The first thing I did was check my right leg for any signs of deterioration. It didn't seem any worse, except for the colour, and I thought that the swelling might be reducing. I could now feel the bone of my ankle joint. The injury was higher up my leg and a lot of colourful fluid has seeped through the tissues. The whole area is mostly a pale grey/yellow but there are spectacular reds, blues and purples lower down.
My throat is still sore but a little better than yesterday. I've no runny nose or cough, so I don't think I've caught a cold (or even the Mexican 'flu that's panicking the world). I remember talking with someone a few years ago who found rape fields irritated their throat. I've walked past a lot of them this last week and their tobacco-like smell, which I quite like, has accompanied my walks on most days.
It also occured to me that the irritation might be caused by the water I've been drinking from my bladder. I should explain: The 'platypus hydration sysytem' sits in a purpose-designed pouch inside my backpack and I can sip water through a tube that clips into the strap on my right shoulder. The idea is that it's more convenient than reaching for a bottle and it works pretty well. The only thing is that I've been sipping on the same teat for nine days now, which much carry some risk of bugs. I've seen no sign that the tube or bladder are contaminated and although I've only been drinking tap water, I think it should be safe. I've been wiping the mouthpiece with a bactericide gel but if the throat doesn't improve I might switch from teat to bottle, as it were.
Yesterday's walk was 13.5 miles, taking my aggregate to 103.5, or 20% of the total. Interestingly, there's no accompanying sense of achievement, or even of progress. The numbers feel pretty abstract and my horizons have shrunk so that I'm living each day in the moment, rather than seeing it in the perspective of the overall journey. This is not a problem, in fact it's refreshing to be occupied wholly with what I'm doing and all the pre-planning is paying dividends by freeing me from concerns about routes and accomodation. But I am surprised at the extent to which my outlook has shifted to a 'one day at a time' mentality.
Yesterday morning, I shed weight by ditching some out-of-date paperwork and, with a heavy heart, a guidebook to the footpaths of Normandy and The Seine. It's a fabulous book but I haven't been on the Grand Randonée for long enough to make it useful. As I was feeling tired I thought it best to save the 200 grams and ditch it.
I left Val-de-Reuil and walked through fields of rape and barley. The footpath was blocked by construction work and there was no diversion signalled. However, I found my way round to another track which took me up a steep slope into the forest.
The sky was cloudless and I hadn't left the hotel until 11.00am so I was already feeling the burning sun. The yellow fields shimmered in the distance. I applied a second layer of sun cream and took to the shade of the trees.
The wood was full of enchantments. The birds sang louder than any I've ever heard and big black beetles scuttled along the forest floor. Thankfully the clouds of black flies that had followed me through the fields were now gone.
I stopped to sit on a fallen tree and let myself be overwhelmed by all that was happening around me.
For the first time on my journey, I saw other 'recreational walkers'. It was Fête du Travail, the first of May, and a few families were out in the sunshine. Later in the day I would see girls selling posies by the roadside. Many times I saw people visiting friends and families, carrying flowers as gifts.
The walk through the trees was idyllic. It came to a grittier end when I found the footpath to the road at the edge of the forest blocked by construction work. A new road is being built and one day the path I was on will be carried through a tunnel underneath. The tunnel was half-finished but looked easy enough to get through. A high fence with a warning notice about keeping out stood before me. I checked the map and a detour to another track would add another mile or so to my journey.
Being a bank holiday, the excavating machinery was silent and the site looked deserted, so I decided to clamber down an embankment, squeeze through a gap in the fence and cross the sticky mud to the tunnel. I congratulated myself on my daring and was halfway through the dark tunnel when it occured to me that the site might be protected with the guard dogs beloved of the French. Fortunately there were none and I emerged on the other side.
I had asked how many shops would be open during the holiday and was told that very few would do so. I'd eaten well the night before and forced a larger quantity of bread and jam down than usual in the morning, just in case the day would be lunchless. But as I entered the centre of Pont-de-l'Arche I found the central square busy with young men at bars and the two kebab shops that were open. I decided to join them.
