A rebel without a clue.

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?

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 s...

"You're going the wrong way" say the woman with a fine ass and her two daughters with better asses. Get down: bromide tea required. Husband watches them wiggle onwards alongside me thinking "am I going the wrong way?". Otherwise I'd have seen no one. Plenty of elderly dogs attempting to bark, with more wheeze than insidious intent; bye bye wonder bums. Who needs medical teas when all I really require is a bull in my path bellowing between his heirs. White as snow cows, but the father looks too testicular to offer much resistance.

The climb up Mont Tournier makes me recall Ernest Hemingway's description in For Whom the Bell Tolls, as they snake their way through the Sierras keeping away from the Fascists and the omnipresent Condor Legion. My body said stop for brunch at just before ten and prior to highpoint on the altimeter. At eleven I am almost at the first village, Saint-Maurice de Rotherens but there isn't any Accueil Jacquaire available there so I'll stop a moment, rest these feet, calves and thighs, however no wine must take advantage while I am not aware! Go hang - it's a day of revelry and mischief. No! Be good and await another time to celebrate the wine when you don't have miles to go!

Peacock calling his mate to tarry not before the sun has passed her head; beckoning. Upwards they dance screaming as phoenix in umber burns, but gentle do the early birds (who fear naught), upon their majestic breast these signs of spring, where winter malts become a season of aspirations and a summons to performances, neither subtle nor bitter, a brevity bold in hope.

Day five begins with silence and then the happy chatter of birds. I'm awake by five, but coasted back into semi-sleep. Einkorn for breakfast and fruit to follow. It's a difficult day to come. Rural France is so peaceful; it always feels like a miracle to be here walking surrounded by its manners and charms. Vive la France, Vive la Revolution. Is Europe in meltdown?. Has the European experiment failed? Macron is winning no friends as he taxes the rural French, which is a lot of folks, to please whom? His paymasters: banks, bureaucrats and Eurocrats. It's the same old story, but I wonder if the upper classes have failed so much the genie has smashed the bottle from which it was being indecently restrained. Vive la Revolution and I'm walking over a ridge soon. Boy the things I do for sanity.