Day 3: A quiet Saturday

I had decided to breakfast at the Formule 1 Hotel, thinking that although I had half a baguette in my bag, it would be a good idea to begin the day with a coffee and some jam. I'm not normally a jam eater, but the physical effort of walking is changing my appetite. Perhaps like an expectant mother whose body knows what it needs, I'm developing cravings. I've become especially fond of sweet things, even though I rarely eat them at home.

This may be part of the adaptation to a more physically demanding lifestyle. I even bought some boiled sweets later in the day and stopped off at MacDonalds for a Coke (not the diet variety but 'full-fat', as we call it in our house).

Fuelled up, I set about writing and uploading to the blog. Each time I send the updates, I collect notifications of comments, which feel like a real blessing at the start of the day. By the time I'd prayed and packed, I didn't get away until 10:45. Although I had a medium length walk (about 13 miles) ahead of me, this felt a bit late.

My walking verse for the day was Genesis 24.40, in which Abraham's servant gives account of the mission his master has sent him on: "But [Abraham] said to me, 'The Lord before whom I walk will send his angel with you and make your way successful.'"

I thought a lot about Abraham's servant during the day. His master had sent him on a special trip to a far away land, to find a bride for his son, Isaac. I imagine Abraham himself would have wanted to make the journey, had his age not prevented him. The servant sets off and arrives at Aram-naharaim, where he finds finds Rebekah drawing water.

The verse begins the servant's explanation to Rebekah's brother, Laban, about the purpose of his long trip. It reminded me of the curiosity of strangers about the purpose of my peculiar pilgrimage. I was also especially struck by the hospitable welcome which Laban gave the servant. The kindness of strangers is a precious thing to us wanderers.

Lord, may your angel be with me as I walk, and may my way be successful in your eyes. Amen

The weather was changing. Cool, cloudy and wet air was pushing up from the south and the patches of blue were gone by lunchtime. I spent a good deal of the day wearing a jacket but the rain never came.

I walked south to the rivers, for this is the the confluence of the Oise and the Seine. The mighty Seine is now twice as broad as in Paris and its swollen waters have created large mid-stream islands. On several of these I saw gravel being extracted, then loaded into the huge barges.

In Andrésy, scenes of a thousand domestic Saturdays were played out before me. Behind the high garden walls, flower beds were tended and cars were washed. The sounds and smells of mowing blew on the breeze. People were on the move, some cycling, some running, some sculling up the river, and some catching trains, perhaps for a day's shopping in Paris.

I thought about the high walls and the connection between privacy, waryness of strangers and suspicion. To me it felt that suburban France is more wary than Oadby but I realise that this is my perception. Perhaps because I'm an 'insider' in Oadby and not an alien, I experience it as less suspicious.

At lunchtime I found a market on the banks of the Seine. I stocked up for lunch with apples, traditonal bread, and a piece of goat's cheese. The place was bustling and joyfully cramped, making me punctuate my passage between the stalls with "Pardon", and "Excusez-moi".

I walked away from the river past Chanteloup Les Vignes, between the village and the dowdy apartment blocks of la Noë and Daurade. I reckoned that carrying my shopping bag made me look less like an out-of-towner and I practised a casual nonchalance, as though I walked these roads every day.

At the Pont aux Chevre (Bridge of Goats?) in Triel-sur-Seine I lunched by the river, just as the clouds were thickening with rain that, it turned out, never fell.

From Triel, I took the long straight road through Vaux-sur-Seine, with its charming cloured brick Mairie and into Meulan. The afternoon was very quiet and I had the impression that France naps on Saturdays after lunch. The pavements were broad, but mostly made of coarse flinty gravel, presumably the same gravel which is excavated from the Seine's islands. It made for a safe passage but it was sometimes heavy going, like walking on a shingle beach.

I deliberately slowed my pace, remembering that, in the old cliche "this is a marathon, not a sprint". Then I worked out that it's actually twenty marathons end-to-end and that thought made me gulp.

Going more slowly is definitely better for my legs and I've had none of the aches and pains in my knees and thighs that I first got when walking long distances in the last year. I paused regularly, taking advantage of the seats at bus stops to massage my calves and stretch.

I eventually crossed the river at Les Mureaux, and found my way onto the tatty industrial estate where my even tattier hotel awaited.

I had checked Google Maps on my phone and searched for a restaurant near the hotel. It turned out that a 'Buffalo Grill' was next door and I laughed at the memory of holidays in France where long journeys were broken with a meal at these chain-restaurants. The staff were friendly and the meal very satisfying. No wonder I slept for almost ten hours.