Twenty-three.

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?