Word is going round on the streets of Alencon, very much as it did two years ago in Rincon de la Victoria. He’s coming home, David. He’s coming home! Hooray! Where are his unpaid bar tabs from 1968?

Sees was very nice. More tourist town than working town but still nice. I packed up the tent this morning and walked back into town to Le Lion d’Or. The landlady was pleasant and I had a decent breakfast there. She charged me 5 euro for a 10 euro breakfast. And gave me an extra coffee for nowt. Good old kid!

This is the only original frontage of all the ancient houses in Sées.

Today my mission was to walk 25 kms to Alencon, through the Forest d’Ecouves, taking in Radon on the way. This is the village where my darling Maggie stayed with her penpal on school exchanges. Ending up at Alencon, where my mate Paddy would pick me up and I was to spend the night at his house.

I walked down the main road out of Sees, to the point where I had identified a track cutting across country. I was immediately accosted by a bloke in a car, with his window wound partly down. He shouted at me as if I was a straying dog. ‘This track is closed‘! He was just nasty.

This was my new route.

It took me directly into the Foret d’Ecouves. This is a huge forest, which rises to the highest point in Normandy, consisting of deciduous trees together with Scottish pine. I spotted them from their reddish orange colours, unmistakeable from here to Aviemore.

The lanes I was on were becoming narrower and less defined. Know what I mean? The same lane, which was tarmac, gradually became Mother Earth.

There is nobody here, apart from the odd trekker and, during the hunting season, the odd hunter. These are their hides, which they lurk in for days with rifles with night vision scopes. So they can cop the wild boar and deer.

The deeper I got into the Forest the quieter it was. I know it’s daft but I got myself a strong stick, just in case a potty wild boar took a run at me.

One year at our house in Tassat I was fishing in the river on the edge of a wheat-field. Suddenly a wild boar ran out of the wheat and missed me by less than a metre, plunging down into the river in front of me, running along the river bed and emerging up the far bank. All within a few seconds. They aren’t small and if it had hit me I would have been quite damaged.

I feel comfortable in forests. When I was 5 years old we moved out of inner-city Sheffield to a house that had a good sized wood 50 metres down the road.

After many miles the forest thinned out and I saw a farm.

From there on it was just a matter of lane walking for a couple of hours. Until Radon appeared!

Luckily although the local bar and shops were shut I caught a Saturday seafood stall as it was closing and got a decent bag of decent sized prawns before it closed.

And then I was off.

I legged it down south, hitting the outskirts of Alencon in fast time. Making it to the rail station to meet Paddy at 17.00.

A warm reunion, pleasant drive and a great stay at the historic family home with Paddy and his family. It was all wonderful.

Night night,

It was over 17 miles today. Why Dave? Because I sacrificed a shorter distance for quiet country lanes. Take pleasure in walking the quiet country lanes of Normandy. No traffic so the streets are, indeed, ours.

It rained in the night. Luckily I had pitched my tiny tent under trees, and hedges. And it stored away in my rucksack this morning reasonably dry, in a bin bag.

I had been woken this morning by Hell’s Angels from Belgium, who arrived last night as I was going to bed. They had all the bikes, jackets and stuff but not the presence. As I walked past them one said to me that the weather was a disaster. It is, for bedwetters from Belgium matey, but it’s ok for Hell’s Trekkers from Yorkshire!

I become dogmatic, opinionated, peremptory, imperious, authoritarian, brilliant. Well the online thesaurus didn’t exactly show up ‘brilliant’ but if an idiot hadn’t written it then it would have.

I set off at 8am, thanks to the noisy Hell’s Wetbedders. And another dodgy bloke was looking at me! He was wearing a black skirt.

Oh dear.

I had two coffees and a pain au chocolat, then strutted down the road like an emboldened Captain Mainwaring, feeling good. It’s my seventh consecutive walking day and whilst the hills have been ‘rolling’ rather than ‘challenging’ I’ve covered some distance with my rucksack. I don’t ‘know’ why ‘I’ put inverted commas on ‘words’ but it doesn’t matter.

