Juxtaposed

I have neither one nor the other, and that has been going on for so long now that I have stopped wondering whether it is hate or love which gives us the strength to continue this life of lies, which provides the formidable energy that allows us to go on suffering, and hoping.

I get an early bus from Kings Cross to Stansted, where I get my bag wrapped in cling film and consigned to the belly of the RyanAir machine.

We get to Perpignan a bit behind schedule. The weather is overcast and warm. There's no bus into town for over 2 hours, so four of us share a taxi to the station. I have fifteen minutes to wait for my train to Port La Nouvelle.

The municipal campsite is 10 minutes walk from the station. It has no amenities, but there's a sanitaire and good access to the town. I head to the beach and eat some cold sausage and potatoes paysanne looking out over the empty promenade.

I walk back along the coast, past huge grain silos and gas storage. The Quartier Libre is open - I slip inside for a Ricard and to charge my phone. There's a Richard Pryor autobiography on the shelf, so I spend longer there than I'd intended.

There's some bizarre line dancing going on in an almost deserted town square. I shuffle past, back to my cosy tent. There's walking to be done tomorrow.