Day 6 Saturday May 10
Licques - Compagne-les-Boulonnais
RTFM

I have a little list. Dutifully put down on it are all the possibilities for accommodation around 20-25Km south of Licques, with telephone numbers. My main target is Becourt, where there is, according to my researches, a Gite d'etape, one of the the hostels aimed mainly at walkers which provide a bed, often in a dormitory, communal showers etc, usually with meals available refectory style. I've read much about these and am keen to try one, and 20km is my preferred distance after Thursday's marathon. I ring from the house at Licques at about 9.30, but there is only a recorded message. Too early perhaps.

I pack my reordered pack and attend to blisters, though there's not much I can do about a slightly swollen left ankle. I close down the house, and after long consideration decide to leave my walking stick, weighing up its usefulness to date - and potentially, as regards the dog situation - against its added weight. My new streamlined persona wins and out goes the Friar Tuck image. I leave it at the house for possible future expeditions. I set out as before in "base layer", shirt and fleece, on another sunny day chilled by the cold air. Balmy spring is dragging its heels.

I intend to jump, so to speak, between paths, which mainly seem to go east-west in this region. It's only the neighbouring little village of Sanghen before I lose the path for the first time. So taken am I by the activities of an agricultural machinery repair shop, that I miss the left turn and am heading past more new builds into an endless cereal field with no turns. I chalk up an extra kilometre already, as I retrace my steps.

I find a scenic path with a little bridge over a stream and walk up to the top of the small hill above Herbinghen, on a promontory rising in the middle of the wider Hem Valley. From here there is an amazing panoramic view of the whole valley, which is looking particularly fine in various shades of spring green. And only 20 miles from Calais, in an area most British tourists just speed by on the coastal or inland autoroutes (though walkers and cyclists are beginning to discover it). Suits me if it stays that way.

Farmers - or at least their tractors - are hard at work in the large open fields. Crops - mainly wheat - are already well advanced: waist high and a thick green. A brief meeting with the PR (regional footpath) des Mille Monts and a short road link takes me back on the Grande Randonee 120, the Tour de Boulonnais, as it heads south. I trudge up a long slow rise (suitably called Mont Tibet), through long grass and bushes, which leaves me bushed, before looking out at the top over the main Boulogne-St Omer road, and the country to the south, laid out like a contoured and coloured 3D map.

I drop down, crossing the main road, towards Brunemburt. Here is a first: a Grand Randonee junction - of long distance footpaths GR120 and GR127. To mark the occasion I take my first picture with my instant camera - to the amusement of a couple of boys on bikes. Everywhere here there are new housebuilding and renovations, all lucky enough to have space and views - for now, at least.

The village has two cafes as well as a public phone box. Just what I need. I stop at the second cafe, empty but for me, and order a ham sandwich (which comes in real, flat sandwich bread) and a beer. I try not to glow too much, but it's too chilly to sit outside, where my sweaty state might not offend. The bar attendant says she has no bottled water, but fills my empty water bottle from the tap. Neither does she have a phonecard (hard to come by), but kindly offers to ring on the bar phone, if its local. She rings the Becourt gite d'etape number. Still no response.

The short walk to Selles, on the road to cut across to another footpath, again calls for strong nerves, as the traffic thunders by. Pedestrians don't seem to exist for French drivers, who make no concessions at all to walkers. Luckily I turn off just after Selles on a sleepy road through quiet villages - except for the dogs - all undergoing renewal, in which lawns an flowering borders seem de riguer.

I get a map-check crossing a disused railway line a little after Choquel, and am, briefly back on the meandering GR127. Why it should choose to take hikers this route is anybody's guess - to make sure the walker is not a wuss, maybe. It's a steeper and much longer climb, through a wood, than in the the Foret de Guines, and leaves me struggling, barely able to keep up right. When you slip with a backpack on, the pack tends to wheel you round. I'm spinning groundwards on more than one occasion. I search for a likely replacement for my abandoned trekking pole, but a good stick is remarkably hard to find - even in a forest. Who'd have thought it?

Luckily it's flat at the top and on the other side of the village of Calique, I set off down a lane between hedges, where the wild flowers are in full bloom in the verges. So striking, I take a picture, which of course on my crappy camera is rather less than striking. But it's the thought that counts. I'm relearning the countryside.

It's then another open landscape, almost barren of trees and buildings, though with a busy road along the bottom of the wide valley. There something about such a pristine landscape that makes it seem timeless. You can imagine Roman troops marching on the long straight road, which they probably bequeathed. Or medieval knights walking with love and death, or Napoleon's armies, all passing through the same scene.

