I was awakened early by the sound of a large ginger cat preening itself on the loose corrugated iron roof of the garage below my window, but when I saw the glorious sunshine on the roofs of the village I was heartened that this would be a good day on my journey of faith. I had slept well after a delicious meal of local lamb casserole, fresh green beans, sautéed turnips and bread, a selection of ripe cheeses, followed by an enormous glace, all washed down with a large carafe of vin de pays and a little, or perhaps not so little creme de menthe to conclude. The pilgrim must be fed in body, as well as in soul!

Before retiring I had attended to my laundry, and now gratefully pulled on my clean and dry clothes before descending the stairs to the dining room. The smell of freshly ground coffee greeted me, and I sat at the small table awaiting the small feast that would sustain me for the morning. Sure enough, monsieur le patron emerged from the kitchen with a huge plate of hot croissants, a dish filled with butter and all kinds of fruit preserve, a jug of orange juice, and a pot of steaming coffee. Enough to get this pilgrim on his way!

Having called in to the small Tabac on the village square to purchase more chocolate for the journey, I sat on a bench seat and pulled out the latest of my trusty maps. "Today’s route would be a tricky one," I mused, resisting the temptation to open the first bar of chocolate. My next destination was some twenty kilometres to the south-east. The village of Padirac held a fine example of a Norman church, and I hoped to be able to say my Evening Office there before retiring to a local hotel.

The road was a busy one, and lorries seemed indifferent to a pilgrim’s tread. Yet after an hour I turned onto a narrow country road that would cross over the hills to Padirac. Perhaps there would be some interesting sights along the way. A Calvary perhaps. Or a well-stocked boulangerie. No such luck. The road went on and on, past the occasional farm with its traditional barking French dogs. On one occasion a farmer’s wife emerged to investigate the noise, and I quickened my pace when I saw the look on her face and the horsewhip in her hand.

Equally worrying was the way in which the road had narrowed over the last few miles, and had become little more than a bridleway. Deep ruts furrowed its length, and there were ample signs that horses used this way regularly - one quite recently, as the steam rose majestically into the warm air. I eventually abandoned all hope , and leaned against a rustic gate to pull out my map. I was lost! I munched on some delicious hazelnut chocolate and pondered where I had gone wrong. It was obvious. If I had walked a mere hundred yards more along the main road I would have come to the right turning. Climbing up a rung on the gate I saw my road a little further down the hillside. Just two fields away. There was no sense in retracing my steps so I heaved myself and my pack over the gate and jumped down into the field.

The cow-pat had been strategically laid, and was reasonably fresh, and cursing St Francis for his love of all creatures I spent the next twenty minutes cleaning my left boot with whatever leaves I could find in the hedgerow. Then I carefully navigated the fields until I emerged on the lower road.

This was a better route, and before too long I turned a corner and saw the, by now, familiar Stella Artois sign above a small café. It was definitely lunchtime, and the place was busy - full of farmers, some of whom also had pieces of leaf still stuck to their left boot. At least I could blend in with the locals here! Sipping my biere as I waited for my order, I was soon tucking into soup de jour - a strange but heartening blend of potato, artichokes and something unidentifiable, followed by hot toasted St Paulin cheese and ham sandwiches, the obligatory frites, a large tuna fish salad, a small side dish of eggs benedict with smoked trout and a basket of freshly baked bread, followed by