My hostesses at Les Étoiles were kindness itself, but nevertheless I did not sleep well.   Perhaps it was the humidity. I was woken in the night, briefly by the heavy rain. In the morning, it was ten degrees cooler and very overcast with low cloud. Not as beautiful, but much nicer for walking!

I set off at 08:45, and had to walk two kms back the way I had come to join the route. But thereafter I had a really wonderful morning’s walk through woods and forests and across fields.

After ten or so kms I reached my first village, Andrein. Stopping for some elevenses (which I had on me – nothing is open in France on Mondays) I fell into conversation with Moritz, a German chef, who has been cycling all over France. He was the only person I talked to all day. After twenty minutes he went off one way and I the other, towards Sauveterre de Béarn.

By this time it was starting to spit, so I covered up my rucksack and put on my waterproof jacket. It didn’t look as if it was going to do anything serious, but I was wrong. Two kilometres out of Sauveterre the heavens opened, and my shorts were rapidly soaked. I had a huge poncho in my backpack, ready to go, which covers me and rucksack in one and protects everything, but I judged that stopping and swapping rain protection would only make and other things wetter. I plodded on.

Sauveterre de Béarn is a stunning fortified village on a cliff above a river, guarding Béarn from Navarre to the south, and the Basque country to the west. It loomed out of the rain and mist.

Accessing the ramparts meant a climb of 172 steps, but I didn’t care, I just wanted to get out of the rain. Luckily, the church had a Western porch, with (dry) seats, opposite the most impressive XII C tympanum and door. I took refuge.

The interior of Saint Peter’s had undergone a horrible homogenised French catholic Victorianisation, which had obliterated as much as they could of its noble Romanesque origins. You meet it everywhere, alas.

I had a good break, for lunch, a rest, and foot care. And then walked the last four or so kms to Osserain, and my digs tonight. It was a horrible stretch down a busy main road, which lots of lorries and tractors hurtling past – the Vézelay route is mercifully mostly on tiny back roads or forest or field paths. On the way I passed this miniscule church (sadly locked).

I found Villa Mon Rêve without difficulty. My host, Pascal, is a man in his late 70s, who has lived in this house all his life. It is a large 1930s villa (no photos as it is shrouded in scaffolding at present), built by his paternal grandparents for his parents as their wedding present! Grandfather, father and Pascal have all been the village’s monumental masons. But he has no family to hand that on to, so the line has ended. The house is charmingly full of all kinds of decorations and objets (think 47 Easthorpe), but with extra and very French addition of wall-papered ceilings! The pilgrim visitors sleep in the very room in which Pascal was born, he told me proudly.

I am pleased to report that my feet are holding up well, and tomorrow is a shorter day, so things are going well. Good night, and God bless you all.