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.

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.