Almost everyday I’ve had an earworm. I can’t believe I’ve not shared this with you before. Often it seems to be set by my pace. He who would valiant be was a recent, if not obvious one. More embarrassingly I struggled to rid myself of Flanders and Swan’s Song of Patriotic Prejudice the other day (“The English, the English, the English are best, I wouldn’t give tuppence for all of the rest etc.”). Today, for those fans of the musical and film Oh what a lovely war! I’ve had the song about the whitewash swirling around my brain:

Oh wash me in the water that you wash your dirty daughter in,

And I shall be whiter than the whitewash on the wall!

On the wall, on the wall… etc

Like many First World War songs sung by the troops, this was a parody of a well-known Salvation Army hymn at the time. I partly blame my slower pace in these warm days, but the ubiquitous presence of wash houses or lavoir in every village, irrespective of size has also had an influence, I’m sure. I posted some pictures of the lavoir at Vellefray yesterday, and today here are some view of the Bucéy-les-Guy’s effort.

An information board informs the visitor that plans for this lavoir with mairie above had been drawn up as early as 1809, but allocated funds were appropriated by Napoléon for one of his wars. (I suspect as part of a wider calling on of funds, rather than Boney singling out Bucéy individually!). A later architect resurrected the scheme and added more height to make it even more monumental.

However grandiose this lavoir is, it shares the same feature as all the others I’ve seen: disuse. This once bustling and gregarious centre of the village now has green algae in the washing and rinsing pools and lifeless spouts and pumps. I think it a great shame that all the interpretation boards I have seen in this region proudly mention the name of the architect, and sometimes the mayor (both men), but fail to mention how these buildings were used or who used them. They must have been a central part of the life of the village, a female domain in which news could be passed, joys shared and sorrows borne together. Objects of civic pride they clearly were (and are) but much more important was the social function.

Anyway, I shall step down from my social history soap box and tell you a bit more about my day.

It began early at the Hotel Pinocchio, Gy. I didn’t quite know how far they would take the wooden toy theme – no strings were visible supporting the staff and I was told no lies (as far as I know!). Indeed, the only reference to the eponymous character was a little Pinocchio fob on my keys.

I got away just after 8am, by which time the sun was already warm. The 3km back to Bucéy-les-Gy seemed to pass a lot quicker a second time. I had decided not to opt for the bike option that went from Gy, and this proved to be a good decision.

The landscape is hillier around here, and was a joy to walk through. There was quite a climb out of Bucéy, but it was worth it for its views.

Through woodlands and clearings, past beehives and the hum of thousands of busy bees, up I went.

I was passed by three teenagers who appeared to be walking the Camino de Compestella which crosses the path here. I had encountered them wandering, three abreast along the Bucéy to Gy road the night before, and I was pleased they hadn’t been splattered by a lorry or speeding BMW driver.

Happily the woodlands lasted pretty much the rest of the morning. I passed two women with chainsaws cutting timber into metre lengths. It was nearly midday by the time I dropped down into the village of Montboillon, or Montboilio as I decided was more accurate.

I passed two well-dressed ladies in summer dresses and found the village lavoir (yes, still singing the song!)

The architecture around here is clearly influenced by the nearby forests. Many buildings are timber framed, or have timber outbuildings – often containing vast quantities of neatly stacked firewood. I was thinking how good it would be to have such a supply when I rounded a corner and saw a group of people and a blocked entrance to the official route.

I dithered for a moment. This attracted the attention of the tall man in the centre of the gaggle of folk, who had now been joined by the ladies in summer dresses. “You’re walking!” He said, and I replied that the way seemed blocked. In French, he explained how to get round the obstruction to get back on the chemin and then asked, “What language to you speak?”

On hearing that I spoke English, he hurried to the back of the car. He returned with a leaflet – perhaps a history of the village I thought.

“Do you know the truth about Jesus?” He asked, “it’s all in this leaflet.”

I thanked him, and being unusually quick of wit added in French as I walked away “Jésus est le chemin!”

You’ve got to hand it to these Jehovah’s Witnesses, they certainly come prepared!

On the edge of the village, where I felt safely out of sight, I found a bench in the shade and sat down. My hat, which provided vital shade against the sun, also radiated heat onto my face and this was making me feel tired and a little dizzy. I had plenty of water, but what I needed to do, I felt, was to stop and cool down periodically.

The next part of the walk was across open fields with no cover. By now it was getting on for 1pm, and I didn’t even have mad dogs for company. After just two kilometres, I stopped again under some trees on the edge of Étuz. Here I heard a bird I had been trying to identify for a while. It had a similar resonant sound to the bellbird I had encountered in Australia, albeit with a less varied song. After an internet search I matched the song with that of the golden oriole. I was very pleased with myself.

The heat was, for me, becoming unbearable once more. Without the heavy rucksack I would have been a lot happier. As I crossed the River L’Ognon, leaving the Haute-Sâone départmente and entering Doubs, I spied a tall church tower casting shade over a comfy looking bench.

Here I set up camp for an hour and watched the world go by (or more accurately watched the world come back to life after lunch). Taking my lead from the women of the lavoir I hung a little washing out on the church fence to dry.

This all may seem to be a little leisurely, but as you will soon hear, there was a plan behind the wanton abandon of speed.

Pausing only to examine the wonderful metal water spout of the lavoir, with serpentine twists and Medusa like hair made out of ears of corn, I pressed on for the final push.

Cussey-sur-l’Ognon seemed to be full of young folk on bikes, playing basketball or table tennis on playing courts near the school and mairie. I was passed by a teenage girl on a pony. It was more lively that I’ve seen any French settlement since Langres, days earlier. I bought an ice cream at the Intermarché. Well it would be more accurate to say that I had to buy four ice creams as they only came in boxes. I managed to give one away to girl who was collecting for a local cats home, but I did have to eat the other three to stop them melting!

And then, the last 5 km. Most of which were through the woodland. There was a large lake I encountered, emitting a very loud and unexpected sound of clicking and croaking. I realised these were frogs in full throat.

And finally, I arrived at the Besançon Franche-Comté TGV station. I head read in Sandy Brown’s guide that it was a good idea to get the train into town from here. This would save me 10km in the heat, and I was happy to do it. After all, if you’re heading for a place and you find a railway station with that name int he title, you’ve arrived, right!?

Some may call it cheating, others a whitewash even, but I call it sensible and I don’t care what anyone says! 25km in this heat is good enough for me!

And so a rest day tomorrow. A chance to explore Besançon and prepare myself for the Jura!