I ordered a kebab panini, a first for me, and a small bottle of 1664 lager. It was all delicious. I chatted in faltering French with the owner, who was Moroccan, and whose son lives in Manchester. I showed him my route and he was impressed. "Courage!" he said, which either meant, "Take courage!" or "That's brave!"
I crossed the Seine for the seventh-and-a-half time (calculating that the start point at Notre-Dame cathedral is on the Ile-de-la-Cité, so only scores half a crossing) and found myself in Igoville. Local youth were enjoying themselves racing their Renault Clios and Peugot 205s around the empty supermarket car park. They screeched their tyres, played loud music and shouted to each other through open windows. Every so often, one of these wannabe-gangsters would pass me at speed on the road, sounding their horn and jeering.
The map showed a promising route away from the main road, so I slogged uphill for a mile and a half. I caught the occasional spectacular view across the wide valley to the forest through which I'd walked in the morning. But the plateau at the top wasn't pretty. Dirty industrial buildings, scrap yards and dishevelled horses stood in fields either side of the pot-holed track.
I checked the map and it confirmed that I was on a walking route. It would take me through a travellers' camp, where caravans, Transit-type vans and Mercedes were parked. All the vehicles were white, and all were spotlessly clean. I wasn't troubled by anyone but the man at the gate who was tending a ferocious fire looked wary. I gave him a big, broad smile and said, "Bonjour!" I got a grudging reply.
The wide grin is a new technique of mine for disarming the French. It's occured to me that they are unsure of me and what I'm doing. My routes take me down quiet residential roads, along farm tracks and busy highways, so I don't look like the normal tourist. I remember hearing that when travelling in far-flung parts of the world a smile gets you a long way. There's something primitive and essential about non-verbal communication and I've come to realise that when I'm nervous I can't help communicating that to those around me.
With a big smile I bid people, "Bonjour!"
They instinctively smile back, albeit with an uncertain look. My imbecilic grin seems to be working.
Approaching Tourville into service and special motorway routes in force. Here, Ikea closes on bank holidays. It reminds me that in France recreation involves dining with one's family, in Britain it requires shopping.
In Oissel I saw nineteenth-century terraced houses, some of them four-stories of rooms around a courtyard. The bricks were dirty and the windows and doors grimy but there were families living in them. I'd crossed the Seine again (8.5 times now) and noted how broad it had become. It was easily three times as wide as in Paris and, with its waters swollen by the Eure, was now a mighty river. I trudged through the streets to the "Rond Point aux Vaches", which made me think of Leicester's Pork Pie Roundabout. Sure enough, but inexplicably, the Rond Point was populated with life-size plastic cows.
Last night was my first in a Hotel Premiere Classe, my preferred French budget hotel. Unlike the more common Formule 1, Premiere Classe rooms have their own showers and toilets and, best of all, free wifi. This was a real blessing as I've been spending far more than I'd planned on internet access through my phone. It's been strangely unpredicatable; some days I've spent less than a pound, on others it's been fifteen pounds. I think that in the rural areas the signal is patchy and that I'm charged each time a connection is made, whereas in the city the connection holds for a long time. I'm still not certain though.
I dined at the neighbouring hotel on white fish (not sure of the exact variety) and rice, which made a welcome change from chips. This was accompanied by a very quaffable carafe of Vin de Pays Rouge.
At the till I got talking with a family from Rotheram, who were setting off on a six-week holiday in the south of France. I swapped email addresses with Melanie, who I hope might be able to read the blog later today (send me a comment Melanie, if you can).
It was great to talk with Jennifer, who is beginning a week-long holiday with two of her friends in Malaga. She must have flown above me during the day. Never has our family been so scattered.
My walking verse for Day 9 was 1 Kings 8.23, [Solomon] said, "O Lord, god of Israel, there is no god like you in heaven above or on earth beneath, keeping covenant and steadfast love for your servants who walk before you with all their heart."
Lord, thank you for the steadfastness of your love, which remains constant. Let all my walking for you be wholehearted. Amen.
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