Forty-three.

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The dogs have begun barking. Earlier the hounds were howling. You never need an alarm clock in rural France. When I went out to sit with them they all sniffed me again, one licked my hands, but mainly they wanted to keep warm in the sun. A garçon, of about 7, who came passed early yesterday evening, told me the one who didn't move had a problem with its breathing and was sure to die - 'mort' he spake - I continued to stroke it behind the ears a little tearful. He passed this comment with little emotion, although I could see something was working deeper inside. When I asked what the dog was called he said it had no name. Nothing has a name it is always just itself without an appellation - indeed a dog is not a dog really. Sometimes I see dogs as an extension of me, the ones who grasp my baby talk and Yorkshire tongue as never a threat. It is 5:52am on Saturday the sixth of April 2019 and I have more than 30kms ahead of me, to reach Le Puy for Sunday evening, today. Bloody dogs!!! Oh how I miss my girl. Whenever I am low and, if I see other dogs, I'm instantly back next to Lola, who is the closest thing to perfection I've ever seen with my eyes. Keep on barking dogs - please protect us from any threats you perceive before we are completely fallen down.

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