A short climb up the other side takes me into Becourt, where I'm still confident of getting a place at the Gite d'etape, if I can find it. I stop at the calvary and war memorial in the middle of the village and collapse on the steps to take stock. I phone again to the hostel, but still no answer. Strange. I pull out the torn page from the Gite guide to see if there is an address. Then the penny drops. There are two types of these gites: d'etape, a sort of cheap communal hostel for overnighting, and gites de sejour - like this one - which cater for longer stays for groups. And need to be pre-booked - hence no answer from the central number which takes the bookings.

Panic mode. It's amazing how modern man cannot cope with the insecurity of nowhere to bed down - especially without that emergency surrogate, the car. I start to ring the chambre d'hotes on my list, which seems to invite a sudden flurry of cars and revving bikes, which allied to my shaky French on the phone, makes sleeping in the hedgrows almost the preferable option. Both B@Bs in the not-too-far village of Hucquilliers are full, but one kind, unbelievably patient lady perseveres through my combined inability to either hear or understand, until eventually, on about fourth or fifth attempt, I manage to take down the number of an auberge (not on my list), after she shouts every single digit in English. She warns it is very popular, and sure enough, it is.

Finally, about the last throw, I find a room at a slightly surprised B@B in Campagne-les-Boulonnais, about 8km east. Tired and hot as I am - the wind has dropped and the late afternoon sun feels almost burning - I grit my teeth and just about anything else it's possible to grit and the long march begins. Its about 5.15pm. My ankle is now beginning to niggle and my blisters are throbbing.

The road is not too busy, but at the village of Les Trois Marquets, there is another, unlikely hazard - cows. These are usually the gentlest of creatures, but in a herd they seem to develop a different mentality. They are coming down the narrow road on the way home. Presssed uncomfortably close together and faced with an unknown object - me - they buck and rear. As one leaps up incredibly on to the bank at the side of the road, I realise what a punch they'd pack if they were to clobber you. This is not a sliver of finely cut steak, but a whole food manufacturing unit. I freeze and they squeeze by.

Just ahead I take a break, opposite a field of cows, who, allowed to express their individuality and basic good nature, wander over to take a look.

As I will learn, the last part of the day's walk is the worst. Every minute seems like 10 and the destination, usually tantilisingly visible, never seems to get any closer. In this case a church tower that drifts in above the trees like a mirage. But somehow, eventually, I'm in the village and ask a man going to the phone box for directions. He is friendly and helpful, and spot on with his instructions. So, with only the final obstacle of a strategically placed dog to get around, I emerge in the courtyard of the farm-cum-gite that has a bed for me - which could be in a stable for all I care.

The daughter of the house shows me to my room in a converted side building, which turns out to be a proper apartment for longer stays. And it has things to make tea or coffee - in a proper kitchen. Luxury. I stagger up some steep steps to the bedroom and bathroom. It has a heater - it feels cold when you stop after a day's walking - but only a shower, not a bath. I envisage trying to buy some bread and eggs from these farming folk (Withnail fashion), but madame, who calls by when she gets home, asks if I want to eat with the family (table d'hote). Well, why not?

There are eight of us at table: monseiur and madame, their two sons (about 20 and 12 or so) the elder son's girlfriend, gran, who's visiting from Valence, and a middle-aged couple whose relationship I never quite got. Luckily the elder son, Stephan. is very extrovert, and when I introduce myself, he pipes up "Nigel Mansell!" Who would have thought that the laconic Formula One driver would be a social ice-breaker.

Stephan is also a football fan and knows (as everyone does) about Manchester United, but is also knowledgeable about Arsenal, with its big French contingent. In fact, with gran next to me also quite talkative and completely unbothered about whether or not there's much understanding on either side, I get on surprisingly well.

It's the first time I've ever eaten in a French home. It may not be Manoir aux Quat Saisons, the boys get up in between courses to play table tennis (with help from the dog), plates are handed round and the food probably came off the supermarket shelf. But nevertheless, there are five courses, and clearly not prepared in my honour, as I am a late guest. Asparagus soup (from a tureen) is followed by cold meat and vegetable salad, there is a main course of turkey steak and Grenobloise potatoes, followed by cheese, and finally a tart. Interestingly, little alcohol is drunk. The one bottle of wine seems to be shared mostly between me and monsieur, and there are a few beers around the table.

Madame and monsieur seem most attentive to the meal, but Stephan is indefatigable, and there seems to be a basic exchange of details, who I am, what I do, how come I'm here - even some chat all round the table about the upcoming strike over pension cuts ("Do you know about it; make sure you're prepared, because many places will be closed"). At the end there is a formal shaking of hands, but out of the blue, Stephane's girlfriend, who up to now has paid little attention, insists that we take our leave the correct French way, with no less than four air kisses. Flattering, for the moment. But it opens up possible new social horrors: not just which side to go, but is it two, three or now four times? Wars have been caused by less.

For now, I enjoy a comfortable bed in a warm room, in my own personal suite.