Today was a very strange day’s walking. First of all, it was raining when I got up. Fine, wet rain. Not heavy, but always there. Sometimes it was a bit heavier, sometimes it almost petered out, then it came as sheets of wet mist. It was penetrating. Then, in the afternoon, the wind got up which blew it horizontally. It was also cool – 10-12 degrees, which, with the wind, felt a lot cooler. My hands were too cold to feel for a time.

Then there was the geography.  The Landes is dead flat, and I had imagined pine forests with sandy paths. Well, those are to be found, but much of the terrain I passed through was waterlogged and marshy, with rather stunted trees. All a bit like walking through a forested fenland before the Dutch arrived to drain it.

And finally there was the monotony. I started on a path that had been a branch railway line, and this ran for eight miles dead straight. There were no occasional benches or picnic tables, where you could have a rest. There were hardly any houses, and what there were were set back from our path. For these eight miles I saw neither man or beast – only a cuckoo sang to keep my spirits up.

In the Second World War, this line had marked the frontier between Occupied France to the West, and Vichy governed France to the East. Every level crossing would have guarded by German soldiers. The pilgrims I was with in Captieux were told by Madame last night, that differing attitudes to co-operation with the invaders, or engagement the Resistance led to some families being torn apart even to this day. The line closed to passengers shortly after the war, and to goods in the 1960s. Knowing this history gave walking it a slightly eerie feeling.

Later on, after we had crossed France’s most expensive motorway, the path did run past some huge cultivated fields, and had occasional curves, but the wind took full advantage of the open spaces, and there was no protection.

I am not so naive as to expect that a Camino will be all cakes and ale, but this was a tough day. Add to the externals my developing two huge blisters on the balls of my feet, and walking was not pleasant. I realised that I was feeling rather as Frodo and his companions might have when trudging through some particularly unappealing bit of Middle Earth.

The effect of all these elements was odd. Up from my subconscious came things I was resentful about, cross about, sad about, and all, I think, because just trudging along this interminable straight track was rather disorientating. At one point the ridiculousness of it had me laughing out loud.

The path ran into the forest again, and some kilometres later landed me at the start of the charming village of Bourriot-Bergonce (the terminal ‘t’ is sounded). After some time in the ancient church of St Martin I found my lodgings, attended to my feet, was warmed up by a roaring fire and had a good supper with two other very congenial pilgrims.

Despite its trials, today has brought me another step nearer my goal, and for that I am thankful.