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. Though I suppose I have been courageous not to give up, after the dog, at Figeac, or this morning in the fog. Or, later, at Moissac where the railway line runs so tantalisingly close and there is still so far to go to the mountains. But it is a different sort of bravery.