I woke up in the pilgrim flat in Chateauvillain a little drowzy from having stayed up typing my diary the night before. The flat is quite a big place with a balcony that lets sunlight stream in. I hadn’t shut the curtains. My itinerary had sketched a rest day but inertia and a slight lack of facilities made me keen to stay on the road.
The next town on the route was Langres, a two day walk away. There were a few villages on the way that had a couple of accommodation options but they were quite limited. I wanted to buy provisions for a worst-case scenario so headed a half kilometre out of town to an Intermarché. It didn’t open until nine o’clock so I waited on a concrete bench.
A woman came up to me and asked if I had slept well. I was a bit confused. I said that I had and explained that I was walking to Rome. She said she knew. She had seen me at the window of the flat. She lives just opposite. She told me about the other pilgrims she had seen at the window, passing through. She told me it was going to be hot and that I should get a hat.
I drifted round the aisles picking up pasta, cheese, oranges, nuts, bread, and a can of coca cola. My bag considerably heavier, I walked back to Chateauvillain to rejoin the route. On the way, I stopped in the church that had been shut the previous day. It was lit only by its windows and had some crumbling frescoes on across arches. I was dawdling and wasn’t sure why.
By the time I was leaving Chateauvillain the sun was high enough to be offering some serious heat. I really do need that hat. I opted for the slightly longer forest path which would provide some shade and a little more navigational interest.
The shadows in woodland are something I’ve come to love, especially in the mornings. They’re hard to photograph because the light balance is tricky but there are spots of verdant green which play in counterpoint with the same vegetation in hiding. The forest feels almost coy.
The woods were on the edge of a motorway and the path veered towards and away from it for the next two days. The motorway was heading to Langres and so was I. The pathways danced with this highway and mocked its busy speed.
After walking down a wide path for several kilometres I turned right onto a narrow track that I missed in the first instance. I doubled back and found it. It felt like a secret. Like the path to a den or a hideout for some gang of heroes.
Soon, however, after being tricked by a couple of gnomic directions, the path widened and turned to the right. The forest here was much more managed. The trees were planted straight and some had been felled for lumber.
The path had been chewed up by some huge vehicle. It’s tyre marks had been baked hard into the ground and I tripped at one point, painfully reigniting a mostly dormant injury in my right shin.
The forest stretched on for longer than I expected and I began to feel the effects of a lack of sleep. I was tired and the sun was making my feet heavy.
I emerged from the forest and walked down tarmac for another kilometre into a village. I sat and ate my lunch on a bench that was in the shade of some dense foliage. I drank my coke, a treat, and felt refreshed. The forecast was thunder overnight. I called the gîte in Mormant, the next village along, and left a message. I quite fancied staying dry.
I continued on the road for another eight or so kilometres. I was keen to make progress so I could get an early night. I called the gîte again. They answered and told me they were full. The tent it would have to be. I started casting my eyes skyward. It was still gloriously sunny but the clouds were tall and full. I remembered my GCSE geography: cumulus clouds. They looked kind, however.
I arrived in Mormant which has the ruins of an old abbey. The buildings now seem to store farm machinery. I cast my eyes around jealously in search of the guests who had wisely reserved their beds. It was just before four o’clock and after a short sit I left the village, heading for another forest on my map.
I was led down a wide track that met an old roman road that was balanced on an embankment. I walked for about an hour wondering when I would see the forest. The motorway, off a good distance to the left, ran parallel to me.
Eventually the forest appeared on the horizon and the road stopped at its outskirts. Low electric fences were preventing entrance. I checked the map. I checked Google. Both assured me the route required overcoming the voltaic barrier. I had precisely zero desire to walk back along the five kilometre road so overcome it I would. Very carefully with a hyperawareness of my balance I stood next to the low barrier. I lifted one foot up and swung it over, cautious to clear it by at least half a metre. Then shuffled and did the same with my right foot. I had entered the forest.
I continued on a broad grassy track for another hour or so. The motorway ran close on the left and at times it could be seen through gaps in the trees. I looked to the edge of the path trying to decide the best place to make camp. At the top of a small rise I veered off to the right and found somewhere suitable. It was warm and I could see blue through the gaps in the trees. I read for a while and thought about sleeping under the stars. I decided to trust the forecast and pitch my tent. A boar trotted by me a couple of times in the distance. There were also a lot of caterpillars. Is it the season? A couple found their way down my shirt and had to be wrigglingly extracted.
