Sunday are always a little sketchy in a practical sense as a pilgrim. Will I have enough to eat? The general advice is to carry food with you at all times as shops selling food can be few and far between in rural areas, but on a Sunday this is even more the case. Boulangerie are usually open for a few hours in the morning, but everywhere is closed by lunchtime, and accommodation that usually provides an evening meal will, nine times out of ten, send the chef away for a well-earned rest.

It was with this in mind, that I came down to breakfast in my hotel at Corbeny. Unlike my solitary dinner the night before, when I had happily listened to the BBC on my phone, I found another guest in the dining room. For a moment I assumed he must be another pilgrim, but on closer inspection I noted comfy shoes, corduroy trousers and a sedentary air. A civilian I concluded.

We exchanged pleasantries and he explained there was a bell I could ring for a coffee. I pressed said bell, and busied myself assorting a variety of yoghurts, juices and jams. After a few minutes I pressed the button again – a light came on, but I could only assume that a bell was ringing in the dark recesses of the building. I ate a croissant. My companion left, wishing me good luck.

I was about to ring the bell again, when I noted that he had a large pot of coffee on his table. Glancing around to check that no-one was looking, I gingerly lifted the lid on the pot and found it three-quarters full of piping black coffee. I quickly transferred it to my table and then, as an afterthought, took the pain au chocolat that he had not touched as well. Well – you never know where your next meal is coming from on a Sunday!

And so after receiving my stamp at the reception desk (and the offer of further coffee, for which I was grateful but had no need), I headed out into sleepy Corbeny. Yet another town that had been wiped off the face of the map in the 14-18 War, but which had bee carefully rebuilt in the 1920s. I had in my bag a good piece of cheese and an apple from yesterday, a yoghurt and half a buttered baguette from breakfast, and my liberated pain au chocolat. I knew I needed food for an evening meal, so called at the boulangerie on the off chance of another baguette. The shop was closed, but opposite was a series of automatic machines selling variously – farm products, bread, cut flowers and pizzas. I felt it carrying with me a pizza all day might be impractical, but I could invest in another baguette and feel ready to face whatever this day had in store.

Happily todays walk was to be shorter than yesterdays, at only around 25km. I struck out on the quiet road to Juvincourt-et-Damary and tuned in to BBC Radio 4’s Sunday morning output. Sunday worship came from HMP Wandsworth and I found this service particularly moving. If this is your sort of thing, I thoroughly recommend listening to it on BBC Sounds. It enabled me, for a second week in a row, to sing “Thine Be The Glory” as loud as I wanted, this time accompanied by the Soul Sanctuary Gospel Choir. Hearing testimony by the prisoners as to how important their faith was, how valued the chaplaincy team were and the deep trust and hope they had in God, was inspirational. A Pentecostal Free Church chaplain preached movingly on a passage of Romans 8: “…nothing can separate us from the love of God.” And I reflected on times in my life when I have felt at my lowest, and how the love of God felt closest at these times. Following the sermon, the choir sang Amazing Grace and I wept a little.

As I entered Juvincourt, I noted that someone had turned this sign upside down too – just like the village sign last Sunday. It seems to be a thing in France, Joy from Felton messaged to tell me that she and Robert see the same thing in the south of France where they have a house: bored kids I imagine, but strange that I have only seen in on Sunday mornings so far!

I was startled out of my reverie, when a woman pulled her car up beside me. I readied myself to explain that I didn’t know where anything was and should not be trusted for directions, but instead she asked where I was from. I explained that I was an English pilgrim, walking the VF. I think she said something along the lines of that being wonderful, and then bade me “Bon courage” and drove on.

Beyond the village, I skirted some woodland, came across this fun looking water set up by a river and then passed the Bosch auto test facility. For a moment I chuckled, imagining Bosch washing machines racing around a test track, before crossing the D925 and walking into Berry-au-Bac.

Apparently Berry-au-Bac has a population of 655, although with its large church and mairie it seems bigger than that. This was to be my lunch stop and I found a bus stop out of the sun (and wind) to eat some of my foraged goods. French villages on Sunday lunchtimes are funny places. Of the 655 inhabitants, I saw precisely zero for the entire forty minutes I spent in that bus stop. No cars. No dogs barking. No lawnmowers, power tools or even a nervous cough from a distance.

Finishing my lunch, I felt conspicuous walking down the street, and hurried out of town, over first the river Aisne and then the Canal Latéral à l’Aisne. Here there were a number of working boats moored, and I spotted a dog walker, reassuring me that the rapture had not occurred and I had not missed the boat.

Crossing the Aisne also meant crossing a regional boundary. I left the Hauts-de-France region and entered the Grand-Est region, and the Marne départment. I took the D530 shortcut direct to the hillside village of Cormicy, now listening to The Reunion on Radio 4, which dealt with the Port Talbot Passion Play. (Another belter of a listen). Behind the village I entered my first vineyard of the pilgrimage and noted the regular rows of vines stretching off into the distance. As well as moving administrative region, I was now also entering champagne region!

Beyond this first tantalising reminder of champagne, I entered woodland: peaceful, with birdsong and stillness, yet also criss crossed with trenches from the Great War. A quarter of a mile further on and this stillness was broken by the sound of approaching motorbikes. I had read that the route here was popular with trail bikes on a weekend. Suddenly, from a side lane poured twenty or so riders. Most politely thanking me with a cheery wave as they sped past.

It looked like they were having a lot of fun, and a little further on I realised they were much better equipped to exit the woodland than me. I came across the most expansive portion of muddy track yet encountered.

It always seems that the muddiest section is only shortly before one arrives at the accommodation for the night! I laboured for a short while on the drier edge of the morass, before spotting a route out of the woodland at right angles and then returned along the field edge to reach the proper route.

From then on, it was downhill all the way into Hermonville. I am now happily installed in Phil and Bea’s lovely AirBnB in their beautiful home. I even have my own roof terrace!

Before I turn in, I must draw your attention to a podcast episode of Just A Walk In The Sun, a monthly podcast from the Herefordshire Light Infantry Museum. I recorded it with the museum curator by phone from a cemetery on the Somme. If you are interested, do check it out here: https://www.buzzsprout.com/1968663/14925454

(It has been a busy weekend for podcasts – tomorrow I’ll share the link for the Sutton Voices podcast that I’ve also appeared on. I wouldn’t want you to have too much of a good thing all in one go!).