - England look at what you are doing? Please come together for everyman, as divided we fall to tyranny and much worse. Please awaken to the reality that we are united as people not divided as states! I have been trying to distance myself from Brexit as I recall the shock of the morning after the vote. In St Ives, Cornwall, they overwhelmingly voted to leave, but then worried that E...

No room at the inn in Saint-Genix, so with my will declining I am forced to go to Netto to fetch some food and go onwards another 4kms. At quarter to six I am horizontal, but I am safe in a house specifically for pilgrims opposite the massive farm house. The bed is slightly damp, but I have a fire burning and I'm sure once it's aired it will suffice. Beggars cannot chose and I'm not due to give birth to the son of God. Now the host says you must eat with us. So why did the bloody lady in the Office de Tourism send me off to Netto? Anyway I now have a great deal more to carry tomorrow, but a much shorter distance. Today ended up at 32kms, I had Mont Tournier in the way too and I have a proper fire: should I pass away due to carbon monoxide poisoning at least I managed one third of the way to Le Puy, which I think is supremely better than standing outside No. 10 showing how very racist Brits have really become: was Enoch Powell a prophet?

There are so many bees that their combined matter is a very obvious sound. France is luscious: it pulsates with life. Everywhere I look I see flowers; a lawn verdant and facund. The roadside is a meadow and the meadows entertain the cows merrily with more wild flowers than I can name. Everywhere I walk I hear bird song and in the valley a brook tumbles gently. The very Nature breaths and cheers me on. But it's too warm for March/April. I've brought a bivvy, mat and pillow which maybe unnecessary? Too early to say, but by today I'm a third of the way to Le Puy, so I've managed this weight until now! It was time to stop for another food break. Two three hour stints so now only a gentle meander into Saint-Genix and I see there is an Accueil Parosse so that is my destination; the bivvy can wait? Lying down with a bull and four of his sons. The wonder of them. He was busy scratching he head on some drain cover, which had been used often. They all came to drink at a butt s...

"You're going the wrong way" say the woman with a fine ass and her two daughters with better asses. Get down: bromide tea required. Husband watches them wiggle onwards alongside me thinking "am I going the wrong way?". Otherwise I'd have seen no one. Plenty of elderly dogs attempting to bark, with more wheeze than insidious intent; bye bye wonder bums. Who needs medical teas when all I really require is a bull in my path bellowing between his heirs. White as snow cows, but the father looks too testicular to offer much resistance.

The climb up Mont Tournier makes me recall Ernest Hemingway's description in For Whom the Bell Tolls, as they snake their way through the Sierras keeping away from the Fascists and the omnipresent Condor Legion. My body said stop for brunch at just before ten and prior to highpoint on the altimeter. At eleven I am almost at the first village, Saint-Maurice de Rotherens but there isn't any Accueil Jacquaire available there so I'll stop a moment, rest these feet, calves and thighs, however no wine must take advantage while I am not aware! Go hang - it's a day of revelry and mischief. No! Be good and await another time to celebrate the wine when you don't have miles to go!

Peacock calling his mate to tarry not before the sun has passed her head; beckoning. Upwards they dance screaming as phoenix in umber burns, but gentle do the early birds (who fear naught), upon their majestic breast these signs of spring, where winter malts become a season of aspirations and a summons to performances, neither subtle nor bitter, a brevity bold in hope.

Day five begins with silence and then the happy chatter of birds. I'm awake by five, but coasted back into semi-sleep. Einkorn for breakfast and fruit to follow. It's a difficult day to come. Rural France is so peaceful; it always feels like a miracle to be here walking surrounded by its manners and charms. Vive la France, Vive la Revolution. Is Europe in meltdown?. Has the European experiment failed? Macron is winning no friends as he taxes the rural French, which is a lot of folks, to please whom? His paymasters: banks, bureaucrats and Eurocrats. It's the same old story, but I wonder if the upper classes have failed so much the genie has smashed the bottle from which it was being indecently restrained. Vive la Revolution and I'm walking over a ridge soon. Boy the things I do for sanity.