I cooked and just as my pasta was reaching al dente the thunder began to mutter. It grew in volume but the rain refused to fall. I considered it a warning and quickly got everything under cover. I crawled into my sleeping bag and read a little more. Then the rain came. Heavily. I have a grey flysheet that is almost translucent. It was lit up by the lightning periodically. I thought about what the boar was doing in the rain. I put in a pair of earplugs that I had brought for shared dormitories and drifted into a comfortable sleep.
When I woke I felt like I was existing in a cocoon. I was perfectly comfortable and shielded from the gentle patter that continued to drop on the exterior of my tent. I dozed for a little longer hoping the rain would stop. After an hour or so it did and so I began packing up. The wetness had generated vibrant orange slugs that seemed to enjoy the dryness of my tent porch. A glistening trail revealed that one had crawled inside my trainer and, finding nothing interesting, had made an escape. I whacked the heel of each shoe hard, newly aware of their interest as shelter. A long-limbed spider fell out.
The grass on the path was soaked but otherwise the morning was pleasant. There was a residual cloud coverage that kept the temperature cool. I continued to flirt with the motorway. The path rang alongside it for about a kilometre and birdsong competed with the whizz of traffic, one in either ear.
I curved to the right away from the rush of cars and met a small village and proceeded down small roads alongside farmland for a while. The bleating of a few-week-old lamb welcomed me back to habitation. Alongside one of the houses was a semi-collapsed tree with feather-leaves made from an ashy pink. I don’t think it was blossom.
I then reached a reservoir which had a steep climb down. At the edge of the lake was a restaurant. I had run out of water so walked in and asked for some. They only had sparkling but I was quite excited by the variety; it felt like something of a treat. I was about ten kilometres out of Langres so decided to stop for a beer. I felt a little out of place alongside families who were enjoying a holiday lunch.
A little light-footed, I crossed the barrage and began walking round the edge of the lake. I looked at the water and thought that if I had been here a day or so ago with the heat of the sun, I would certainly have swum. As it was, I knew I would be too cold for comfort.
I saw a boat chained against the edge of the lake and thought about the famous scene from ‘The Prelude’. Should I steal that boat in a Wordsworthian Romantic moment? I looked over my shoulder. There was a man standing on a balcony having a cigarette. I thought better. It didn’t have any oars anyway.
A little boat tied to a willow tree
I found another village and walked away from the reservoir up a very steep hill. The rolling plains of the previous week had noticeabley given way to steper gradients.
As I rounded another corner, walking along a pleasant farm track, I saw a group of twenty walkers. It’s a rare sight: usually I spend the day totally alone and don’t see any other foot-travellers on the paths.
They were going to Langres and were a group from Normandy on a walking holiday where they based themselves in the town and headed out to a new destination each day. ‘Star School’, was the literal translation I think.
They asked me where I was going and were curious to hear that it was Rome. ‘For penance?’, a man asked. I didn’t disagree.
I got talking to a woman who was keen to converse in English. She told me she had lived in Southend when she was young. I told her Southend is closer to France than it is to Newcastle. She told me England isn’t what it used to be. It used to be like France, apparently. I asked her what she meant and she told me about cultural homogeneity. Everyone used to be the same, she said. Now, there is so much conflict. I was confused.
“I wouldn’t live in France if I was young now.” “Where would you live?” “Japan. Or maybe New Zealand.” “I’ve heard its very beautiful in New Zealand, good for walking.” “Not just the walking. It is the culture. Everyone in Japan and New Zealand have the same culture.” I did not suggest what her immigration to Japan or New Zealand might do to that culture. “But we are old now,” she said.
At the next crossroads they stopped and I continued. I turned right, then left and quickly met a steep hill down. I began to glimpse Langres through the trees. I emerged at the base of the hill and the old city was to my right on a hill. Langres is a little like Laon in that it is a fortified city on a hill. For me, it didn’t have quite the same mystical appeal.
I walked through some suburbs before reaching the steep climb into the city itself. It continued for about fifteen minutes but on reaching the top and passing through the city walls I was met with a criss-cross of cobbled streets and an impressive Hotel de Ville.
It was Ascension Day and the town was earily deserted. I made my way through the streets to the Presbytery which provides accommodation for pilgrims. It is another place that lies on the crossroads with a Compostella tributary.
