I don’t know whether it is because I am spending up to seven hours a day in the outdoors, or whether avian life is more abundant here, but there are birds everywhere. Walking though forests is a delight: always a cuckoo in the distance and a woodpecker noisily seeking trade.

Last night at the comfortable home of Jeannine and Didier, I had been treated royally. It turned out I was their first guest and they seemed determined to spoil me. The couple having recently returned from Portugal, produced a fine port to begin the meal, and there followed a mellow côtes de Rhône accompanying a tasty dish of stewed beef and potatoes. It was a real treat.

Conversation flowed as best it could, plenty of sign language and the use of Google translate helped considerably.

I retired early and slept well. At around midnight I had to attend to the sort of call of nature a man in his forties who has consumed a generous quantity of alcohol is frequently required to make. On return to the room I became aware of another call of nature. The glorious song of a nightingale. It sang unabashed in the woodland behind the house.

I’ve heard recordings of nightingales but I’ve never heard one “on the wing” as it were. I sat transfixed for a good ten minutes, savouring this wonderful song.

The next morning, I breakfasted with my hosts and discussed my plans for the day and suggested that they consider becoming pilgrim hosts. I left them with the email address of the French Via Francigena Association. Jeannine was kind enough to make a sandwich for the journey and with much au revoiring and bonne routes, I took my leave.

Today’s route was again dictated by available accommodation. I had always planned to take the alternative Way of Sigeric route. It bypassed Orges, and was more direct. It also went through Blessonville, which was one of the intrepid Archbishop’s overnight stops.

However, at Blessonville I would need to veer off to the north to my overnight stop at Montsaon. The overall distance was around 20km, yet I was not able to check in until after 6pm, so I decided to “work to rule” and take plenty of stops and try to reduce my average speed.

With this in mind I peered through the open door of Cirfontaines church. Like many around here a locked metal gate allows a visitor to see inside without actually gaining access.

As I stood looking at the simple altar a sparrow flew quickly over my head into the church, followed by a second.

These two birds noisily hopped from one place to another, as if proudly showing off their parish church. It put me in mind of Psalm 84 which sings the praises of the Temple in Jerusalem, a place where

“Even the sparrow has found a home, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may have her young— a place near your altar…” (Psalm 84:3).

When this verse appears at evensong in “quires and places where they sing” the organist often trills on a sweet set of twinkly mixture stops to highlight these feathered friends in the temple. Of course birds in churches are messy, and birds trapped in a church building often come to sad end, however this verse speaks to me of hospitality. Of making room for those who might seem inconvenient or socially “untidy.”

We can be too precious with our things and with our space. I think God would like to see us leave more room for the occasional brace of boisterous sparrows!

The route dropped through the village and over a ridge behind Cirfontaines towards Braix.

On the crest of the ridge, the alternative route was clearly marked and I descended into a familiar looking valley.

With a railway line, wooded hilltops and rolling fields, this valley felt a lot like Herefordshire

It began to rain, and once again it was time to unleash the Green Goddess. I have learned that donning this garment is very much like putting on a chasuble. I realise that for many of hours this will be an instantly relatable simile, however for those still in the dark, I will explain. The chasuble, is the bling over garment worn by priests when celebrating the Eucharist, or other sacraments. The head hole is in the centre and the vestment should be donned with a flourish, in one swift movement, in order to avoid it becoming caught up at the back. This tent-like poncho is the same, for it needs to cover the rucksack as well as the back. One deft move, saves a lot of indecorous faffing about!

As I had the whole day to cover 21km, I walked very slowly beside the railway line, hoping to see a train. Travelling at under 5km/h it is a great thrill to see a train hurtle past at close quarters. I was not disappointed a few minutes later when the hiss of the tracks gave way to the woosh of the train. It seems odd that railway lines are not routinely fenced off in the countryside, there being only a few unencumbered feet between me and this high speed train.

A little further on, between Braux and Bricon I became aware of a high pitched intermittent sound. I’ve always had good hearing; I used to be able to tell if someone was watching TV from outside a house because of the high pitched whine a cathode ray tube set made. Sadly this super-power has been eclipsed by flat screen tvs, other wise I could have got a job with BBC Licence Fee enforcement! What was this noise?

I checked both phones – nothing. I walked on a bit trying to ignore the sound. It got more insistent. It sounded as though it was coming from inside my bag. Was one of the electrical items in my bag misbehaving. Had the Bluetooth keyboard developed a mind of its own and started to send cries for help?

I was determined not to take the bag off, but as I pressed on the noise became painful. I realised it couldn’t be in my bag and was indeed a bird scarer located in the field. What is wrong with a scarecrow I wondered? This agricultural tinnitus was almost too much to bear.

Later, after a second bout of head splitting frequencies, I located one of the offending articles. It was very tempting to disconnect one of the battery terminals, but with all the willpower I could muster, I left well alone. This was one occasion when birds weren’t welcome.

As I arrived in Bricon, I knew that a Saturday afternoon treat awaited me. I had read about the Bar Restaurant L’Europe, and knowing that I had several hours to occupy before I could report to my accommodation, I treated myself to a sit down in the warm and a beer (well two beers actually!).

This picture doesn’t really do this wonderful establishment justice; for behind me and to my right was a bustling restaurant doing a roaring trade. The staff in between serving at table, were also manning the newsagent counter and providing pilgrim with libation: it was wonderful to sit back and watch.

And yet, I was not idle while I was at L’Europe. Much of this post was written there (which may explain certain things!). Surveying the official route, there is nothing like this along its lonely path. To judge by the number of folk there, I suspect the locals know this too!

It was with a heavy heart and a slightly light head that I bid farewell to the bar. I had obtained a stamp for my credential and now looked for somewhere to eat my lunch. At 3pm, this was a little late, but better late than never.

It rained harder.

I looked at Bricon retreating in the distance and sheltered under a tree to eat. Despite the rain, life was good. I messaged my host to let her know I might be early, and she said that would be fine.

Just one more hour’s walk, and I arrived at Montsaon. I was greeted by the host’s thirteen year old daughter who gave me a drink of squash and commiserated with me over the rainy day. She watched as I peeled off dripping layers and then her brother appeared to find out who I was and where I came from.

There followed a lovely exchange where, with the aid of a white board we played a sort of Anglo-French game of Pictionary. This came in particularly handy when it came to explaining how many kilometres I had walked.

I was shown my comfortable quarters and settled in. Within an hour, the rain was lashing down so hard that it looked like fog outside.

I hoped that no fellow pilgrims were out in this weather. I hoped too that this rain would pass by tomorrow.

However, as I reflected back over the day, giving thanks for all the good things and laying down those things that were challenging, I came back to Psalm 84. In verse 5 the psalmist wrote:

Blessed are those whose strength is in you, whose hearts are set on pilgrimage.

I certainly do feel blessed and I know that it is not from my own strength that these blessings flow.