Forty-six.

Sunday. Cockerel crows again because to him it is another morning and he sings before the sun makes its first appearance forever, but it's passed six anyway and there are no dogs howling at the moon.

Strange scenes inside the gold mine: it is so long since I've stayed in a Chambre d'hôtes that I was truly surprised by what can only be called inauthenticity. When I went down from the Pelerin Gîte, which is the usual simple affair, the hostess and husband and three other higher ranking guests were arranged about the fireplace drinking aperitif with various fruit flovoured syrup. Once we finally sat down to eat I was very flakey: on the very edge of sleep. So phoney I had trouble at first not to feel in conflict with my being. So different from Accueil Jacquaire in an entirely pretentious manner. Totally unnecessary affectation. Not every meal in France is surely like this? More a means of chin wag not a means of sustenance. No wonder they've all bellies where they could walk in the freezing rain instead and only need food because the body is registering zero in all departments. Truly it's so silly. Will they leave with their Ego's intact if they didn't spend an hour discussing the rain and snow. The weather is one subject unworthy of this segment of precious time. Arrogantly the hostess stated this is what the customer pays for in a Chambre d'hôtes: but can you not see the unreality of this activity?

Good soup, nice potatoes, but slightly too eldente lentils: not quite like shot. Moan moan moan moan. It was tasty-ish, but when I asked for a beer instead of wine, I got Heineken ... What a let down by the French to put that low quality excuse for a beer on a French dining table!

A good night's sleep, for a change, and there is some blue skies before the dawn. The birds have begun and I must see my vague recriminations for what they are? Since I have no control of virtually anything why do I care when things are not simple - as I like them - the world is an onion with more layers than is reasonable to any fragile mind (and mine is fractured quite severely). Today I've 36 kilometres to carry that pack towards a mythical goal. A supreme accomplishment which says look I do exist here too. But does my existence matter really? Isn't just one more paradox in this system of unhappiness? I am infinite yet feel restricted, I am free where I feel imprisoned, I am honest where I hear only falsehoods. Inside me is all the universe yet I feel small. There is confusion running wild through my mind where it seems billions have the happiness I so desire. Perhaps it's true I think too much about everything, but isn't that better than considering nothing?

This Camino thing really does get into the nooks and crannies of my being. Whether my knees ache, back pulsates or feet tingle from over exertion, but it does help something good to come as I am led to the conclusion nothing I say or do has any really matter whatsoever. It's all just an absolute waste of time staving off a death in a life I never once asked for. Until the time comes I am of no existence as well of no consequence beyond what really resides beyond all the fallacy I participated in. Only my true Self exists and the rest I've assimilated to try to gain the Love I so desperately thought I could get elsewhere. Love only resides where my true Self is. It's all up to me, and it's always been up to me, because it's only ever inside me.

Sunday ain't so blue or so dark it's another day in which to try to get it right - 100%.