Nobody was at the Presbytery but the door was open so I made myself at home in a small room and then took a shower. After drying I went to explore the town. I entered a square that had a few chairs and tables set out and heard a shout. It was Paul, sat at ones of the tables with a beer. I smiled widely and greeted him.
We sat for a while and had some wine. I was surprised to see him. I thought he might have pulled ahead. We shared details of the routes we had taken; at times he had been ahead of me and at times behind. Then, the immediate gave way to the historic: he told me about his life.
“Every year,” he said “I have to do something to get away.” Then he raised his hands above his shoulders and shook them as if they were wet. He and his wife had once quit their jobs, sold everything, travelled South America and then come back. “You couldn’t do that now,” he said. Then, “the turtles! The turtles were incredible!” Then he separated his hands to the size of a large beach ball. “Every year I have to get away. My wife doesn’t always like it but I have to.”
He told me he had seven siblings. They all lived near each other in Holland. “Apart from me, I live about 80km away.” “Not that far,” I said. “No. But they see each other all the time. And me, maybe a few times a year.”
Four years ago Paul had walked the Compostella from his home in Holland. It had been a journey of 3,500 km. I said that this would be easy then. “No. Not easy. This is hard. The land is not flat. My back is hurting. My wife, when I call her, she says my voice is heavy.” He has revised his arrival estimate to July. “This will be my last long walk.”
We both went to a small supermarket together to buy provisions for the next day. He came up to me with a packet of ham. “The problem is, it’s always too much just for me.” I wondered if he was offering to share his ham. I didn’t know how to respond because I don’t eat ham. I nodded sagely as it were wisdom.
I walked back to the presbytery and found a priest sweeping the corridor. We talked and he stamped by credential. He asked me my denomination. Then he started talking about the priests of the Anglican communion: married priests and homosexual priests, he said. I said it was a broad church. I didn’t know the word for ‘broad’ so I gesticulated.
He invited me to a service of the Adoration of the Eucharist. It isn’t a service I’ve been to since I was twelve and was on a choir tour in Versailles. I was curious so accepted. It would be in half an hour.
When I arrived in the small chapel I found the priest and another man already in prayer. There was a monstrance on the alter lit by six tea lights. I sat. The service was conducted in almost complete silence. There was a reading from the gospel and at one point the priest began a Taizé chant in English. It was a very beautiful and calm experience. I am fascinated by Eucharistic Adoration. It strikes me as a very beautiful way to think in metaphor.
I thought again about stopping and taking my rest day but I had become so habituated to walking that continuing was easier than stopping. It was another stretch that had very few facilities on the way. It could be broken into two days or completed in a 37km stretch, mainly along roads. I was about a month into my journey and wanted to test myself a little. I decided to try and reach the town on Champlitte in one day.
The first seven kilometres passed quickly. It was along busy roads through the industrial outskirts of Langres. The skies were strikingly blue but the temperature was thankfully in the low twenties.
At around the seventh kilometre I was beginning to tire of the stream of regular traffic next to me. I saw a sign that pointed of to the left, indicating that the source of the Marne was a kilometre away. I was feeling fresh and thought it would be a welcome diversion. It was perhaps not the best day to be adding to my mileage.
I was glad to have left the road and fairly quickly met what I think was an abandoned quarry with a small lake at its centre. I trecked around the site for about half an hour trying to find the path to the source. I descended to the lakeside then re-ascended, fearful that I would have to abandon my quest and return to the road. Then, I turned a corner and saw something which could only have been the path. I turned down it and was soon greeted by a vista of the hills to the south and some information boards.
It turns out that the source of the Marne was a more important milestone than I had realised. It is on the cusp of the watershed between the Mediterranean and Northern seas. It would be the last river that I would meet that would run north. After that, they would drain south. The vista showed the ridge that marked the watershed, partially obscured by trees.
I continued on the the path, down some steeps steps to find the source. A grotto had been built around it in the late 19th century. Keen to participate in some symbolism I took off my boots and washed my feet in this last river that back home. I cupped my hands and drank from them. The water was cold. River sources have always had something magical about them. They were often the site of pagan worship.
I continued down the hill, following the river for a few more metres. Very quickly it burst onto a road. I checked the map and found I had 32km left to go. It had been more of a diversion than I had realised.
