I kept waking, but kept falling back to sleep too. In the morning I showered, washed some clothes and took them to a local launderette. It was cold and it rained, so I felt like an actor. The middle of August in the middle of the day in the middle of France. It’s 15C.

The market was quite an extensive one.

I’d done some research on restaurants and made it to the Brasserie Madeleine before it started to fill up, with a queue down the street throughout lunch time. I got the right place!

I took my time and managed a crème brûlée to finish. All washed down by a jug of water and a carafe of white wine. What a treat. My flight is tomorrow morning and I’m looking forward to seeing The Wife. And getting a new pair of reading glasses. These broke and will only stay on with my sunglasses holding them.

A good walk, taking me closer to Spain, my end point in this John O’Groats to Tarifa trek. I’ve covered 205 miles in 13 days, averaging nearly 16 miles a day. I’m happy with that. I’ll be blogging sometime in January I hope, when I’ll be walking from Blanes to Reus, down the Catalonian coast. Probably with Gazza again. Stay safe.

Night night.

To prepare for my longest slog in over 6 years I had a bad night’s sleep, worrying about things I can’t control. Things that normal people shouldn’t lose sleep over. I’m in the oldest 14% of the UK population and should be concentrating on dignity, peace with oneself and reconciliation with the past. Looking forward to a long and lovely sunset. Not whittling about absurd, self-destructive ………things. Is that the limit of your vocabulary after 69 years of accumulation? Things?

Anyway!! Let’s get back to some semblance of normality. Whatever that is.

Because of my broken sleep, when the alarm went I conked out, so my long day was just made two hours longer. Breakfast woke me up a bit. I can’t say that I hit the road running, but I was grimly determined. Walking through delightful countryside in one of the best countries in the world and all I can manage is grim determination. Idiot, idiot, idiot.

It was 27 miles to do today fool, not 26. After a couple of miles I crossed the Loir, not to be confused with the Loire, which remained 25 miles away.

The main road to Tours was very busy, with lots of lorries blowing me about. At the earliest opportunity I struck out into rural tranquility. And saw more troglodytes.

As well as long abandoned train stations and platforms.

The road became a lane, became a path. A well-trodden path, this walk. But to add some deviation from pathed practice, the path became a stream.

Luckily this story was an abridged version.

From self-destructive to self-congratulatory in one easy move. This looks like the cave is dugout rather than naturally made.

Great houses were spread along the route and little to no traffic. Any rain seemed confined to periods where I was walking under trees, and a cool breeze provided the perfect temperature for a laden walk.

The forests provided rain cover and, when the sun was out, sunlight protection.

Even the smallest villages had clothes washing facilities for yesterday’s people. Providing cover to get my underpants off and apply anti-chafing cream to my sore thighs.

You have to get your head down and try not to think of the distance left to walk. When you’ve been walking for 5 hours and not got halfway, and your chafing is making you walk like John Wayne, you need to focus on the next 100 metres or you’ve lost your head to defeat.

Only check how far you’ve covered and which way you need to go as infrequently as possible. That way you keep your charge on your iPad or iPhone as long as you can, and you see a noticeable distance in the ground you’re covering between checks.

Break out the gin, it’s sloe time!

Walnut time too in a month or so. Break out the whip?

It was turning cold and, as the sun began to sink, I thought I should get a bus or a taxi for the last 5 miles and come back tomorrow to finish it off. I wasn’t feeling strong enough and I’d been walking non-stop for 9 hours. I pulled into a village PMU and asked for a Perrier (great for hydration), a beer and a taxi. I got the first two but neither the landlord nor his customers knew of any taxi company. They pointed me towards the bus stop, where the shelter had been smashed, the timetable ripped off the wall and it stank of stale piss. No it wasn’t Rotherham. Maggie rang the hotel for me and told them I would be later than expected, and reluctantly I set off on foot again. Getting slower with each passing mile. After more than 11 hours walking I crossed the Loire into central Tours, but it took me another half an hour to walk the last half mile. I was too tired to take photos – this is a tourism stock photo.

