Fourteen.

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 switch off.