Walking out of Gace I spotted this little structure, redundant now in most places, an old communal clothes washing place. When we bought our house in Tassat in the late 1980s the local women (not the men) washed clothes in the stream at the bottom of our garden. Sorry, I just wanted to clarify that the men were not shirking any cleaning responsibilities, but organising important business matters. Talking about harvests and cows and manure. Stuff like that.

The real life inspiration for La Dame Aux Camelias, written by Alexander Dumas, was a girl called Alphonsine Plessis from an extremely poor family in Gace. Known as ‘Camille’ outside of France, the book was translated to a stage play by Dumas and into the opera, La Traviata, by Verdi.

My incredibly brilliant strategy of walking down country lanes paid off big time as I was able to walk down …….. country lanes.

Lots of them

I didn’t see anybody, until I started to have a pee in the middle of nowhere and a car with an old couple in came round the corner, resulting in me fumbling to put the old fellow prematurely away before their aged eyes could actually focus on Percy Tiddlecock. Which further resulted in a couple of kilometres of dampness in the underpant department until matters dried out satisfactorily.

I’m sorry, yes it’s crude and messy but it’s my responsibility as a blogger, and my necessary purpose as a serious writer, to bring all the sights, sounds, feelings and smells to the reader. So he or she can understand exactly the circumstances in which I find myself when trekking. Well, maybe I missed out on bringing you the smells. But nobody else did who came anywhere near me that day.

As punishment it started to rain and I struggled to get my waterproofs on me and the rucksack. In fact it was persistent. Until a break came along for a brief respite.

With only a pain au chocolat on board I began to feel peckish. An old gimmer came along, stopped his car and began collecting up these yellow plums, just like in my front garden. I got tucked in, they were sweet and delicious. He said he was collecting them to make jam. Good shout.

These fantastical pieces of sculptural history are largely hidden away now, with their 17th century horse and cart highways by-passed by time and traffic. Still a joy to the occasional, off the beaten track trekker.

Through the resumed rain I came upon Le Merlerault, a small village with a tiny bar and a huge town hall. How deluded are the local dignitaries, which probably consists of the mayor, his missus, his best mate and a goat? Why do they need this? But at least the rain showers were now few and far between.

I got a burger in the bar and then carried on. Refreshed and raring to get to Sées. And the country still felt great.

After another three hours of hard slog I caught a (magnified) glimpse of the thin towers of the Cathedral at Sées. When your muscles underneath your ribcage become unbearably uncomfortable from persistent rucksack carrying, and your repaired,but vulnerable, shoulder begins to call out for assistance, then the sight of your finishing post, however distant, is a tonic. I love commas.

These never fail to humble you.

Six young Canadian lads were flying over Sées dropping leaflets warning the local French civilians of imminent RAF raids on strategic targets so that they could get out of the way unhurt. But the lads’ plane caught some German flak and they crashed in the fields north of Sées, and all died.

I arrived in Sées. It is impressive, with a 13th century cathedral built on the site of three earlier churches.

I camped in the local municipal campsite and ate in the communal shed there, having bought shredded carrot, two slices of ham, a baguette, a small Charentais melon, local blue cheese and a bottle of local cider. Was it all truly wafted here from paradise?

Night night.

Where have you been, my blue eyed son?

Well, I started rather late from the campsite. I had an iffy night’s sleep, but then things warmed up around 7am and I slept for another two hours. It rained early in the night but I pitched under trees and there was a breeze which dried everything off nicely.

I met a Welsh couple, in their late seventies I’d say, and talking to them the bloke had been a good footballer in his time. As a youngster he’d played with Gil Reece, the legendary Blades’ left winger. They were over here for the umpteenth time in their ageing campervan, visiting WW2 battlefields and memorials. Genuinely interested in that part of history in this region.

Walking in to Vimoutiers for breakfast I was reminded of it again. After the bombing of the town this enormous cooking pot, 123 litres capacity, was set up in the street and produced soup for four months, from anything folk could find. Guaranteeing families from miles around, who were homeless and foodless, at least one meal a day. A life saver!

This monument, next to it, was erected to remember the local people who had died in the First World War. In the Yankee bombing it was destroyed, and the cockerel statue on top was badly damaged. In 1955 it was re-erected with the ‘mutilated cockerel’ in it’s proper place, remembering those lost in both wars.

