I should begin by saying that Peronne and I go back a bit. Roughly ever other year since 2001, my friend David Chambers and I have gone on battlefield tours together. It was on one of these first tours that we first went stayed at Peronne and we have stayed there on a number of occasions since. I associate the town with one of the best hotel experiences in France and one of the worst.

This time I stayed in the newly converted AirBnB on the Rue du la Madeline. In 2004, David and I stayed at the Hotel St Claude. I should quickly point out that this hotel is today a very smart Best Western establishment, twenty years ago it definitely was not. When we arrived we found the wife of the patron holding court at the bar with some locals and an empty reception desk. The patron hurried in muttering something and showed us to a dark, damp room at the far recesses of the hotel which appeared not to have been occupied since before Mitterrand was President of the Republic. On inspecting the bathroom, we asked for another room in no uncertain terms.

Huffing and puffing our host directed a small stooped man to carry our bags up to the very top of the hotel, up a fabulous, if not a little rickety staircase. When this hard labouring factotum could not open the door, the patron stomped up the stairs, applied a generous shoulder to the door and then clipped the small man around the head and muttered something about not being able to find the staff.

Once safely inside the room, David and I looked at each other an exclaimed that we were staying the French Fawlty Towers!

Deciding not to risk the food, worried perhaps that the chef might be all out of Waldorfs for the salad, or some vehicle may be harmed in the procurement of the duck dish, we ate instead at the Hotel Remparts a little off the main square and were treated to fabulous food, including an eel terrine as I remember, and wonderful service.

It was with these memories rolling around my mind, that I bid farewell to Peronne. I was certainly better rested than that night twenty years ago. It turned out that the patron had put us at the back of the hotel because, presumably in order to make ends meet, he held late night raves in the cellar, and the whole hotel shook until 3am. It was with great pleasure that we asked a cleaner to wake monsieur, to allow us to leave at 7am the next morning.

The route out of town, towards Doingt, was by way of a disused railway line which passed through marshes of the river Somme and woodland filled with singing thrushes, chiff chaffs and a cuckoo. The morning sun filtered through the trees, bathing the path in a fresh, spring green light.

From a distance I saw a figure sat on a large tree trunk and recognised Alexander who I had met the previous day. We had seen each other in the shop first thing buying lunch and he was now enjoying a breakfast of brioche. We talked more of routes, and accommodation and he explained why he wanted to walk the Via now. Forty years of corporate life would probably ensue, he loved walking, when again would get the opportunity to walk for three months. I reflected that so far the only people I had met were in retirement, underlining to me how privileged I was be able to undertake this walk at my stage in life.

Alexander was bypassing St Quentin’s and was heading directly to Sereaucourt-le-Grande where he was camping for the night. I had hoped to stay at Attilly some 11km short of St Quentin, but accommodation had defeated me and so I was looking at a 36km walk this day. Quite a push!

At Cartigny, the route left the woodland and followed along quiet roads and farm lanes. (I like this photo which shows the old bar in the town, along with the Renault 4 and, if you look very carefully, you’ll see a cat siting in the outside convenience!).

At Vraignes-en-Vermondois, I learned about two famous sons of the village – Hector Crinon, a poet and sculptor, and Raymond Beaucourt, a poet and painter. Crinon wrote satirical pieces on Picardie life and Beacourt wrote poetry in Picardie dialect – one wonders what they thought about each other. And without wishing to sound dismissive of Vraignes, it is a very small place, so amazing to have one person of letters, let alone two!

Still wondering about the impact of Beaucourt on regional dialects, and whether he was a “native speaker” or if he was trying to collect a dying language in the the way that Ralph Vaughan Williams collected folk tunes, I took a wrong turn out of the village!

Happily it wasn’t long before I realised that I was no longer seeing tell-tale red and white flash signs of the Via, I checked my app and turned back. Who should I see walking towards me, but Marcel, my Swiss compadre. He had stayed in Peronne at the Remparts (now a youth hostel) and we exchanged greetings. It would not be the first time that we met each other travelling in opposite directions that day.

I needed a short breather and some water, so I bid Marcel a cheery “till next time.” The next stretch to Tertry was over a very exposed collection of fields; the sky was darkening and the wind was building. I pressed on until a line of trees and then went through the wet weather drills: waterproof on, hat off, waterproof cover over bag and hat, adoption of grim determination.

While the expected rain didn’t appear at that time, I was glad to finally drop behind the cover of a treeline and a sunken lane to get out of the wind. The path dropped down through the village and crossed the river Omignon. (Note the angled pipe going into the river – a simple fire hydrant!)

More woodland walking followed, and shortly before the village of Trefcon (the official end / beginning of a stage) I met Marcel again, confidently striding towards me. “I always see you when I’m least expecting you!” He exclaimed.

There then followed one of those conversations that only two middle-aged, map confident men can have. I tried to explain he was going the wrong way, he tried to do the same. He was very convincing, but I knew I had just walked through Tertray and if he continued in the direction he was going, he would too. Eventually after comparing apps (me using AllTrails, him using the Via Francigena app) and zooming out far enough we established in which direction St Quentin was.

I was puzzled how Marcel hadn’t recognised the path as one he had already walked down, but it turned out he had joined the road into Trefcon early and had picked up a left hand sign that pointed in the Canterbury not Rome connection.

We then walked together until Attilly, where I would take a northerly route into St Quentin and my accommodation and he would stick to the official route to his. It was great to walk these 6 or 7 km together. Our conversation was wide ranging, talking about family, differences between Switzerland and the UK, poverty and the First World War battlefields over which we walked.

It was sunny as we walked into Attilly, and as we parted company, with the usual pilgrim exultations, we suspected we would bump into each other again, when we least suspected it!

I had decided I would eat my lunch here. We had both been trying to out walk the rain the seemed imminent, but it was now 2.30pm and I was endanger our out walking my stomach!

The wind was getting up again, and I sought shelter of the church porch, under the small tower. I sorted out a small blister and was just about to move on, deciding that the spot was too exposed to the wind to eat lunch, when a sudden and violent storm broke out. Wind, rain, then hail whipped through the village; pressed against the church doorway, I was out of the wind, but when one of my sticks blew away, I was nearly taken off my feet reclaiming it. Now wet and cold, I could only wonder who other pilgrims en route were finding this storm. I wondered how Marcel was getting on and whether he had found cover.

(The calm before the storm!)

I retrieved found my hat and waterproof gloves buried deep and until now unused, in the bottom of my bag and when the worst was over, strode off in the direction of Holnon, through the forest which bears the same name. Having experienced my first bout of bad weather, albeit brief, I wondered how I fair against similar weather that lasted all day! I also wondered how long it would take to feel my fingers again.

And with that, my welcome in the cafe where I type, is wearing a little thin. As I’d better not drink another coffee, I shall tell you about the rest of my journey into St Quentin, and the city itself tomorrow!