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vine-clad hills crowned with modest stone chateaux, all of which could be seen to perfection at ten miles an hour, were far too tortuous and on far too small a scale to be enjoyed by motor car. The whole area was a little world apart, and would have been missed altogether on anything like a proper road. But with the sun shining, the pedals spinning round with just enough effort to match my energy, and no motorised traffic to mask the scents of the countryside or to drown the birdsong, I felt a sense of peace with myself and with the world about me that I rarely achieve in the frenetic bustle of modern life.
    A short stretch of tree-shaded back lanes brought me at length down to the River Garonne at La Réole, a charming small town, slightly rackety and run down at one end, but graced with streets of well-preserved medieval houses at the other. A very large and ornate seventeenth-century Benedictine abbey at the centre of the old quarter had been converted into the Hôtel de Ville , lending the sleepy place a rather lopsided air of importance, as though recalling its days of grandeur when the English kings, through marriage and inheritance, owned practically as much land in France as did the French crown; when this town had been at the hub of things, and had played host to Richard Coeur de Lion and later to Edward the Black Prince.
    It played host to me too in a small grassy campement beside the broad, brown Garonne, which looked particularly welcoming to a tired traveller in the late afternoon sun. The site was officially closed, but the concierge said she would turn a blind eye to a one-night stopover, as long as I did not make myself conspicuous. With the site plainly visible from the town, and the river front open to all, including half a dozen patient fishermen who seemed to be permanent fixtures, I didn’t quite see how my presence could go unnoticed. Also, finding hot and cold water conveniently to hand in the as yet unfinished sani block, I could not resist a general rinsing out of sweaty clothing, which had then to be strung out to dry on the guy lines, where they considerably raised the profile of my discreet, low, green tent.
    I compromised by removing myself from the scene, and with that virtuous feeling that comes from having completed even such minimum and prosaic chores, left the place to the anglers and crossed back over the suspension bridge into La Réole in search of a stamp for my pilgrim record and an evening meal. Neither proved easy. I hadn’t found an open church in days, and was beginning to wonder if France had turned its back on Christianity altogether. The plump curé whom I eventually tracked down was anything but welcoming, and only grudgingly unlocked the impressive Benedictine church for me to take a quick look while he searched for his rubber stamp. Having found it, he applied it to my card with such haughty carelessness that the blue cameo image of a haloed figure was only an indistinct blur, and the name La Réole had to be written in by hand. There was no friendly addition of a ‘Bon Voyage ’ or ‘Priez pour nous’.
    The only food I managed to find was a pizza, which proved as expensive as a more typically French provincial meal would have been, and far less satisfying. It seemed strange that a fast-food café could flourish in a country so gastronomically gifted; but since every table was taken, I was clearly in the minority with my preferences.
    It occurred to me as I sat there sipping my coffee (which at least was typically French) that for someone who was following a pilgrimage, I was perhaps giving altogether too much thought to food and comfort. Was this, I wondered, because of the absence of open churches to provide a different focus for my travels? It must surely have been easier to keep the mind on more spiritual matters in earlier ages, with a daily mass, the possibility of hearing any or all of the six monastic offices, as well as the presence of other pilgrims? Because