As I walked out of the small, but prettily laid-out hamlet of Soucon-sur-Luc, the sun was already beating down on my head. The chiming village church bell told me that it was just nine in the morning, and the astonished response of the people of Jerusalem came into my mind as they viewed the newly Spirit-filled Apostles dancing in the streets. No, these men were not drunk. How could a man be drunk at only nine in the morning? Definitely not in this part of France, I mused, deftly side-stepping something on the yellowing pavement that led me out of the quiet centre de ville, and into the even quieter outlying homesteads.

I glanced at a map that I had removed from the side pocket of my rucksack, and moaned aloud when I discovered, to my horror, that my journey was no longer covered by the Little Chef pocket-size road atlas. Alas, it had ceased to be of any use the moment I embarked on the ferry at Southampton. I would now have to find a friendly French map-shop, and purchase their wares.

The road ahead stretched up into the hills, as far as the eye could see. The sounds of gallic rusticism accompanied me as I strode along - chickens mainly, wandering in the hedgerows. How free-range do you want? The occasional bleat from a goat, and the distant bark of a farm dog intent on deterring anyone and anything from entering its territory. The words of the Teacher echoed in my mind. "Even a live dog is better off than a dead lion." (Ecclesiastes 9:4). Stupid man. What on earth was he talking about?

I dug my thumb into the cleft of my trusty walking stick, and within the hour had reached the crest of the seemingly endless incline. I surveyed the vista that lay before me, and lapsed into a dreamy state as I saw the sunlight catching white houses with red roofs in the shimmering distance, and the lazy smoke from farmhouse chimneys spiraling into the azure sky.

What I didn't notice was the juggernaut bearing down on me, and it was only at the last second when the hooter sounded its blast that I glanced to my left. With the phrase "Leyland DAF" imprinted on my brain, I hurled my body sideways into the nearest doorway, and the mechanical monster roared past me in a cloud of dust. As it disappeared down the hill I could just make out the words "Jaques et Jaques - vendeurs du vin et du pain sacre" on its rear. Meals on wheels, I thought, and then looked up at the Stella Artois sign flashing above me. Aha! Lunchtime!

As I entered the bar the conversation stopped, and then restarted again suddenly in French. How rude, I thought. Only the Welsh do that. Clouds of Gaulloises' smoke filled the darkened room, and I was just able to discern a burly French-looking fellow in a white apron, who indicated that a plastic table was empty and for my use in the far corner. I sat down, and ordered a demi of vin de pays, which proved rather pleasing. Half way down the first glass I realised how hungry I was, and beckoning monsieur le patron I enquired as to his menu.

"Er... est-ce que vous avez des smoked salmon avec des sizzling hot chive sauce pour le starter, et pour le main course les truffles extraordinaire avec des artichoke hearts au gratin, petit pain, et chips?

"Non."

"Quelle domage! Q'est-ce que available sur le menu?" I asked in hope, dreaming of buttered fresh fish in garlic, dressed with fresh country vegetables and wine sauce, with possibly something delicious and creamy for pudding.

"Sandwiches"

"What sort of sandwiches?" I asked loudly, not wanting to make a scene, but hoping to blend in with the environment.

"Jambon." He turned as if to walk away, but then I smiled, which seemed to assure him that jambon sandwiches would be perfect in my mind, if in nobody else's mind. "Trois round, si'l vous plait, avec mustard Francais", I said confidently. When in Rome......!

I glanced around the room, and could see and hear huddled groups of locals, each group intent on its own conversation, occasionally breaking off to lob a boule at Madame la Patronne, who emerged from the kitchen every now and again carrying trays of steaming jambon soup and jambon fritters. The local accent was confusing, and not helped by their slurring of certain words as the Pastis took its toll. I knew that some were talking about me, as bloodshot eyes turned in my direction.

"Ii est un Cure Anglais"

"C'est impossible! Un Cure Anglais? Encore?"

"Qui! En pelerinage, je pense."

"Ah, le meme chose! Bonjour Monsieur le Cure Anglais!" This time the boule was lobbed at my table, and as I took it to be a sign of greeting, it neatly shattered what remained of the bottle of wine, and the table top was awash with the fruit of the vine and the work of human hands. Gallic laughter filled the room, and I was momentarily filled with embarrassment and self-consciousness. It did not last, however, as the patron reappeared with a (steaming?) jambon sandwich, and a new carafe of wine which was, apparently, sur la maison!

Two litres of Chateau whatever later, as the locals dozed over their empty glasses and Madame walked around the bar picking up boules, I left fortified, ready to resume my journey, on my knees. As I grasped the door frame with both hands, a sudden thought occurred to me, and I returned to the bar, where the patron was giving his espresso machine its monthly clean.

"Esh-ce que vous vendez des mapsh?" He fumbled with his cleaning cloth, and then produced a cardboard box from under the counter. Sifting through the bundles of dog-eared Little Chef route maps, he eventually held his hand up in triumph, grasping the relevant Michelin publication, which he pressed into my palm. "Pas de charge!" he winked, and gave me a large Cointreau with lots of ice. "Un pour la route", he announced, and returned to his coffee machine.

I awoke in a bus-stop on the other side of the road as the sun was setting, and decided that it was too late to find a suitable auberge for the night. I praised the patron saint of camping as I unrolled my small, yet dry pole tent in the corner of the nearest field. Not a cow-pat in sight, I murmured, and rolled into my sleeping bag for the night. All was well with the world, and there were many miles ahead of me tomorrow. Sleep came within minutes.

Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, and a Pastis 51 bottle fell off a table.