Knowing that we had a long way to go, Fabienne and I had agreed to be up and off early. Our host was nowhere to be seen, but we had a basic breakfast and were away by eight, fully clad for rain. There had been thunder and downpours in the night.

But almost as soon as we had left the house the skies started to clear, and within a couple of kilometres we had to stop and adjust for what was clearly going to be a lovely day.

Fabienne left her home in south Belgium six weeks ago, and is planning on going all the way to Compostela in one go. But yesterday she realised that she had overdone it. By the evening she was limping a bit. She said she was ok, but was going to take things more slowly. I walked with her until we stopped to pack away the waterproofs, and then we agreed to walk separately. So I pushed on ahead.

The skies cleared completely, and by late morning I had done nearly sixteen kilometres of mostly forest walking. I had no bread, just a bit of super-ripe camembert and an apple, but, more importantly, I was entirely out of water. It was a hot day, and so I decided to make a diversion from the official route to the village of Douzillac.

Mondays in France are tricky. Lots of places don’t open, above all bars and restaurants, but many retailers also. And if bars are open in the day they almost certainly won’t be on Monday evening. So I was hoping that, by getting to Douzillac at lunchtime I might be able to get, at least, some water, and a quiet shady spot to sit and eat an apple and some cheese.

As I came round the corner towards the church, joy of joys, I spotted an open bar-restaurant.

It was called Le Douzième Heure, a rare example of a French pun! The waiter greeted me and asked what I would like. Beer first, I said, and then what could he suggest? He produced the board for the daily menu for 17€. Given what I knew of the chances of finding much in Mussidan (the guidebook had ‘fermé lundi soir’ by every entry), I decided to have a proper lunch.

It was a wise decision. First course: snail ravioli on wilted spinach with foaming butter and truffles

I’m not one for snails, normally, but this dish was absolutely heavenly.

Course two: a risotto of baby leeks with pulled pork, and a cheeky radish

Again, delicious flavours and perfectly balanced. Chef was clearly an artist. A home-made flan with some home-made ice cream to finish. The service was impeccable, perfectly paced for a lazy lunch, and the whole bill with beers and coffee was less than 25€.

For exactly the same money elsewhere I might have had some dreary crudités, an indifferent steak fries, and a mass produced flan. This was extraordinary value, but, much more importantly, a total gastronomic delight, and a reminder that there are still tucked away all over France, places that delight to share their love of great hospitality and great cooking.

I wandered across the road to see if the little Romanesque church was open. It was, but I was in for a horrible shock. Someone, in about 1885, had decided that the best way to preserve the fabric was to do a total rebuild in municipal gothic. There wasn’t a single element of the ancient church left visible. It will probably stand for centuries, but it was like a church that had had a frontal lobotomy gone wrong, all its character had been removed. Most depressing.

I had about eight kilometres to go to Mussidan, so I set off with a will. After one climb and a few kilometers through woods it was all flat going along the river valley to Mussidan. I noticed, as I came into town, that it was twinned with Woodbridge. Shall we just say, Mussidan had very much the best side of that arrangement.

I met up with Fabienne at the municipal hostel. We were the only occupants. It was perfectly clean, however the decor was not unlike homeless hostels I have seen. But the shower was hot and the beds comfortable. So I was grateful.

I’ve got about thirty-six kilometres to go to my destination of Sainte-Foy-la-Grande. That will split nicely into two modest walks of eighteen kilometres each.