Down at the local bar I had bread and butter and coffee. What a great breakfast! When I set off it started raining. Not gentle raining, and I was on a main road.

You don’t always expect a German Tiger Tank at the side of the road. This was the greatest tank in the Second World War. It’s been restored and stands as a reminder of that horrific era. It makes me most sad to think of the families at that time, under four years of Nazi rule and then thrown into the turmoil of warfare. Poor buggers. People like Pierre and Therese who were kids.

After the tank the rain got worse and there were no trees at the side of the road, so I changed my plan. I found a road off to the left, past nice houses, that dropped down into a valley running up to Gace.

And where have you been, my darling young one?

Well, I went down a road leading to the valley and it suddenly petered out, like one of my short cuts usually does. But I pushed through lots of nettles and a path opened up. This is looking back at it.

It emerged in a tiny village.

Why do farmers store junk like that?

I reached the bottom road and found that I’d walked a kilometre longer and I was a kilometre further away from Gace. But the peace and quiet was worth it. And the blackberries were certainly worth it.

OK. That’s the last one with my tongue out. For a while!

A couple of miles down the road was a church with an enigmatic inscription.

As the maple leaf indicates, he was a Canadian lad who was involved in attacking German vehicles in the area. On a second run his plane was hit by artillery fire and he crashed in a field. He was buried locally but his body was later reburied in Bayeux War Cemetery. His father had lost a brother in WW1 and his two sons in WW2.

I walked around the cemetery attached to this church. It fascinated me. For a village of 6 houses this church attracted many outlying families. And their graves were incredibly ornate, with each stone inscription attached to the marble slab being given by a relative. And many graves were like this.

I wouldn’t post photos of peoples’ graves if I thought it might cause offence.

The rain continued but with some tree cover it was ok. However, for the first time I was beginning to feel a bit tired out. The words Old Bastard spring to mind. Well, Bastard anyway….ha,ha,ha! I’m so funny.

Talking about French idiosyncratic, self-summat. This contributed to the self-evident evidence. Evidently.

It was beginning to be a long drag now. My detour was resulting in a 14 mile day, and it felt it.

Then something lightened up my day. A recently occurred dip in a ditch. Can’t these chaps keep their cars on safe, dry land? Fortunately no-one had been injured. I asked and expressed relief.

The rain was potty, and then I got to Gace. A decent little town as it turns out.

If you want to dry out and buy the cheapest pint in town, in France, then go to the PMU. You can also have a bet on the horses and watch them win on a telly. What else would the only living boy in Gace need?

The rain continued to the extent that I wasn’t sure if I could get my tent up at the local municipal site. Then it quietened down for a while, and I legged it round there and put the tent up underneath a high hedge and some trees. A very quiet site, just me and two others. Nobody in reception but I’ll pay in the morning.

Thanks for taking the time to read this.

Night night.

I had a good lunch and a good dinner last night in good value cafes.

I’m sure you’ve noticed the proliferation of ‘good’. Today, after a proper French breakfast (two coffees and a mini baguette, coated in unsalted French butter), down in the bar near the station I didn’t need a lunch.

So what?

Only saying. It’s part of a one way information flow along the ancient blog route.

So what?

Oh dear. I’m sensing conflict between myself. Switch to a photo quickly! My room was third from left on the top floor.

So what?

Oh dear.

Setting off about 10.15am it’s a long day today. Somewhere around 17 miles. The temperature isn’t too bad and it’s dry so far. Then across the road I saw a weird bloke watching me.

Today was largely down country lanes, starting busy then getting quieter. This was the standard eye candy – ever heard a more horrible phrase? Don’t answer him Pike!

The first village I passed had a small farmers’ market. It was very colourful too.

Then I cut across country and didn’t pass a village with a shop until Vimoutiers, 15 miles later. But lots of typical Normandy houses.

And an amazing chateau, Chateau de Saint German de Livet, with a white peacock. Incredibly rare birds, one in 30,000 chance of one being born to peacock parents apparently.

The lanes got quieter but seemed never ending. Mercifully the skies were cloudy enough to keep the temperature down.

