The day dawned clear but cold. It was only six degrees. My last walking day on this trip. Always a slightly bittersweet moment. I have had a really marvellous time, and there is something special about knowing that every step forward is one nearer Santiago – but I miss Laurence and home too much, and I don’t know how someone like Fabienne, who left Belgium and has already been walking two months, does it. So dividing it up is the right way for me: you hear it said so often on the way “Everyone has their own Camino”.

Anyway, the road lay before me, and after breakfast we set off. Back down the road to Fraisse again, and then on by byways to Montfaucon. Easy walking. We started together, but I soon went on ahead, as Fabienne is nursing a slightly dodgy knee. I’m not sure she will make it all the way in one go.

Every day of walking in the countryside brings its own special moments. Today’s included watching two young red squirrels chasing each other about the woods, having early swallows flying around my head, and seeing so many different butterflies. I was just revelling in having seen a black-veined white, and totting up all different varieties I had seen, fritillaries, blues, meadow brown, tortoiseshells, Red Admiral, whites of all kinds, a comma, brimstones – the more I thought the longer the list got, when I spotted this on the hedge to my left.

They are extraordinarily unusual in the UK but, despite their name, fairly common on the European mainland. Still, it was a special moment to stand and watch this one spreading wings and warming up.

Périgord is divided up into four parts, each given a different colour name. Périgord vert for the forests and woods which are everywhere, but particularly in the north of the region; Périgord blanc for the central belt with its almost white chalky limestone cliffs and stones; Périgord noir for the easternmost part, where they gather truffles (Sorges can in the middle of this section); and finally, Périgord pourpre, purple for the fruit on the vines that are suddenly everywhere. It is a most beautiful region, and it has been a privilege to walk through it. 

There was nowhere at all on today’s route to buy anything, not even a coffee. So apart from stopping for a stamp on my pilgrim passport and a drink of water the obvious thing was to press on to Sainte-Foy-la-Grande, on the Dordogne river, and my stopping point for this leg of the voyage. Fabienne and I agreed to meet up for a final pint together at a bar near the town centre.

Doing what was likely to be my last green lane I was approaching this charming old windmill, with its commanding view of Sainte-Foy, and the river valley in both directions, when the path was blocked by some huge puddles. I really didn’t want to get wet feet again at this stage so I decided that I could, with care, edge round the obstacles. Halfway across, I started to slip, tried to right myself, felt my ankle give way and my back twist and I was down in the mud. covered from shoulder to feet.

I managed to get myself up onto hands and knees, and stayed there for some time, feeling a bit shocked. Eventually I hauled myself up using my poles, but it was obvious that all was not well. I stopped at the top of the slope. I could see my destination, after about 217 Kms, but I judged I wasn’t going to be able to walk it. After a while two customs officers, in very smart uniform coats in French blue with red piping, with the word ‘Douane’ embroidered in gold, appeared and came over to talk. They had been inspecting vines to make sure there weren’t any they didn’t know about. They took me to the hospital in Sainte-Foy only ten minutes away. “All part of the public service”, they said. 

The rest of the afternoon and early evening involved getting checked out, x-rayed, seeing a doctor, finding a pharmacy, getting an immobiliser boot and some pain killers and getting a train to Bordeaux. Everything, from the accident on, seemed to take forever, even getting from Bordeaux station to my hotel, through unexplained gridlock and all the police in South-west France, bristling with guns.

But I got there, tired, sore and very hungry and thirsty. I dropped my bags and went to eat.

I am more grateful than I can say that it is not worse than it is, that it will heal fine, and that I did not have to rearrange my travel plans  and should (I am assuming nothing) get home tonight.