Lauzerte seen from here is like a miniature of the new Jerusalem, shining against a pallid sunset in the mist. Its last great pilgrimage was in 1942, and from photographs it must have looked much like an East Anglian harvest feast. Faded pictures of a lost generation. The towers of the ch teau are not aligned with the avenue that I pass, so the castle retains its mystery, hidden by leafy branches. The views open out from here on.
Furrows are tawny and white, white where the lumps of chalk have been thrown up by the plough.
The country has a southdown feel, but the ridges are too sharp and the alleys too narrow. Furrows carve out the ridges of the landscape, and lead the eye across the expansive gashes of the vales. Woods crown the hills, sharpening their apparent steepness. I reflect in the drowsy afternoon on my fears. That evening the nuns in the hostel at Lectoure told me how brave I was to set off on pilgrimage.