Got up disgustingly early to catch the train to Toulouse. Train filled with sleeping corpses and my eyeballs hurt. We have entered wine country: fields of thick and closely-planted vines stretch to the horizon. I don't know where we are - although a barn with 'Vignobles de Pomerol' painted on the roof passes us by. Wide flat rivers with old stone bridges. Skinny-spired churches and turreted hotels. Army depots and precast concrete factories in the featureless countryside. After three days of glorious sunshine, a lid of dark cloud lies over the land, a brightness ringing the horizon but not penetrating to the heart.

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