Despite the excesses, the night was good. For once, the weather forecast turned out to be correct and from the moment we woke up, it was raining. This rain would follow me all day, sometimes light, sometimes heavy and dense.

We have a hearty breakfast; everyone is in good spirits, despite the day ahead. Barely have the obligatory goodbyes been dispensed, we put on our ponchos, capes and other rain trousers, ready to face the outdoors.

I leave alone, and I remain so all day. No one, not a soul, no beautiful landscapes, just rain, fog, low clouds. Blue, grey and green is this day. Many kilometers on asphalt.

I see practically nothing; everything is mental; there’s nothing else to do but find topics of reflection to examine, evaluate, synthesize, until disgust. At Saint-Étienne-Vallée-Française, I arm myself with “strawberry kisses” (candy) to give myself courage.

At Saint-Jean-du-Gard, the path has turned into a deep torrent; I have water up to my ankles. A small hotel in the city center awaits me, as I want to visit the museum, but it’s Monday and it’s closed.

The rain intensifies; it’s now a deluge battering the town; all outdoor life seems suspended; people look through windows wondering “when will it end?”. My morale isn’t very high after such a stage; I wonder if I’m not going to stop here, because after all, this is where Stevenson and his donkey Modestine ended their journey.

I prepare a little comfort dinner of Pélardon cheese, bread, chips and beer, to carry out this reflection, but I sense I won’t be able to make my decision until tomorrow morning, depending on the color of the sky.