It was raining harder when I reached the crossroads in Wisques. I turned off the route and headed along a busy road across open fields into the nearby town of St Omer. Why? Because I craved shelter: there might be a hotel and they make beer, don’t they? I was ready, already, to go off piste!
I was also worried by repeated hobbling and a back and shoulders that were complaining under the weight of the backpack. I booked into the most French-looking hotel within 500 metres the helpful woman in the Tourist Information could find.