There were some self-indulgent, idiosyncratic features in a few gardens. Some French people are good at that; however my view is that it is as previously described. Self-indulgent. Ha!

I’m getting a bit too grumpy for a fifty year old bloke.

I love these shrines, if shrine is what it is. But I only have decorative appreciation. I’m not religious. Sometimes I do feel quite spiritual. Certainly in front of stunning structures of outstanding beauty, and always when I have been high in the Himalayas. Guernica, the amazing painting by Picasso evoked something spiritual in me.

There I go, being self-indulgent again.

So what?

Oh ffs!

These bales of hay are great, every time!

This is so sad. In the middle of nowhere this 17 year old lad, fighting for the French Resistance, was killed. Younger than my daughters. God bless.

This little village, Lisaroles, must have seen some action. French, US, British and Canadian flags outside the Mairie. This area felt the brunt of post D-Day military action. Hundreds of thousands killed in Normandy. Mercifully mostly the Nazis but many allies and civilians too.

After what seemed like an eternity I got a first view of Vimoutiers. A town which was flattened, a week after D-Day, by 20 minutes of US bombing in June 1944.

Don’t wish me to forget these things. I won’t forget the sacrifices of millions of good people against the evil of that time. It touches me when I walk past each monument, in Sheffield, in Melbourne, in Javerlhac, in Lisaroles. But time moves on. And so do I. From the wonderful Departement de Calvados down to L’Orne.

My tent is up, the night is closing in and I must sleep, but not until I’ve eaten my bottled asparagus, tinned sardines, ham slices and taboule.

Loved it.

Night night.

Thanks John, but nights can be even stranger. I checked out the nearest lav, which was surrounded by dozens of kids in tents, and of the only two working toilets one had got a kid’s vanity case down it and the other had a kid’s electric toothbrush. I decided not to release my doo dah.

Back in the tent it began to go dark and I tried to get comfortable for a good night’s kip. Suddenly something landed on my head – it was a frog! It must have got in whilst I was FaceTiming Maggie outside the tent, and waited until I was least expecting it to land on my baldy bonce. It made me jump I can tell you. I turfed him out.

Then through the night it rained quite heavily. In casinos there are mirrors which people stand behind and can look through to spot any rotters who might be cheating. My tent works in a similar way. When it rains heavily it let’s water in but then it becomes waterproof inside and doesn’t let it out.

When I took the tent down I found I had pitched partly on a pile of pooch poo and partly on a slab of concrete. I’d been too anxious to get it up before any rain might come. I should have taken my time, the sun shone for another hour.

I was tired and set off in a huff. It was overcast and I only had a swig of water for breakfast. Silly old ninny. Walking round the lake things got a little more psychedelic. A couple were stood at the top of a boat launching ramp and they clearly hadn’t understood the basic premise that you reverse your vehicle, with the boat on a trailer, and keep the van dry and the boat afloat. They had somehow gone in van first, and it had sunk, dragging the boat with it! Fair play to the van, its top brake light was still working!

The couple were a bit damp, clearly in shock and laying out some retrieved valuables to dry out.

Then, as I slunk away without offering to try pulling the van out, two fire engines, two police cars full of coppers and two unnamed security vehicles with impressive flashing lights arrived on scene. I was tired and didn’t want to forget events so I videoed myself.

The route was direct, straight up the valley by the side of the River Auge. Quite busy initially but then easing off. These road walks are a mixed blessing. You can get places fast on a flat surface, but it’s not always picturesque, like country footpaths always are. A chalk cliff, but it was quite hard, almost limestoney. There’s a Neanderthal cave lurking in that greenery somewhere, I’ll be bound. A lot of me being bound on this trip. We don’t have that kind of thing in Yorkshire.

This was a fabulous house, with a lake to the left just out of view which was boiling with carp. Just by the tree to the left, near the house, is a remote lawn mower. It just roamed about until it hit something and then changed direction.

Then breakfast. Most blackberries are green and dry but I came on a few that were fully ripe. Fantastico!

This is a memorial to a family, but I couldn’t work out what was originally inscribed on it. There is a sad story here.

