Twenty-two.

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 so I sat down alongside and drank a little too.

A plethora of bird song and yesterday I had it repeating in my head which is better than Barry Manilow going on and on about Copacabana which might've happened as those in the Bistrot were all stuck in that appalling groove.