Day 2: If you go down to the woods today...

I had a good night's sleep, falling straight off, and woke brightly for my first full day on my own.

After praying and writing I breakfasted at the hotel and set off at 0945. The sun was already shining brightly as I walked north through the university district. I turned onto the road which carried me across the Seine at Pont de Bezons. Bezons is an outer suburb of Paris and showed as much of the segregation as I've seen elsewhere in France. I saw few white faces, most appeared to be of north african descent. At no time did I feel anxious, though I noticed in myself that I'd developed a habit of scanning my surroundings as soon as I turned a corner into a new area. Perhaps these are primitive instincts which soon surface for the lone walker in a strange land.

I thought about the Algerians and Moroccans and their families. In some ways this isn't their land either. I understand that they are often made to feel as though they don't really belong here. I thought too about the economic migrants and refugees who try to find their way in a new country, without the luxury of a credit card and maps like me.

I planned a picnic in the Foret Domaniale de St-Germain-en-Laye later in the afternoon, so bought a slice of pizza from a boulangerie. I wondered how it would survive the heat of the day, which was growing by the hour, in the top compartment of my rucksack. But the thought of sitting in a tranquil forest and even napping in the afternoon was a good one to hold in my mind. I couldn't have guessed then just how differently things would work out.

The town of Houilles is twinned with Chesham, so you can imagine that there was quite a change of scene. Now only white faces, on quieter streets with detached houses. Walking a significant distance through towns makes me wonder why the change between affluent and deprived areas is so abrupt. It was clear that the people of Bezons and Houilles kept to their own towns and that the residents of one had little idea of how their near neighbours lived. Yet there were no checkpoints or walls between the two. It's fascinating that such a clear demarcation exists in the mind of individuals and the 'social mind' of unspoken shared understanding.

I crossed the tracks again, this time literally, as I headed into Sartrouville, a town with no discernable centre or attraction. Then the splendid Chateau came into view across the river.

I crossed the Seine again and entered Maisons-Laffite, apparently the largest privately-owned district in France. I don't know exactly what this means but apparently the French state has less involvement here, it is even policed by the consent of the land-owner.

It styles itself, "The city of the Horse" and certainly the racecourse alongside the river is beautiful.

I wondered which way I should go past the Chateau. Left would take me along the main road again, but had the advantage of bringing me more quickly into the forest. Right would mean picking my way through quieter roads. I went right.

I wasn't far in to the residential roads when I saw a sign for Eglise Anglican, the Anglican church. Within a few minutes I found Holy Trinity Church. One of its noticeboards still displayed the notice for its Annual Parochial Church Meeting and I thought about the APCM at Oadby which had taken place the previous evening.

Having come this far, I thought it might be nice to call on the vicar and to say hello. His vicarage address was shown on the noticeboard but I found no answer when I called. As I returned, two gentlemen approached me and asked me who I was looking for. I explained that I was looking for the priest.

We fell into conversation, Helmut speaking good English and me persisting with my broken French, to ensure Jean wasn't left out of the conversation altogether.

It turned out that I had been calling at the wrong door, Helmut's door in fact. He was suspicious of a potential burglar but told me I didn't really look like the sort to break in to his home.

Helmut and Jean invited me to walk into town with them, where they were going for a drink. I gladly accepted and was thankful for their generosity and interest in what I was doing. "Walking? Why don't you ride a bicycle?" I realised that in France this was going to be the obvious question.

Helmut and Jean were most concerned about my safety, especially about my planned walk through the forest in the afternoon. "You mustn't go", Helmut said, "it's very dangerous!"

I was puzzled. It looked like a blissful place on the map.

"There are many transvestites there!", added Helmut. "Some of them are vicious. They will steal your money and attack you!"

"No, really?" was about as much as I could manage in reply. This was the last thing I expected and frankly I wondered if Helmut and Jean were leading too sheltered a life in their quiet suburb. It couldn't be as bad as that, surely? But it was.

We drank pastis at the Cafe Anglais (appropriately), talked gladly of Helmut's work as an inventor and sadly of Jean's terminal illness. I spoke of my work as a "protestant priest" and they were surprised to hear that I had a family. Both assured me that they believed in God but that they never went to church. I promised to pray for Jean and he was more grateful than I'd expected.

I set off into the forest with a changed route. My compromise was to follow Helmut's advice and to stick to the main roads. It added a couple of miles to my journey but I thought it wise to heed the advice of the locals, however far-fetched the danger seemed.

I paused at a car park to eat my pizza, which hadn't taken the journey well, then set off again. Before long I noticed plastic bags tied to the trees alongside the roads at intervals. Occasionally, there was a parked car. Then I saw a man walk from the trees and into his car, then quickly leave. I guessed at what was happening.

Sure enough, the plastic bags in the branches signalled to drivers that sex, presumably for a price, was available here in the trees.

I wondered how many of the cars which passed were driven by 'punters' and I thought I has as much to fear from them as the women, or men dressed as women, in the trees. The biggest risk, I realised, would come from the pimps who dropped the women off and who sometimes waited in their cars.

The women themselves (at least they all looked like women to me) were very obvious about what they were doing. They sat, lay or stood in the trees a few feet from the road, in enticing poses. Drivers would sometimes slow at the sign of the plastic bags, take a look and ask a price.

I walked as quickly as I could, checking the map to make sure I was on the right route and calculating that it would take two hours to cross. I prayed. I prayed often, the kind of urgent and wholehearted praying that fear inspires.

At one point, my prayer was interrupted by a dreaded sound. A vehicle approaching from behind slowed down until it was alongside me, though on the other side of the road. I carried on walking. The driver matched my pace and called out to me something that I couldn't understand.

I recognised the word 'cherche'. He was asking if I was looking for something. "Non!" I called back, still walking. Again he asked, this time looking agitated. And again I insisted, "Non!"

He looked frustrated and pulled away. Had I survived an encounter with a dangerous pimp? Or, as I considered in the following minutes, had I refused a generous offer of a lift from a man who recognised a stranger in need?

I thought again lots about this as I walked on anxiously. Helmut had initially suspected that I was up to no good. First impressions can obviously be wrong but to what extent should we trust our instincts when safety is concerned?

The main road brought me to the banks of the Seine once again. There was a depressing moment when the 'no pedestrians' sign on the bridge made me think that I was stranded. Then I found a footbridge and staggered into St-Honorine.

My feet were sore, having walked too fast for too long without a break. I picked up supplies in the village and found the hotel.

The day had initially been planned as a leisurely twelve miles, much of it in the tranquility of the trees. It turned out to be 14.5 miles and an anxious one. I lay on the bed, examined my growing blisters and thought about what might have been.

My walking verse for the day was Genesis 17.1, "I am God almighty. Walk before me and be blameless. And I will establish my covenant with you."

Again, it's God talking with Abraham (technically, he's still Abram as this dialogue begins). Again God assures him of his sovereignity and makes a promise. This time, Abraham is required to respond with steadfastness. He walked before God blamelessly in a time of violence and prostitution, as the Book of Genesis unashamedly declares. He walked straight paths, ignoring the temptations that lay either side.

Lord, give me the courage and strength to walk before you. Amen.