I’m sorry not to have published this update earlier. I know that some people like to read my blog before bed and they will have missed their bedtime reading last night. I assume that my ramblings are conducive to a good night’s sleep; sometimes almost instantaneous one imagines!

Anyway, when I arrived at Perrancy-les-Vieux-Moulins last night, I managed to type the title and subtitle before falling asleep myself. I had been a very long day. For I not only broke my 40km record, but achieved another 7km on top of that as well! And all this in increasingly trying conditions as the day wore on.

But I am getting ahead of myself. The day began at Montsaon in Manuela and Aymeric’s family home. From what I can gather the family had been out late the night before and the house was in utter silence when I awoke. I was aware of breakfast being laid out in time for my 8am sitting, however by the time I descended the stairs Manuela had, quite wisely, gone back to bed. I didn’t blame her, but felt a little deflated that my pre-prepared French phrases as to “how much it had rained during the night”, and “how glad I was it was brighter this morning”, had been in vain.

It was indeed brighter as I headed out towards the southern edge of Blessonville, but it still threatened rain. It proved to be a trying morning of coat on, coat off as sun followed rain. However, I had the company of BBC Radio 4’s Sunday Worship which came from Fisherwick Presbyterian Church in Belfast. Some good hymns that I could sing along to – Great Is Thy Faithfulness and Lord For The Years. The latter being a hymn I associate strongly with my time at Theological College, bringing with it many happy memories.

The former head of religious broadcasting for BBC Northern Ireland, Rev Dr Bert Tosh reflected movingly on the role of religious broadcasting in Northern Ireland’s often divided society. It had allowed people from both sides of the sectarian and religious divide to listen and learn from one another’s traditions, when it was more common for people to shout at one another and not listen at all. I thought there was a wider message here too for us to support channels where differing views and wisdoms could be aired in our oft polarised society.

The first village I was heading for was about 10km away. I decided that given that it was a long day I would take a twenty minute rest every 10km, in addition to lunch and necessary quick breathers. This would also give me the opportunity to take my bag off and stretch my shoulders out which were beginning to feel the strain of constant weight bearing.

I was therefore very pleased to find this wonderful open sided community building in the centre of the village, by church and mairie. Inside were a table tennis table, book exchange cabinet and open toilet. (By which I mean it was accessible not… well, you know!)

Even better, while I was taking my breather and doing windmill actions with my arms, a brief yet heavy shower rolled in and out.

The difference between these two pictures being less than ten minutes. I counted this timing as one of my blessings for the day, perused the book exchange and then proceeded on my way.

Richebourg had been the end of one stage of the Via Francigena and the point at which the more direct “historic” route that I’d been following, rejoined the official route. I now planned to walk another complete stage, to Faverolles, and the part way into a third stage, to Perrancy. Accommodation had been difficult to find over these stages, yet with judicious use of the D102, so far my constant companion, this next stage could be reduced to around 13km.

On my way out of Richebourg I spotted a hanging sign, and thought “What-ho! The crossed keys of St Peter!” Closer inspection showed that they were indeed the crossed pistons of a car restoration garage. I wondered if this counted as a pilgrim mirage!

One of the great things about plodding away at 4.5km/h, often looking at one’s feet, is meeting little chaps like this. I’ve seen a number of these green iridescent beetles, but this is the first one I’ve managed to catch with the camera. If anyone knows what type it is, I’d love to know. There do seem to be a greater variety and size of beetles here in France: but then maybe, I’m not so often on the lookout for them at home.

One of the highlights of this section is Mormont Abbey which was established by Augustinians and then taken over by the Knights Templar as a commandery in the 12th Century. This collection of buildings once served to provide shelter to pilgrims on their way to Rome and Jerusalem. They were taken over by the Order of St John when the Templers were suppressed and after the Revolution became a farm complex. Indeed there was a pleasing amount of gently rusting farm equipment to be found in some of the buildings and very lively colonies of swifts and house martens in others.

It was lunchtime, and I felt in need of a sit down. I gazed longingly at two picnic benches that were locked behind a grill in the main building. I saw a flight of steps running up the outside of another building, but on closer inspection there was a very loud hum of flies, or bees. Either something has died nearby, I thought, or I’ll just fill my baguette and then get stung to repeatedly.

Feeling a little sad and a lot hungry, I pressed on. The next village, Leffonds, would have a somewhere to sit in the shade, I assured myself. So, bidding a final farewell to the D102, I stepped out onto its shorter yet hillier brother, the D105. I crossed the busy A5 (Paris – Langres) motorway. The speed at which these cars moved made me feel a little giddy – or was that the low calories?

The route through Leffonds was not well signposted; I think I may have ended up picking up a sign in the wrong direction. Grumpy, I round a large granite block on the edge of field outside the village (not in the shade) and ate.

The seasoned weather watchers among you may notice the darker cloud in this picture. It was still warm and sunny, yet I had a feeling of foreboding as I worked quickly through my cheese baguette, saucisson, and clementines.

Immediately after lunch I descended a knee-grindingly steep path, and then back up a similarly steep road to get into the main part of the village. I filled my water bottle from a tap in the cemetery. (It tasted a little like the water you drank from the garden hose when you were six, but was, I was assured potable).

On leaving Leffond, I noticed that the rubber ends on Magda and Zbigniev (my walking poles) were beginning to give up their will for survival. The metal spikes were beginning to show through the rubber. I decided to take them off and save them for particularly steep runs of tarmac when I needed the grip. The consequent “click, clack” of the poles on the asphalt excited great interest in the bovine occupants of one field.