Climbing up the next ridge I realised I was crossing the watershed itself. Just before I reached the top I offered some water to the ground. And then, I traversed the ridge for a short while. To my left the water went north and to the right it went south. I followed the road down to my right and gave some more water to the ground. I hoped that we would both have easy passage south.
The rest of the day was spent on very quiet country roads. I saw a car about every half an hour or so. I made fairly quick progress on the tarmac but had lost quite a lot of time in my diversion.
An while later I spotted a figure on the road ahead of me. I thought it must be Paul. He turned and I waved. The figure was a speck; it kept moving. I picked up my pace, trying to catch him. He would disappear down the back of small hills then reappear when I had reached their micro-summits. I was slowly gaining on him. Then after another small rise, he didn’t reappear. I continued walking, disappointed that I had lost him.
Turning a corner in the road I saw him. He was eating his lunch in the shade of a ledge. We chatted for a while and I asked where he was going. He told me he would be stopping at the next village. I said I had another twenty kilometres to go. He made a pained noise. I said goodbye and he told me to take care. I felt like he meant it so I repeated it with a slow emphasis. I assured him I would see him again. I was a little sad though: perhaps I wouldn’t. I felt like I had become friends with Paul the previous afternoon.
I continued on the roads, slowly reducing the kilometres. At 3 o’clock I stopped for lunch which involved some hipster-esque charcoal bread that I had bought in Langres. The crust was severe enough to graze the roof of my mouth.
The final fifteen kilometres happened slowly. My feets were sore and tired and the afternoon seemed to be growing in heat. Eventually, however, after counting down the final seven kilometres grimly I arrived at the campsite just outside of Champlitte. It felt wonderful to arrive. The welcome was warm and the pitch was cheap. I thought back to my first day. Full of despair in Kentish countryside and struggling to make 32km; feet gashed with blisters. I had come a long way and so had my body.
I went to pitch my tent and saw that a lightweight tarpaulin was occupying one of the spots. Just as I was getting the tent out of my bag its owner walked over. It turned out he was another pilgrim. Danny, a Brit the same age as me. We talked for a while. He had left six days before me but had been troubled by a problem knee so had had to stop a few times. He would walk to the Great St Bernard Pass then go back to the UK for a summer job before returning for the final leg.
We walked to the bar and exchanged stories. Danny is inspired by American through-trekkers who cross the continent with super lightweight gear. He told me he had got very wet in the recent storm. I felt like my tent had been a good choice.
Another British man came up to us. He had been eavesdropping and joined in on the conversation picking up on things he’d heard. He was a caricature of an Englishman abroad. He spoke a bit of French with no attempt at an accent and every third word was ‘bloody’ Which came first: Jeremy Clarkson or men like this? Chicken or egg. His father lived in the village seven kilometres away that I had walked through a couple of hours earlier. “Bloody dying, though, the inconsiderate bastard.” He’d just been taken to the hospital in Besançon. “So I’m hoping it’s either nothing at all or something really bad. I mean you’d put down a dog but…” He trailed off. “I’m not saying I want him to die but sometimes.” He didn’t finish the sentence.
It turned out he had driven to Germany and then down through Switzerland to drop his son off at at a work placement with a German car manufacturer. He gave us each a two Swiss Franc coin. “No use to me anymore; they look like bloody dubloons!” Then he shook our hands, wished us luck and headed off.
The next day me and Danny walked together. It was to a town called Dampierre-Sur-Salon, less than twenty kilometres away from Champlitte. I had heard of an accommodation place that offered bed, Wifi, kitchen, and laundry for five euros. I was keen for an afternoon off and wanted to wash my clothes.
It was quite a humid day with clouds overhead. It didn’t feel too hot initially. The seventeen kilometres were passed on a mixture of farm tracks and small roads. There were an incredible variety of wild flowers by the roadside: giant daisies and thistles that reminded me of Scotland. And trees that were encaged by cobwebs.
We arrived at Dampierre and then quickly left it to find the accommodation on its outskirts. After a couple of hours we arrived. It was a sort of children’s activity centre. It was a Saturday and it was shut. There was a number on the door that it told pilgrims to call. I did. No answer.
We sat on the concrete outside the centre. The muggy heat was tiring and we napped in the disappearing shade. I tried the number a few more times but was beginning to lose hope in it. I left a message. I tried other numbers I found on the internet. I got through to the Dampierre tourist office. She thought we weren’t going to be able to sleep there tonight. Closed for the weekend. I cursed myself for not phoning yesterday. I felt very responsbile for leading Danny to this land of milk and honey that had turned out to be a desert.
