At the Croix de Magne, the highest point, nothing of Cahors could be seen. Gazing blindly out over where the town was, I was aware of it only by the strident voices of schoolchildren, a penumatic drill, cars, and a factory dully stamping and hissing; the sound floated disembodied on the still air, and the town was swallowed up in the fog.
By about two the sun had come out. Long ridges of land cut by long, flat valleys; biconical hills, their tops of limestone and scrub like crumpled Gorgonzola; beech and oak, and open fields on the sunward side of the hill. The immense and joyful greenness of freshly planted wheat. Long furrows stamping the contours like a map gone mad. Villages top the scrubby cones with towers, or contour the slopes. Towards the west the valley seemed to be higher, greener, lighter as the sun struck it, like a bowl of brightness raised for adoration, a silvergilt elevated paten.
I arrived at Lascabanes too late to get to Montcuq, and put up for the night in the Mairie, lying on boards on the floor. (It was the closing day for the local hotel; only the dogs were there, kennelled but noisy.) Very cold; no blankets; a radiator to huddle to. I slept an hour at a time, waking or half-waking, stretching out the cramp and the cold, turning over to sleep another half hour on my other side. Wearisome waking, and an accursed morning where the waymarking fades out on what appears a straight path, and four kilometres becomes eight of error, and fog, again, and tears of rage. I broke my stick which I had kept since Le Puy, and found a new one in the hedge. It did not fit to the hand; it gave me a small blister at the base of my thumb; but I kept it.