I sat on somebody’s doorsteps for a rest and I had to ask a young couple to pull me up! Rucksack and all. But I made it to the hotel. 27 miles in just under 12 hours. I bought some cooked chicken and a melon at a corner shop and the night porter gave me a bottle of his own wine. He carried my rucksack up to my room. Good lad.

I’d done it and ate my scran and drank my wine with my eyes closed, but feeling pretty good.

Night night.

I partially quoted the closing lines of Brecht’s brilliant ‘Resistable Rise of Arturo Ui’ on the last blog. It was a parody of the third reich and American gangsterism of the 1920s/30s. It would be a shame not to set it out in full.

If we could learn to look instead of gawking,
We’d see the horror in the heart of farce,
If only we could act instead of talking,
We wouldn’t always end up on our arse.
This was the thing that nearly had us mastered;
Don’t yet rejoice in his defeat, you men!
Although the world stood up and stopped the bastard,
The bitch that bore him is in heat again.

Stunning.

And so to the bus.

In 1968 some blokes from Liphook in Hampshire bought a London double decker and took it down to the Med on holiday. A year later the landlord of their local bet nine of them a pint each that they couldn’t drive it around the world. They set off in 1969 and drove through Europe, across snow covered mountains in Turkey, desert in Iran, through Afghanistan, Pakistan and India.

They ran out of money in Iran and formed a folk group, the Philanderers, playing a gig for the Shah of Iran and his missus.

In India they were playing regularly and had enough money to get the bus to Australia, where they became famous. Touring round there they eventually shipped the bus to America. Sponsored by the British Tourist Board and BOAC, as it was then, they toured for 3 months, promoting the UK.

They appeared on every major US TV programme and were granted the keys to the city of New York.

When they got back to the UK in 1972, after two and a half years, there was an enormous party at their local, where they got their free pints!

Only three of the nine are alive, and they were on the bus with three of their mates. I met them and marvelled at their story. They were touring Normandy on an annual adventure.

But to be honest, they were flat as a pancake. No spark between them any more. Going through the motions. But maybe they haven’t got any other motions to go through.

A couple of coffees and a quiche, and I’m off.

Notice anything about the photo above? Correct! We’ve moved from Limestone country into sandstone.

These folk really know how to stock up firewood.

The French don’t have a word for entrepreneur – George Bush. And they can’t spell matey – Dave Smith

It’s a region that must get hot in summer normally. Everyone seems to be a troglodyte. Hundreds of these outhouses and quite a few houses underground.

I’m off the beaten track again and back in hunting territory. More hides waiting for the unwary wildebeest sweeping majestically across this forest.

They are iconic aren’t they. It’s difficult to see them without thinking of Van Morrison. In his Arles period, Summertime in France and all that.

A fake dolphin, two miniature elephants and an unnecessary bridge are just what you need in a country garden. Aren’t they?

I passed a cider producing estate of huge proportions.

It was slog. I didn’t help myself by having lunch, against my usual strategy, and it felt weighty for the rest of the afternoon. I paid for it by not having any dinner, but it was still a foolish ploy.

No dinner, an early night and getting ready for tomorrow.

I’ve decided to go for it tomorrow and do two days walking in one so that I’ll have a rest day on Saturday before flying home on Sunday. I need to cover 44 kms on the route I’ve chosen; country lanes. 27 and a bit miles. Let’s hope I get a good sleep. You too.

Night night.

Nearly 16 miles on offer today. Any takers? Urban, then flat, agricultural, featureless land. I’m not expecting anything special. It had rained substantially in the night and would douse my fire on and off through the day. The biggest issue was the wind that was developing up to storm force later on. But firstly I walked down to the city centre.

I had to wait for this bloke, and his son. The first and last. Nothing to be done. Let’s go!

An appropriately grim looking cafe showed up along the way, with a frying pan, eggs and hot plate clearly on view from outside. I entered the establishment, in the wind and the rain and the backstreets. Thanks Ivan. I got a coffee but the bone idle bloke behind’t bar said he couldn’t fry me two eggs. In fact no food at all available for an hour and a half, pronounced ‘haff’ when one is moving into a possible grump situation.