Why does it look like two small boobs between Chanaz and Yenne. It felt more like mammoth tits. And coming down off the cliff below La Chapelle de St. Romain was manic. So I am in a Bistrot and I'm eating brawn and drinking some beautiful wine, but my fatigue has caught me up. Saved by a family way back up the hill. Picking me up she brings me back to massive bed. And now the afternoon has gone. Obviously I required the sleep I just had. Dinner is at seven thirty. I've still an hour and three quarters to chill in this luxurious double bed. Jean-Pierre and Josiane fed me, but I am still pretty fatigued. It's far warmer than I expected, so all my warm clothes are on my shoulders. Jean-Pierre says it's meant to snow a little next week so they're definitely necessary. The cliff I came down at Etain, before Yenne, helter-skelter, was energy sapping so the last hour I was pretty blind to anything other than getting this weight off my shoulders, sitting down, resting a...

It's all steep and I seriously need to make a large deposit not next to copious vines. Vin de Savoie. And break for a second bite of breakfast. Left overs from the evening meal. So I haste into the Mairie before I lose control of my bowels. There was a lot of food went in yesterday, which sustained me well, now it is heading back to the earth which created it. It's time to rest a moment. It's not far today at all. So I will relax in the sunshine outside the Mairie here in Jongieux and eat a little more of the Tommette de Savoie: rind and all, and set off again at ten.

Another day. Less distance to cover this one, though. Only 18.5kms. less than half yesterday's grind. The last leg along the Rhône was quite straight and uninteresting. But now I'm back up onto the ledges which run alongside the Rhône. Last night their cat, Gary - who turned out to be a girl, was curled up on my sleeping bag. She liked my smell, but not my vocabulary. Yorkshire is my native tongue, not Savoie. She let me ruffle her white fur and then promptly pissed off. The sunrises over my left shoulder as I head towards Yenne, with the Jura behind ... Jurassic rock, not The Jura. Brightly the birds command me to be calm today. The devil is at least two days behind my tail. And I hear there is one pilgrim ahead who set off from fucking Copenhagen (show off) how can he deal with being alone for months on end. Several days, maybe weeks is the most I can manage, but El Camino is very addictive. Time to pay attention to the road and the dogs who greet my passage.

Mucus, is it mucating. I'm an mucating a lot at the moment. Blowing my nose into the wind and wiping my fingers on the seat of my pants. What a way to live? Taking it on with me. Definitely changing clothes on the morrow. Sweating everywhere. Up and over, down, through and repeat. We'll talk about it later? Woodpecker hammering and grasses yearning; the season leaps into frame: bountiful spring. Long day. Worthy of some medal or an award. 35kms. Walking from just gone seven until after five. Obviously had a few breaks - four in fact. The part between Pont de Fier and Chanaz was flat and straight. Which is why it was possible. If the hills of the morning had kept on I'd be dead, fallen in a ditch with crosses where my eyes should be. The hosts are great they've given me something more valuable than anything: a beer, a shower, the possibility of laundry and another beer. Then sausage and potatoes for this evening. See them later. I must finish this La Goudale and switc...

It is better. Being alone to recover a weary body. So fatigued yesterday, but had that inability to relax properly. Some tension and anxiety was in my mind. The usual questions. Why am I flogging myself like this? For which I will never have an answer. Perhaps for the hell of it? Or to prove I am not a complete waste of flesh, blood and bone? By seven I will have crouched on the hole in the floor and then I will meander into the valley and, maybe, away from the relentless Bisse? It's definitely behind me now. The town clock struck the quarters and the offices of the day until about eleven, but at that point I was drifting delirious into sleep. Later in the night a muscle at the back of my head decided to spasm. But I think I've had eight plus hours to recover. The Zurich guy I've left behind. His sad visage was not helping my tiredness. I'm thankful I didn't have him in the double bed and don't have the steep incline to Chaumont to deal with. Day three!