And now the benevolent side of water. Adding beauty and purpose!

I had set off well before 9am and although I was knackered I was making good time. By 12.30 I was on the outskirts of Lisieux. I think I’ve underestimated the distances I can cover in a day; particularly here where oxygen is 100% that at sea level, there are no crippling climbs, no avalanches and the weather at the moment is mercifully cool. And no leeches. They were creepy. You couldn’t even feel them because they inject you with anaesthetic.

There was a Super U supermarket on the edge of town with a cafe in the corner and I had lunch there, feeling very full of myself. Just over 4 hours and I’d covered 11 miles. Just two and a half to go. Lunch was great, and cheap. Three courses, including veal, for £12. Then I reset off and came upon a bike race in the centre. The French are big on this kind of thing. Don’t get it personally.

At 3pm I checked in to my Airbnb place, showered, washed my clothes, hung the sleeping bag and tent up with my dripping clobber and phoned our lass.

Lisieux is ok, but it’s crumbling, the roads are shocking, some buildings are bricked up and the young population cover their faces with scarves and stagger about. Drugs at the centre of it I think. But every generation throws a hero up the pop charts. The boy in the bubble and the baby with a baboon heart. There’s much more to La belle France than this. Let’s find it!

Night night.

Not every day can be exceptional, and today was no exception. I had a great sleep, over 10 hours with only one pee break, so that was good. Collecting my stuff together and stuffing it in the rucksack takes time, but it was a short walk today, just 13 miles this time so I have time.

I like to chuff about with words. I got exceptional and exception in the first sentence together, stuff and stuffing in the third, together with three times time. Simple things please me.

I spend a long time working out trekking routes and daily distances, largely based around the availability of campsites or reasonably priced hotels. Then I look for the smallest lanes or tracks on Google, to be able to walk in peace and quiet, and print out little maps for each day. I store them in small freezer bags. These are yesterday’s maps, stained by rain, and maps for the next ten days.

Today started with a breakfast at Maccy Dee’s. It was next to the hotel and I love their egg and bacon McMuffins. I had two, and two Capuccinos. I don’t eat lunch very often when I’m walking so I need some fuel first thing.

The road south ran past McD’s and up a long hill, which was busy with traffic. My rucksack is up to about 14 kilos with bottles of water so I felt the climb. I’m not as young as I was. I need to keep going and to keep fit. It can be worrying because there are so many walks that I want to do and I’ll be disappointed if infirmity gets me first. But not defeated.

There were no great views today. It’s a main road, no footpaths and no hanging gardens of Babylon nor herds of Wildebeest sweeping majestically across the plain. Just twee little rest places.

This road to the left is a GR route (long distance walk), always marked by a red and white horizontal stripe. I’m not going that way – southwards I’ll be bound.

The forecast rain was very heavy for half an hour and I rested under a tree, up against the trunk to keep me completely dry. Then it dried out and it rained no more.

At school we had French pen pals from Alencon and mine was Patrick (Paddy). His mum and dad were Pierre and Therese. This sign for Lisieux showed how significant those names are locally. They looked after me when I was young on trips to France and I loved being in their family. I’ll see Paddy this trip and visit the graves of Pierre and Therese. Wonderful people.

Well, I’m here in Pont L’Eveque in less than five hours. With a rucksack that’s not bad.

Maggie and I were here ten days ago, doing a bit of a gastronomic tour of Normandy on our way to and from Maggie’s godson’s wedding. Simon Carrere. He is a great lad, married to Marie-Anne and with a beautiful young daughter Lison. A great occasion and wonderful to see old friends again.

We did major damage to the local mussel population through conspicuous consumption. And it was great.

Pont L’Eveque is a nice place, with ancient buildings and decent cheese!

It also has mainland Europe’s finest sea trout river running through it.

My camp site was a mile out of town, up a footpath along the river bank.

Next to a beautiful lake.

Here’s my good old tent again. Faithful friend! I chose it over Wilson, my tarpaulin, as it affords greater protection from ants and snails.

And I’m now blogging from a lakeside deck. How pleasant it is.

Well my dears, I’m on my way to my trusty tent and I’ll be blogging tomorrow night from just down the road in the religiously significant town of Lisieux.