If you want a proper ‘half’ pronunciation my disobliging friend, then you can stick this one up your ‘harse’. Along with the two eggs you won’t fry me. The sky is clearing a bit. Time to walk.

This is probably the best war related memorial, in terms of sculpture, that I have ever seen. It’s stunning. Sadly the shot from behind is out of focus. Still amazing.

It doesn’t relate to WW1 or WW2, but to a previous invasion 34 years before the start of the Great War. By the Germans, obviously, in the Franco-Prussian war of 1870. They were the only ones with the hatred to invade France three times. Four if you count the Franco-German war in the 10th century. Well, we did too, in fairness. Many times. But the French started it in 1066.

I think, because 1870 – 71 was such a resounding victory, the Germans thought it was ok to do it again later. After losing this next one they clearly couldn’t believe that this should happen. A bit like 1966 and the present women’s World Cup exit. So they tried it again a short time later, going for the best of three. Lost and lost overall 2-1.

Don’t yet rejoice in his defeat, you men! Although the world stood up and stopped the bastard, The bitch that bore him is in heat again. Thanks Eugen.

Anyway Le Mans ended well with a Big Mac brunch. For me, not the French defenders. They got shot, surrendered or deserted. Poor lads. Really poorly led.

There are some gems in this town.

And a lot of the outer roads are converted into racetrack for the famous 24 hours race. This is a bit of track brought into play only for the 24 hours, to join two sections of road,

Talking about daft displays.

But these are refreshingly real!

The rain became more persistent, and the wind got stronger. By the time I made it to Ecommoy campsite fairly hefty branches were becoming dislodged. The site manager suggested that I put my tent under the strong wooden roof of his games area to protect it. And me. Top man!

I spotted an ancient London bus parked up overnight with 6 blokes kipping in it. I’ll tell you its fascinating story tomorrow.

Night night.

Well, maybe not cold, but cool. And wet throughout the night. Schoolboy smile. Then a noisy Dutch couple and their noisy kids shrieked into action just before 7am. I’m getting up! A loud, high pitched, woman’s voice shouting Dutch makes it sound like a kiddie’s made-up language. Hoobldy boobldy bitter mek caaaar!

Just shut up!!!

They didn’t. I’m getting up. I’m packing my sleeping bag, lilo, tent and other crap in my rucksack and buggering off downtown to get a coffee and warm up. In fact two coffees and an eclair from the Boulangerie next door. Whilst it oiked it down outside again.

Then I stomped off down the road, like Captain Mainwaring, again, but this time in a right mood, as if I’d been beaten to golf club membership by Sergeant Wilson.

Wilson, your golf club membership won’t do you any good if Jerry lands on the 16th green tomorrow. Hitler doesn’t wait for you to finish your round you know.

Beaumont sur Sarthe is a nice town, but all is sullied by the weather. However, for Percy Tiddlecock (me) it’s a bit of a bonus as it’s great walking weather.

After crossing the Sarthe I headed southeastwards off the main Le Mans road onto country lanes. It was pleasant country. Not spectacular, not disappointing, just pleasant. Bullrushes and maize, great combination for a photo.

How about maize and maize! The anarchic appearance of the nearest (upper level) plants and the structured ranks down on the flood plain.

The roofs of this hamlet, standing just above the wheat and the brow of the hill, made them look a bit like monoliths.

Now fair play to the bloke with the sunken van and the person who piled their Peugeot into the pit. At least they had vehicles left. This one only had the reg plate left. Must have been a catastrophic collision. 59 – Belgian border. Not surprised.

Le Mans was elusive. I worked hard to get there. Just over 18 miles, and it’s not a bad town.

The apartment I was booked into was small, charming and well equipped. Just like me! Well one out of three isn’t too bad. Schoolboy sniggers all round.

I legged it down to the local Carrefour and got a cauli, some cheese, some mashed carrots and a couple of slices of ham. I got back, cooked the cauli cheese, microwaved the carrots and had a veritable feast. Back to a real bed again. Hopefully there won’t be any Dutch families or Belgian Bikers next door.