I reproached myself for not requesting replacements to be brought out by my uncle. I would miss the ritual of the “changing of ends” as I changed terrains.

Faverolles appeared ahead. It was a very picturesque approach to the village, on the hills above. A descent down to a babbling brook. In my guide book, Sandy Brown informed me that in this village:

“An impressive mausoleum, built in the first century AD along the Roman road, was discovered here in the 1970s. Although the site had been used as a stone quarry since the Middle Ages it still yielded important archeological finds, many of which are contained in the Musée Archeologique set in the village’s old post office”

(Walking the Via Francigena Pilgrim Route – Part 1)

Sadly, at the over 30km mark, I could only think of the knee discomfort descending yet another hill!

I was however rewarded on climbing back up into the village to see some very amusing signs discouraging speeding through the village.

This put me in mind of the line in the 2007 Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg film Hot Fuzz. The newly arrived police sergeant is told about the ubiquity of firearms among the local community. “Everyone’s packing round here,” he’s told, “Farmers… farmers’ mums.”

This tickled me and I sent the picture to Rosie with this quotation.

A number of local youth, by now having finished school eyed me suspiciously from the vantage point behind the mairie. In the same vein, I wondered if any of them had a can of spray paint about their person.

I pressed on, eschewing the museum and not encountering any crusty jugglers or living statues.

It was around 5pm, I had been walking since 8.45am. I mixed in an energy powder into my water bottle and soon discovered a second wind. I was on the last stage of the walk (Faverolles to Langres) and had (just) 15km left to walk.

With the increase in energy, I noticed the discomfort in my knees abating, and suspected that my muscles around the knees were taking much of the impact again.

The route now took me into the Combe Renard woods. A pleasant change from road walking, with dappled sunlight through the trees, a herd of cows in the next door fields, birdsong and the noise of the nearby A5 motorway. I didn’t mind this last thing, because I knew I was near the A5/A26 intersection and this seemed to me to be the beginning of the end.

On emerging out of the woodland, the route ran along the A26 (Braine – Luxembourg) motorway. Behind me was bright sunshine, ahead were ominous looking clouds. It was ironic, I thought, usually I would be at my accommodation about now. Today if that was the case I would get there dry!

On crossing the A26, I was heading for the village of Beauchemin. The irony of the name did not escape me – would this be a “nice” or “beautiful way”? As I walked along a road, which was quite exposed – sunshine and peace on my starboard side, and the threat of some serious stormy stuff off my port side, I began to feel quite uneasy. It was still warm. Too warm to get all my wet weather kit on, yet I did not want to leave it too late.

The storm clouds were moving slowly away from me, but a huge clap of thunder did nothing to allay my growing anxiety. Shortly after a clear bolt of lightning flashed to the ground. I counted. One, two, three, four, five…. Bang. Two and half miles away, I reassured myself. I may have converted to kilometres for walking, but when it comes to judging risk, I’m still in the imperial camp.

High up on this ridge, carrying two titanium poles, it occurred to me that the last message I had sent to Rosie was a fairly inane picture and Hot Fuzz quotation. Not wishing that to be my epitaph in the unfortunate event of my electrical demise, I sent a more sensible and heartfelt message and strode on.

It was clear that on reaching the overly manicured village centre of Beauchemin, that the immediate threat had passed. However as I left the village, heading for my penultimate village, it was clear that it was going to rain… hard.

Still being quite warm, I left my waterproof in my bag, secured the waterproof cover over the bag, and donned the Green Goddess. My phone, which was now low on battery, I attached to the battery bank and strapped under the poncho.

I less than a kilometre, my suspicions were confirmed. It rained really hard. Bouncing up off the roadway hard. However, with very little wind, the water was at least coming straight down, and not sideways.

On arriving at Saint-Cirgues, with its little stone church, reminiscent of Herefordshire village churches, the rain abated a little. I was to follow the route to the Lac de le Mouche, which sadly meant a lot more downhill!

The rain started to fall heavily again. I was aware of my boots filling with water, but knowing I was only a few kilometres away from a dry room, I urged myself on.

The Mouche Lake was one of four reservoirs around Langres created to feed the Canal de la Marne à la Saône. The dam is an impressive structure. However at the time, I was more concerned with the electrical storm that had broken out above my head. With no wind, it didn’t seem like it was going to move on, and I feared that if I stopped walking, I would soon become cold.

In torrential rain, I crossed the dam, and joined the lakeside path to Perrancy-les-Vielles-Moulins – my destination for the night. I reminded myself that the odds of being struck by lightning were significantly longer than winning the lottery, even since the extra numbers have been added. However, as I squelched on and a lightning passed between clouds overhead, I wondered how those odds were calculated. Surely they were not based on people solely out of doors in a thunderstorm? If so, the odds would be shorter.

I prayed a good deal.

Eventually, I reached the outskirts of Perrancey-les-Vieux-Moulins. Naturally, on checking my phone, I found that my accommodation was on the opposite side of the settlement. However with the thunderstorm now moving away behind me and the rain easing, I was able to stagger through the wet streets, thinking of the hot shower I would have on arrival.

It had been a long day, and latterly a very wet one. However I had made it. On my arrival at 8.10pm, Karine welcomed me at the Domaine de Montauban. She was surprised I had walked 47km… I was too. She showed me to my room and, after necessary admin of washing self and clothes and eating dinner, I took a couple of ibuprofen and crawled under the sheets.