Night night.

It was a shorter walk today, just 14 miles, although it felt a tad longer. I set off from Hotel Premiere Classe in the dock district of Le Havre just after 10am. Breakfasted and not too damaged from the previous day’s yomp, I was heading down towards the River Seine. As I walked through this cargo port area on a Sunday it felt post-apocalyptic in its quietness, with a sense of foreboding and threat. It’s a great location for a frightening movie. Mummy, can I come home now please?

My aim was to head south for a few miles, the road then turns eastwards, up the river, to the relatively new Pont de Normandie. It’s a mile long suspension bridge joining Northern Europe and the south, without the need to spend hours in a queue around Paris to cross the river there. But for now I had to grit my teeth and get through wasteland!

The sky was grim and rain was forecasted. This added to the sense of unease. Nobody for miles, no cars, no people on the street. Nothing.

There were areas where fires had burnt on the street, and then this turned up.

I felt a little bit uncomfortable but I had my dark glasses and sleeveless black top on so I knew I was quite intimidating. Daddy come home, mummy don’t go…….thanks John.

Strangely I felt at home. I loved working in Bristol docks. Me and Maggie had some of our happiest times down there, and this heaviest of industries lies gently in my memory. Avonmouth. It’s like Avalon to me. Halcyon days.

And from the tiny Halcyon to the beautiful Swan. Cop these beauties.

As the road turned to the east, and followed the Seine upstream, I began to feel more relaxed. There were cars every ten minutes and it was more of a natural feel. Eventually the wetlands opened up to my right and suddenly emptiness was friendly rather than threatening. With my first view of Honfleur across the estuary.

And then the bridge appeared in the distance.

I had been very lucky so far. The rain storms had belted up the south bank of the river and avoided me on the north so I had only felt light spray, which had evaporated in the warm and windy conditions. Long may it last. Although my lightening mood was tempered a bit by the sauvages animals sign. What the bleeding hell is so substantial that it requires a warning sign? I’m the only potential lunch within 5 miles, should I be worried?

Suddenly the bridge, intermittently hidden by rain, became close and clear. Hello bridge.

I made it there before the heavy forecast rain, and set out on the footpath over this engineering marvel.

But then the storms came. I legged it across the rest of the bridge and off to a side path leading to a backroad. It was relentless and I had to take shelter under a big beech tree. The rain intensified so much that it came through the leaves, dripping on to me, and began to stream down the road. I covered up my rucksack, got my wet weather gear on and took off, but it got through the slightest of gaps in my armour, and pierced my goretex walking shoes. I made it to the main road in to Honfleur, and all the cars were stood waiting for the rain to ease. Eventually it did, I managed to get my iPad out and booked a cheap hotel. Tents aren’t good in these conditions! And after a great duck Parmentier in a local PMU I’m back in my hotel. I didn’t think I’d get out of the PMU!

All’s well that ends well and here I am in a warm room with dry sheets and a good night’s sleep to look forward to.

Nice to talk to you and hopefully I’ll be able to blog a day ending under canvas tomorrow. Mes amis, je vous aime.

Night night.

Although I was on the fifth floor and the day had tired me out I could still hear Parisian Vendredi carousing well into the daylight hours. My 6.15 alarm must have found some kind of glitch in the matrix because it sounded out before I went to sleep. Even so I reported a score of 9.7 out of 10 to my missus so that she was proud of my hypnagogic transition and hypnopompic emergence. It’s amazing what nonsense you can find on the net.

I packed my rucksack and belted it round to Parmentier metro. It was as dead as a doornail.

With a statue of Parmentier giving spuds to a poor person.

He was the world’s greatest exponent of mashed spuds, and if you see Summat Parmentier in a French restaurant then it’s like a posh Shepherd’s Pie. Our Froggy mate, Annie Carrere, does the best Duck Parmentier in the world.

The train journey started from St Lazare and the metro took me there before 7.30, where I enjoyed myself drinking coffee and eating a small Quiche Lorraine for breakfast. Wonderful.