Reluctantly, we gathered our things and walked back into the town. We agreed to continue on the route for another ten kilometres and camp in the forest. Another storm was forecast for the evening. We went to a supermarket and bought more provisions. I had a red bull and it perked me up considerably. Was it the marketing campaign or the caffeine?
Have you heard the advice: ‘don’t go shopping when you’re hungry’? Turns out you shouldn’t do it whilst you’re thirsty either. We both bought far too much water (7.5l total) which heavily weighed us down.
The walk wasn’t unpleasant but time was moving quickly and I was eager to make camp before the rain fell. We crawled over the landscape; the farmland seeming to exist forever. The sky turned threatening. We kept glancing up and asking each other if we thought we would make it to the forest in time. We kept repeating the same forecast. Danny was limping on account of his knee. Clouds were beginning to distort and show patches of rain. Thunder began to rumble and small drops were falling.
At last, we made it to the forest edge. We walked for another half kilometre and then made camp. I offered Danny a place in my tent: his tarp hadn’t fared too well against the last storm. The rain held off long enough for us to make dinner without rushing. Then we both slung our bags under Danny’s tarp and climbed into the tent. It was considerably less spacious than usual but we managed.
The rain fell and didn’t stop. We woke the next day and packed up in a light drizzle. More slugs had had their genesis and some had even found their way onto the inner sheet of the tent.
Although the droplets weren’t huge, they were dense in quantity. Quickly my hair was sodden. Danny had lost his waterproof jacket somewhere in northern France. We decided to make the short trek to Gy, just under twenty kilometres, and find somewhere dry. I called a gîte and was hugely relieved when she said she could have us.
The rain got progressively heavier. It was deeply unpleasant. Whoever said “there’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes” is a moron. There is bad weather and its called rain.
We kept our heads down and trudged in silence. We left the forest fairly swiftly and made our way along roads. At one point we took shelter in an abandoned house. I looked at the map. “Okay, we just go round that corner, cross the bridge, sharp left and there’s a straight track for seven kilometres.”
We crossed the bridge took the sharp left and joined the track. After half a kilometre it met a field and became very sketchy. There was some lightly trodden grass that looked like it could possibly be the path. I said we should take it. We walked on. The path became less path-like. I urged continuing. Then we met a barbed-wire fence. Danny seemed to be losing confidence in me. On the other side of the fence was some more trodden grass. I said that must be the path and suggested that somehow we’d ended up on the wrong side. Danny floated ideas of walking back to the bridge and asking someone. I said we should climb the fence. It was fairly sturdy and we both managed to get over it without too much difficulty.
For fifteen minutes the path continued but then disappeared again. We kept going in a straight line from where the path left off. The grass was thick and was drenched with rain. It had been soaking our legs for the past half an hour. It got higher and thicker. Up to just below the waist. It definitely wasn’t a path. We stopped. I checked maps and Google who both assured me we were on a track and it was the right one. Danny suggested we go back to the bridge. I showed him some Google Maps satellite images. I was sure the path would restart soon. There was another fence just ahead of us and I thought it must start soon after that. There were gaps in the trees on the satellite images that must suggest a path. He agreed and I hoped that the path would reappear soon. The prospect of re-tracing those sodden footsteps filled me with dread.
We waded through the grass to the fence. It was fixed by a loop of barbed wire that I removed to let us pass. Then, as quickly as the path had dissolved it reappeared. On the other side of the fence was a slab on concrete and then a dirt road. Praise the Lord. We had found it.
The road took us through woodland and then between farmland. The rain began to ease up and the landscape pretended it had never been any trouble at all.
We reached Gy and our gîte which was on the first floor in the centre of the small town. It had old wooden floor boards and felt safe and homely. I turned the heating on aggressively in an attempt to dry our wet things.
I tried to take a nap but couldn’t having filled myself up with coffee to warm me. I headed out into the town, perhaps in search of a beer. Everything was shut for Sunday. I climbed a steep hill to the old centre. There was a spectacular neo-classical church that was unassuming from the outside. It had a nave that was far too big for the size of the town.