Stopped for a snack at Charly now have four hours walking to reach Chamont. The Gîte communal was open. So I took a credencial stamp and a couple of 25cl Kronenbourg. Back on the way as the wind picks up again. More of a country way today, this morning. Drovers path heading north west and mostly up. My food ran out as I froze solid on a picnic table, on a cross roads before heading on a muddy track into a forest. After a bit of trying to hide away from the stiff Bisse I thought better, so continued on, eating the remainder of the Emmental and drinking both of the petite beers. There weren't any shops, banks, boulangerie at all and, although I'm finally horizontal, the last few kilometres were very steep and totally exhausting. The Gîte is simple, but I'm on my own today which isn't really a bad thing. The toilet is outside and below here, and it's one of those toilets you crouch down on. Haven't seen one of them in ages. Quite funny really - squatting is pret...

By six yesterday evening I was overwhelmed with fatigue. It was the first day I've walked on a Camino path since August/September with any intention of doing more than a couple of days. Combined with little sleep for two nights, the hell of airports and the heavier than usual backpack I ground to a halt at the end of a chapter. Anna, who was heading to a Yoga class, called us to dinner at seven and I could hardly stifle a yawn the entire time.  Having hastily consumed a tasty curry I apologized to the other pilgrim - from near Zurich, Switzerland - for really needing to lay down. Now it is just after five thirty and I think I'm a bit early for the hostess, but I am less absolutely tired and I've the dawn chorus to myself. Only day two as well: so how far will I meander today? The other pilgrim, a retiree who also left Geneva Tuesday morning, is snoring in the room next to me. He complained about not being able to find anywhere to kip in Neydens, as the extra few kilometre...

There is a wonderfully warm sun shining in through the large patio doors heating my body, which feels a little bone weary. A little earlier I took a walk to the Eglise in Beaumont, but that wind really takes the edge off any real power from the sun. The lady at Home Saint Pierre told me it takes 5 degrees off the temperature easily. It feels like it is brushing the glaciers and snowcapped peaks and blowing it down the Rhône valley. Even with several layers it's no fun standing still. Much better when walking with it behind or to the side, but I don't need to stand around really. The village has nothing else to look at. The view is amazing with mountains to the north and west, but I'm better sat in a comfortable chair with a woollen, warm, deep piled carpet beneath my feet? Sometimes I think French people are very lucky with their country. Rurally it's absolutely top banana. It's staggering. Like many countries it has real difficulties, but it's heart is held hi...

It's nice to hit my stride rapidly and regardless of the bad night's sleep. Last night I destroyed Robert's lamp twice, and the second time it was truly broken, then inadvertently I walked into the wrong room, switching the light on in his daughter's bedroom: luckily she was in bed so no incident there and I went next door instead. After breakfast, a malted oat affair with honey and fruit, the first part of the morning was along the lake and crossing the Rhône into old Geneva and up to the Cathedral, which was closed until ten. Having asked advice I was shown into Home Saint Pierre for a stamping of the credencial and was allowed to have a little more breakfast - bread and creme du Marrons and another coffee. Then it was a straightforward 22 Kms blown all the way by a gusty cold wind known locally as La Bise. In Neydens I ate lunch from 12:15 until one, then I had to go up and over the long foot of a mountain: the grassy part to around 800 metres from a piffling 560 me...

Raclette, Tomme and pomme de terre. All the way into night. Beer, chassalas and the sound of freight trains throughout my dreams. Bellevue before Geneva. Robert of LA, Stanford Alumni, is the patron and I am blessed all the day. Walking on the right bank of Lake Genève. Emmental, Tomme, tomatoes, bread, cornichons and avocado for the day ahead. 7.5kms before Cathedral Saint Pierre and before Neydens for today. Time to enjoy the sunrise, etc and say bon chemin.