At 8.15, and that’s the time that it’s always been, thanks Andy, the train took off for Normandy. A little station called Breaute Beuzeville, where I switched to a local bus and landed in Etretat at 11.30. I was so focused on the walk that I didn’t even go down to the seafront. After six months with a broken shoulder and no trekking I just wanted to walk. And it was great. It hurts a bit putting the rucksack on but after that it’s all fine.

The track I was aiming for was far steeper than I thought, and it gave me a good workout, with a brief view of the Channel over the roofs of Etretat.

I expected this to be a country lane walk. I had to get some speed on as it was nearly 18 miles to my overnight hotel in Le Havre. And I did! But the best surprise was that the route I had chosen, over days spent on Google maps and Google earth, was more country paths than lanes. It was lovely.

One farmer had tried to block the path with electric fences but it was easy to get under it. Sadly people had given up and the path beyond was heavily overgrown, but it was manageable.

The path passed posh places (lovely alliteration), with great ironmongery.

I was really enjoying this. And the forecast rain held off and a decent breeze kept me coolish.

I’ve no idea what this is. But it’s great.

I think this is barley.

I didn’t meet anyone else walking. And where the paths moved on to country lanes I didn’t encounter any cars. Just peace. How good are these churches in the middle of nowhere?

In the middle of the afternoon things were beginning to hurt a bit. I’m 69 years old and a bit of a fat bastard, so carrying 12kgs in my rucksack at a fast pace over 18 miles (27 kms), up and down country paths is a challenge.

I’ve enjoyed today. The rain started in Etretat but then held off. The paths were far better than I thought. And the piece de resistance was Le Havre. I was skirting the centre, coming down from the north to the east side of the docks area. It’s not attractive and me and Maggie have been in and out of the Le Havre ferry over the years and haven’t spent time in the city. Cop this! It’s west coast USA!

And this.

Well, the walk was really nice and Le Havre outskirts are lovely. Maybe not Richmond, but I got carried away. 18 miles was good today, after a late start from Etretat, so I’m happy with my progress. The weather is forecast for quite heavy thunder storms tomorrow and I’m putting up my tent tomorrow night. Oh dear. Never mind.

Sleep well my loves. Night night.

Thanks Winston. I’m off, I’m off, I’m off in a motor aeroplane. I’m not averse to fundamental change but I’m dreading the day when a BBC news reporter calls it an airplane. Anyway it’s set off from Leeds and it’s landing at Paris, courtesy of Ryanair.

Well it’s not really Paris. In fact it took an hour and a half for the bus to get to Paris. In fact it really should be renamed Oslo, Beauvais. In fact I really get peed off by people who say ‘in fact’.

It’s great to be a moaner. Nobody expects light or loveliness to emanate from you. They just expect moans. That’s how stupid most people are. They wallow in their own stupidity. Moan bloody moan!

The bus finished at Port Maillot in Oslo (Paris) and I was staying in a relatively cheap hotel quite a way eastwards near Parmentier metro station. I might be an old git but I worked out how to get there. Are you proud of me?

It’s obvious! You get the RER C from Neuilly-Port Maillot one stop to Pereire-Levallois, walk underground to Pereire and then take the 3 line eastwards 15 stops to Parmentier. Less that two quid. Kismet Hardy! It was as scary as it can be at Pereire-Levallois. A huge underground station that was completely empty. It was a 5 minute walk down the empty platform to the exit. With lots of hiding places for scary people. Oh mummy, I should have bought those disposable underpants that Maggie talked about.

Anyway, my hotel is nice and I’m on the 5th floor. Hotel Luna Park. No lift but I haven’t had much exercise today.

Why the end of the beginning Dave?

I have walked, in stages, from John O’Groats to Lands End to Dover and from Calais to Etretat, a beautiful town on the Normandy coast.

Tomorrow I’m getting a train and a bus to Etretat and then walking 230 miles southwards to Tours. Then the beginning of the end starts, with a further Trek onwards from Tours at some stage, down to Spain. Maybe next year.

I’m free, and I’m waiting for you to follow me. Thanks Roger.

This sign supported what I had always thought. (sorry mes amis Francais. Je vous aime).

Thanking you for your attention. Much obliged.

Night, night.