Afterwards I stumbled on the town’s castle. It had been the residence of the bishop of Besançon. It couldn’t see anyone. I walked into a doorway and was surprised to find a museum. The place had some incredible antique furniture and fading taxidermy. Its contents would have been worth a bit but they were left in the crumbling building totally unguarded.
In the dining room there were some modern hunting magazines and a photograph of a man with an enormours, dead, boar. It was beginning to feel a bit creepy.
On exiting, a man who had come from a surprise doorway thought I was entering and asked me if I was looking to visit. Not wanting to admit to already having done so I said yes and paid an entry fee. I then walked round the rooms for a second time.
I went back to the warmth of the gîte. We cooked dinner and then played poker with matchsticks. Rain was forecast again for tomorrow.
We woke and ate a breakfast of bread, butter, and jam. I made some more coffee and drank half a pot. We would walk the 33km to Besançon. The forecast had changed and said the rain would hold off until 4pm. I was keen to be under cover by then.
We made a climb out of the town and up a ridge through some woodland. The trees held the rain from the night and slowly dropped it over our heads. After leaving the forest, however, the air felt clean and clear. It made for pleasant enough walking and we made good progress. The coffee played havoc with my bladder and I had to stop five minutes to relieve myself.
My left boot was beginning to fall apart and it felt a little like walking with flippers on. They had lost all waterproofing and within the first five kilometres my feet were soaked again.
We passed the first fifteen kilometres quickly and then began to climb around the edge of a steep ridge that preempted the entry into Besançon. It was quite a tricky walk and my wet feet longed for a dry sock.
The metropolitan area of Besançon is pretty vast and with ten kilometres still to go we were tantalised by giant supermarkets that felt like they must be on the edge of the city. We continued for another two hours through the streets which became more and less busy alternately.
We reached Besançon tired, having walked without resting. I had called some Franciscan monks the night before who provided accommodation. They said they lived 3km outside of the city and we should buy food before we arrived. I properly looked up their address and realised they lived in a small village on one of the steep hills that surround the city. Not relishing the prospect of more climbing we agreed to get a taxi.
It whisked us up hairpin bends and we were quickly in Chapelle des Buis. It was a tiny collection of houses high up on the hillside. The view would have been spectacular but the clouds were low and obscuring. I rang the doorbell of the Franciscans and a monk in a green fleece smiled and showed us to an adjoining house. I spent the rest of the day huddled in a duvet trying to rest.
The next morning we wanted to return to the city: I needed new boots and booked a couple of nights in an Airbnb to finally take my rest day. We tried unsuccessfully to catch a bus (only two each day) and then began to walk down. It took a little under an hour. Just before we reached the bottom, I parted ways with Danny. I wished him well and told him I’d probably see him on the road.
I caught a bus to an out-of-town shopping district where I spent a couple of hours trying on several different pairs of boots. Which would accompany me for the next thousand kilometres? I made my decision, did some food shopping and caught a bus back into the city. I cracked a can of beer and walked around the streets until I could check-in.
I felt myself slide back into the familiarity urbanity. The smell of kebab shops and cigarette smoke. People walked with a purpose that was known and alien. I sat by the river and felt morose. What was I doing in this city? What was this city doing? I drank another beer.
The sky changed quickly again and began to rumble. Soon rain was falling heavily again. A HGV rolled loudly passed me and then the crackling of thunder made it seem quiet. I hurried to my Airbnb, ten minutes seeming like ample time to get wet. I smiled to think that I had been concerned by anything more than the weather.
The next day was calmer. I felt considerably restored after having washed all my clothes. A newly fluffy sock can do absolute wonders for the spirit. There was another storm in the afternoon that faded to light drizzle. I visited churches that were all made of a dark stone. The photos below used long exposure balanced on pews so don’t really give an impression of the true colour.
Then I climbed up to the citadel that is imposingly constructed on the side of a hill. Once again the clouds denied my view. However, the citadel is home to a zoo and so I did see some monkeys on the edge of the seventeenth century fortress.
Returning to the city, I looked up the route for the next couple of days whilst drinking a Leffe under an awning. As the sun came out my mood changed with it. I was excited to restart my journey and move on towards Switzerland.
Thank you for reading. As always, I love to hear from you.
I wasn’t aware of the John B song before I chose my title for this bit of the diary. Nonetheless, some credit should go to him. Here’s the track. I like the lyrics. DnB is its own kind of meditation.