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Melancoly was brought by rivers.
I did not know it, but the hardest point so far has been the one where rivers stop flowing to the Mediterranean Sea. They explained me that I passed over the ridge where rivers start flowing to the Seine, that goes quenching the thirst of the Atlantic, and not to the Rhone anymore, that caresses Marseille and plonge into the war mediterranean waters. So, after the Alps, one more symbolic and geographical obstacle keeps me apart from the italic sea; the funny thing is that that sea is so much missed by an inhabitant of the only region of the peninsula without costs.

I had to fill my ears with music, something I hadn’t done for 1300km, to overcome the monotony and indifference of the rectilinear spaces I stepped on.Only today I had the chance to dowload the fantastic tracks from Radiocontromano, but it’s better like this, ’cause tomorrow they say it’s gonna rain and I will desperately need them (a special thanks to Patrick, a surfer that deserves a statue, that, among thousands other things, provided me with two days of computer to recover all the informatic burocracy: walking has never been so digital)

Weather changed. It’s not cold anymore; this means that if bars are closed, I’m still disappointed but at least I can seat in front of them and eat my sandwich outdoor without risking to freeze. And sky is grey, which is an improvement: it is not anymore that dirty-white low dome always identical and hopeless. Now it’s grey, many different greys, clouds shapes to guess and moving cumulus; plus, sometimes, a shread tears and Modugno starts to sing.

So, taken a run-up on the Chaumont viaduct, I stepped by to say Hi to De Gaulle and from there I mounted on a cork of champagne slightly sparkling which hit the cathedral; from up there you can see clearly: landscape is still mostly agricultural but fields are greener (maybe they were green under the snow as well), villages more frequent and roads easier.
My shoes keep destroying, but I just can’t abandon them, they deserve to arrive at the destination and gloriously die on english land. The land where my destination went back doing the destination indeed, after a short french visit which, on one hand completely restored me but on the other hand made me feel all the absurdity of keep being far from her; this, and strain and winter and cornichons convinced me to revise the trail, prune it, extends some legs, in short, to accelerate the pace and shorten the path in order to arrive in Calais as soon as possible, give the five to Chauser, jump over the Thames and run till Cambridge to eat fudge till I explode. Here they don’t even know what the Francigena is anyway, I say something like Saint Jacques and they nod satisfied and say bon courage (which by the way is a beautiful and untranslateble greeting). And now I can program less, I always find a solution for the night, days get longer and my legs solid.

Yeah, what the hell, tomorrow Picardie, thirteenth european region crossed. Not bad, not bad at all.

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