“Listen to your body”, they said. Everyone says it. “Listen to your body.” The people at pain management say it, so does my doctor, so does my osteopath (the excellent James), and so does Vladimir the scary body-building Moldovan sports masseur, who looks like a dwarf from the Lord of the Rings who is branching out into a new career now the Mines of Moria have packed in. They all said to listen to my body. Well, I didn’t.

Not quickly enough. Or at least, my planning brain made unjustifiable assumptions about what my body could still do. So today’s walk has been marked by the fact that I have been walking on two big blisters, one on the inside of each heel.  They have made progress slow and painful. Anyway, I have recourse to Compeed. You do nothing with the offending area but you put these miracle working plasters over them and leave well alone and all will be well in a few days. 

In the meantime, my fantasy about getting to the Spanish border this time has evaporated as reality has bitten. It wasn’t just the blisters. My legs were threatening cramps once I got near 30 Kms; I think they were feeling taken for granted. So, time for a bit of a reset.

And where better to do it than on the Camino on a relentlessly wet day, with the rain hammering down. I passed one solitary dog walker at Rocquebrune – we chatted for two minutes and then continued on our ways. Otherwise, no one at all, so I had time to think about my choices!

Nature was rather in hiding, though I did see two cats, on different occasions, sitting in the wet road staring at the ditch, hoping for a careless vole or fieldmouse. They ran away guiltily into the maize or sunflowers as I approached.

As is often the case, I walked through villages small and large, but which had no services at all. The days when you find a nice little functioning cafe for a reviving coffee are red letter days.

A bus shelter offered a resting point at St Hilaire de Noialle, but I pressed on to La Réole. The church of St Peter dominates the town.

The town is gallo-roman, and medieval buildings are plentiful, like this house next to the remains of a Benedictine priory.

But La Réole is also dead. All the shops in the ancient town are closing down or have already. I had a beer at the only bar I could find open, whose laconic landlady, said it all .

“How are things?” “Yes.” “There’s not much…” “Yes.” “Is that how it is now in La R…” “Yes.” At least she wasn’t charging too much for her beer. But she had no customers either.

I walked over the bridge. It is closed to motor traffic, making La Réole even more isolated. On the other side I was picked up by Michel Jamain, part of a local group who offer pilgrims home hospitality. He and his wife, Nicole, are very much local people, who have been doing this for eleven years. La Réole’s demise is all down to big supermarkets on the edge of town.

The Jamains live in an enormous property, La Blanche, with barns and stores and land attached. It belonged to Nicole’s grandparents. Michel worked all his life in carpentry and woodwork, and adapted one barn to make three bedrooms for pilgrims.

When I came down this evening after a rest, Michel was in the huge workshop on the side of the house with two friends who had dropped in  for some wood and a chat.

The conversation was all about wood, and the mighty river Garonne, and the great canal du midi which stretches from near here all the way to Toulouse, and empties into the Mediterranean at Sète. And about fishing, and fishing exploits!

After a sumptuous farmhouse supper, I retired to my room and have drafted a complete new and manageable schedule for the rest of this stage.

Goodnight to you all!