I don’t know what day of the week it is; I have no idea of the date of the month. Those are truisms of slow, long-distance walking.

I know that time is changing, besides the obvious changes from the sunrise at 6:00AM and sunset at 9:00 PM, there is the obvious temperature changes which lets me know spring is advancing. One day, I actually got rather warm walking. It must have been in the 70’s. Was that yesterday?

Inspired by a sundial on a church tower, I realize that I can tell time in my own way. Where is my head? Or, more precisely, how far down is my head hanging?

During the first hour, I see everything. I’m fresh from sleep, and, at the minimum some coffee and a croissant. I’m eager. I would make good time if I wasn’t so easily distracted. Wow, what gorgeous blue columbines, one of my favorite flowers. Look at all that phlox! This path is covered with flowers. The fields go on for miles! What a beautiful small village church. I have to go inside if I can (and most of the time I can’t).

During the next two hours, I tilt my head slightly downwards. I allow myself to see, but I minimize what I see. I’ve walked off that initial energy. I’m somewhat satisfied my curiosity of what I’ll see today. Not to sound overly pious, my next two hours are hours of prayer and meditation. Patterned. More inwardly conscious. Able and willing to be distracted, but always returning to the pattern.

By late morning, my head hangs down, not to minimize any distractions, but because I’m getting tired. I look around me with a real gut-level purpose. Is there shade somewhere ahead? Will the next village have a picnic area with a table? Will there be a bench? Even better a bench in the shade? Can I take off my shoes?

Then, for a brief period, if I find a place to sit, then time stands still. I’ll usually sit for no more than fifteen minutes because I don’t want my muscles to tighten and stiffen. I take off my shoes and sock, and give each foot a massage. Eat an apple, part of a baguette, or, twice, quiche Lorraine. Heaven.

But, then, back on the trail. Within an hour, my head is really drooping. I see the trail. I see the trees. I see the field and the pasture next to me. But that is about all I see. I don’t want to bother lifting my head to see much further. Too much effort!

The last hour? My head hangs straight down. I notice the slug and line of ants that I just walked over. “I get to complaining. “What is that branch doing in my way on the trail?” “Why are there large, sharp rocks on the trail?” I’m wearing those glasses that I put on after an optometrist visit. I see about three feet in front of me. Turn my head, forget it. Except for one thing, the cows. Since I’m tired of talking to myself, I talk to the cows. “Bonjour, cows (heh, I’m in France, the cows aren’t bilingual). “I’ve got your attention. Am I making your day?” “What, you don’t even bother to get up and come to the fence and greet me! May your milk be spoiled today!” “Okay, I’m walking on. I’ve places to go and things to see. Au revoir.”

My head remains hanging down as I reach my destination. I hold my iPhone at my waist and figure out where to go. Occasionally I glance up, but I usually let Ms Antonia guide me. After 10-15 miles, I’ve always made it to my nights lodging in one shape or another. May your name be praised forever Ms Antonia!

Telling time? All I need to do is see where my head is hanging.