Night night.

One doesn’t expect to see raised vines in the centre of Alencon, one doesn’t.

It’s a nice town but it is in the past now. Paddy’s house is the focus for our friendship and Alencon doesn’t hold anything for me now. Except for the great hotel owner DiGi, and the best couscous restaurant I’ve been to. Get the puck in! As they say in ice hockey.

And the architecture isn’t too bad. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. My intention is to walk as far as I can before the forecast rain hits.

Just about 18 miles today. ‘Quite’ but not ‘Reyt’ severe.

Make sure the cross chest fixings on the rucksack are tight to take the pressure off my shoulder. Get the rucksack covered with its waterproofing. Walk as fast as is comfortably practicable.

Actually…………..I feel properly fit for the first time this trip. It usually takes over a week to stop my lungs hurting when going uphill with a rucksack. Beyond that, today I can jog with the rucksack on my back and feel ok. I’m not an old gimmer. Well I am, but not ridiculously so. Looking in to the far distance, back towards where I’d come from, the Foret d’Ecouves was the high, grey mass just right of centre.

This was an interesting interlude. A Gallo Roman religious construction, partially restored in the last 25 years since its excavation. Originally a centre for sacrifice and donation. A bit like the Inland Revenue. (Cheers Rick).

This is part of the breadbasket of France, a huge grain producing region.

And my halfway point appeared to the southwest. Fye. As it did, the heavens opened and I didn’t have time to get my jacket and hat on. Poor me. A mile down the road (there’s a hidden cave) there was a cafe and it served hot coffee.

And a half hour later, after I’d dried out a bit, this memorial was magnificent. Remembering the poor buggers who had died, but also celebrating the liberation of Alencon and the surrounding region. Liberated from the Germans. Appropriately, Alencon was freed by French forces.

In one spot there was a memorial, where a few of the French lads were killed on the way to Alencon.

Anyway, back to the road. And first thing I came upon worthy of note was a fig tree in someone’s garden, down in a hollow next to the main road. As it was sheltered the figs were ripening early. Not yet fully ready but a couple of them felt soft to my touch, and went down a treat.

Some daft pillock thought this might be a nice display.

The rain started again and I took a route down by the river, and came upon the first anglers that I’d seen. Wonder if they were doing owt.

Eventually, after a long, long slog I made it to Beaumont, but not before more heavy downfalls started. Wading through it, I got to the local supermarket and bought salads and ham for my evening meal. I put the tent up under a tree and went into a communal room to eat. It’s hard work trekking, particularly in the rain, and I’m glad I got here when I did. I’m tired.

Night night.

Well, last night, after Paddy picked me up from Alencon station, I had a right good night. I’ve already disclosed that it was a great stay, but I withheld crucial information! Until arriving at Paddy’s house I hadn’t taken my clothes off for three days and nights, but once there I discarded the stinky pongy clobber and jumped in the shower. It was heavenly. I had taken my shoes off, although sometimes I leave them on too for days and nights. Even heavy walking boots. But I always take my teeth out. There are certain hygiene standards that……..Well I’ve left them in a few times too. Nowt wrong with that.

This is Paddy with his lass, Marcelle, his son Marc and daughter in law Chelsea, and my new best mate, Quentin. What lovely company this team are.

Between them Paddy and Marcelle rustled up amazing dinner on Saturday night, and even eclipsed that with a fabulous Sunday lunch.

Between times Paddy took me to the local cemetery to the grave of his parents. They treated me as another son, and for me they were definitely my French parents. I’m happy that they are resting in a beautiful place. They deserve it. Pierre was my pa, but Therese was my angel.

Paddy dropped me off in Alencon, after a diversion to Le Mans, due to strike action, to get Chelsea and Marc on a train to their home in Paris. Quentin is staying with the retired folk for a while in the heart of the Normandy countryside.

He’ll have as much fun as the kittens!

I checked into my hotel and wandered downtown. But then I passed a Moroccan restaurant. I had such a big lunch but this was not to be missed. A couscous fit for a fat lad, in genuine surroundings!

Loved it!

Night night.