Here I am. On the shore of Lake Geneva with the mountains rising behind it. Robert, my American Stanford graduate host, has Italian ancestry so was on the Via Francigena when I messaged him about a night here before setting off on the Via Gebennensis towards Le Puy. My aim is to reach Le Puy in maybe three weeks or just less (I intend to head back to UK around 15/16th), but I will have to go back a slower way missing the Easter hordes heading back to the UK on budget carriers: buses all the way, however that is many days away. He's left me here so he can head into Geneva and get me the yellow guidebook I will need to find a place to stay. He's got a copy from 2017, but refuses to let me take(pay) his and he get a new one later. He says he has an number of errands in town and has a train pass anyway. Briefly I wandered to lake side, but it's quite cool without a jacket. I will pass it on the morning anyway. This is all pretty prosaic. The long morning did me in and even th...

The airport is overwhelmingly large, and I missed where you pick up a complementary ticket. I found an information desk, informed the lady on the desk that I am on the autistic spectrum: especially in busy, crowded, fast paced, illuminated spaces; I can't cope with it at all. No amount of antidepressants will ever help my feeling of helplessness in these situations. But it is over. I'm on the train as the lady went and got me a ticket. And I was the last person onboard. Phew. A man speaks in a French voice so very fast on the tannoy: it's rabid. I felt like the lad from the Incident of the Dog in the Night. I wanted to crawl into a small space and escape (not nice) to wait for my brain to stop pulsating. Now I'm relaxed on a lesser, slower, more peaceful and speechless train.

Can they actually talk forever? Maybe they could talk as the world explodes. This is a real difficulty. They're harmless, but incessant. They compare each other continually and are really scoring points. It's a better class of person, I'm sure, but it's undeniably meaningless. I am so trying to see peace not grievance. Plane journeys are barren and those behind me are banal. But it is over. I'm am glad I wasn't climbing , skiing or snowboarding. The bus is wedged with people. I'm allowed to sit next to the driver. Phew. Let me get out of this place. The bus follows number nine to the terminal. There are no seat belts ... I exist in no man's land.

Robert, my host, tells me to get some rest on the flight. So I climb on board the Jet2 Holidays emblazoned Boeing 737-300/800 in fear it will be filled with Stag do's and Hen parties. Saying hello, and good morning, to Lynsey the excusing myself passed Amy I take my seat. Another passenger comes along and, as she cares less which seat she has, moves me along one. Seat A with the window view. From here I can see the sea. Here comes the announcement and I'm removing my boots: it's too uncomfortable to have them on in this position for so long. Some people cannot count or find their seats. It's hilarious. Such a simple instructions to grasp. Take a deep breath and go in. Boots off before breakfast comes out; second breakfast. Last night's pasta and sauce. Then perhaps a moment's shut eye without too much dribbling, drooling, farting or snoring.

How to nearly miss a flight, did I nearly get caught in my own arrogance? The lady next to the muscle flexing gentleman says she's starting a creative writing course soon and asked me have I done one? Unnecessary. Life is quite a writing course. There is only one way to write and that's your own way. A clone ain't going to step forward, lead us onwards in new ways and you've got to have picked up a pen many moons ago. Now I'm through the final stage of the airport hazards and across from me two gentlemen go through the same nonsense I've grown to despise. Sunday morning curry after being into Leeds. The other hasn't done a night out in Leeds for years. The first states it is mental and his son was dressed up to look as gay as possible. They have cabin fever, but are heading to a chalet in Chambray and that is hilarious.

