A rebel without a clue.

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 switc...

It is better. Being alone to recover a weary body. So fatigued yesterday, but had that inability to relax properly. Some tension and anxiety was in my mind. The usual questions. Why am I flogging myself like this? For which I will never have an answer. Perhaps for the hell of it? Or to prove I am not a complete waste of flesh, blood and bone? By seven I will have crouched on the hole in the floor and then I will meander into the valley and, maybe, away from the relentless Bisse? It's definitely behind me now. The town clock struck the quarters and the offices of the day until about eleven, but at that point I was drifting delirious into sleep. Later in the night a muscle at the back of my head decided to spasm. But I think I've had eight plus hours to recover. The Zurich guy I've left behind. His sad visage was not helping my tiredness. I'm thankful I didn't have him in the double bed and don't have the steep incline to Chaumont to deal with. Day three!