All these people and I'm alone. All these clusters, families, couples, kids and those with a head down looking where no answer can ever come. To kill time? There is no time. Only ever now. To be at peace is to be now. Kids are now, but are forced screaming to live bound up in time. The voice has called Jet2 Holidays final, final, final call for Tenerife, and again. It's beyond necessary. If someone fails to get to the plane in time they forego their right to fly anywhere. And Jet2 have been paid so why cry over a few vacant seats when they'll be less vacant stares on the rows. Anxious man clasps muscle sprung device. He states 'no, I'm not anxious'. He works out. Then he admits he's bored. Once in Atlanta he missed his flight because he had a sachet of ketchup, "probably McDonald's", forgotten somewhere in his baggage and I confess I've broken airport crap into a routine. Quite an OCD one. Take off boots, walk next to the toilet, sit down...

On Wellington Street, passing another reconstruction of the burnt out Majestic: once a cinema and once Majestk nightclub: an mammoth disappointment where vomit was spewed, piss was slashed, shit was daubed, Johnny's were ejected and, no doubt, people passed away to be born further down the food chain (thankfully); it's a blue morning. For practical experience I walked my way back towards Leeds from Wetherby yesterday morning. My main consideration was to test the larger backpack I've decided to bring this time. It is quite possible to do damage to spine, arms, shoulders, legs and feet, when I'm required to cover 20 Kms plus a day from Tuesday, without a dry run or two. By a quarter past eight on Sunday I was beside All Hallow's Church, Bardsey so I ducked inside for a rest. The service had just kicked off: communion. So I found a quiet corner to rest a while and listen. The vicar was the youngest of the congregation. Is it the fear of hell or death which delivers...

Walking over forgotten food, which was hastily discarded, I'm on the road. An animal died unnecessarily to be wasted on Wade Lane. A pile of greasy kebab in ribbon like waves, a mouth bitten pita and unremitting polystyrene container. Nowhere to be seen were the vultures of the town and the birds had yet to leave their roosts to pick clean this protein forgetfulness. An animal reduced to refuse: either eaten by vermin or poured into vast landfill later and saturate the clean earth with its unholy fibres; a mound of hatred for the very substance of another being. Now I await the 757 to deliver me henceforth.

Life is good. Even filled with so much stuff it could happily explode. When you meet a man who's on the wrong bus heading out an hour to Wetherby for a Morrisons breakfast you have to settle him back on the path. At the Wellington, by Redhall he is deposited to seek to break his fast. Whether the Stonebake or back to the 24 Eurogarage he'll be catered for. He doesn't want to go to Wetherby. He's a train spotter and Wetherby has no tracks. In him I just saw me. Much more gentle and simple and joyous. Autism comes in many boxes. These are not Jackinaboxes.

It has to be done. I must go. I am going. To hop on a plane is plain wrong: it is too hasty. But it is a means. It's a pollutant. And it's security gone bonkers. Take off your belt, shoes and empty all emotion onto the slipway. Coming through nearly as creation made me. Not quite: the offence would cause the blue shirts to gag or shift restlessly. Point and stare at a thing of no significance. Arms stretched high. Upon this airport, landside/airside division, I am asked strictly to abase myself and add another crucifixion to their catalogue of fears.

A disease of matter Do we exist only as plague? To infest all quarters Bisecting into indistinguishable Where the difference is the same? Nothing becomes of anything wrought Less is definitely more.

Do we wear clothes, as apparently, We'd grow so bored of our natural Appearance? Sometimes there are people who Match Their apparel to be one because Out And in season do blow hot and Cold Shivering or sweating apart, creaselessly, Ceaseless.

If I ever buy you flowers Then Our love must be Dead Wilted and dusty. Poorly and Deflowered. No longer eager or touching Fingers Tenderly reaching beyond ways Means Hourly, daily, weekly seeming Barred Where nothing may be Ever.

Goodbye sweetness I say She stares downcast at bright White Sneakers shining into her Black Face quizzical and catching Words Which like a boomerang came Back.

Oh, for a little walk. Surely I'm able to contain my explicit need? Some literate greed Stampedes my feet away To eat the mystery up As slothing is a muzzle upon freedom. * Like this? Like that? Like is always like It's stiff, like.