Like a horse turning for home I have experienced a spring in my step and pace as I see the end in view, but I was distracted last Wednesday afternoon. After travelling from Arzasq via Uzani I arrived in Bearn early afternoon- it was like Tombstone in serious depression- the only thing open was a supermarket. With a beer and packaged sandwich in hand, I joined fellow pilgrims in the sun- drenched town square many of whom I had already met along the way- one in particular- let's call her the "dancer" about whom more later.

Most of these gathered were walking onto Gites (relatively cheap communal accommodation) but I was booked by the company who has been organising my bookings from Ireland of all places (Cominoways.com). Earlier attempts to enter the place had been rebuffed by solidly locked doors and no response to persistent knocking.

My second attempt at entry was successful, but not with the warm welcome I was expecting. To my surprise I was coolly greeted by a sixtyish chap who introduced himself as Fritz in a very English accent (later to be informed it was a Welsh accent). He explained that he and his partner Mike, a fellow Welshman (though born in India to a father in the British Army), had been out shopping and were not expecting me until much later. I am not sure just how I was to know that, but said I was more than happy to sit on the patio and look at the garden and pool!

Yes, the garden and pool. But it was inside the house that left me almost breathless in amazement.

Let's start at the very beginning: the history of King Henry 1V seems to dominate this region; he was well liked by his subjects, found a peaceful solution at least for a time for the religious wars that had been raging. Speaking of time, it seems he had plenty of it for the pleasures acquired by the Divine Right of Kings. Well, it seems one of his mistresses owned this house. We are talking about the 16th century. To shorten the story, Fritz and Mike were antique dealers back in Wales, came to France a few years ago, purchased the house in serious disrepair and set about restoring it, expanding it (the attic was turned into a third floor) modernising it, then filled it with an amazing and eclectic array of antiques from all over the world.

When all was in readiness I was ushered to my bedroom on the third floor. Like all the other rooms, so tastefully appointed and comfortable. Dinner will be served at 7.30, Fritz explained who by this time had warmed and was ready with answers to my many questions and interest. He added that I was the only guest that night and that dinner would be served in the grand dining room.

I descended the grand panelled stairway at the appointed hour and sat at the only place set with delicate China, silver ware and crystal glasses.

So, there I was sitting at a teak or mahogany dining table with seating for at least eight on my "pat Malone". Mike, as it turns out, was the waiter and had graduated from the school of "one-word responses" only when necessary. He served the meal with efficiency and without comment. Only at the end of the meal did I realise he was not the cook. As I consumed my Tiramisu (to die for) Fritz came in and explained that he was the cook. You will see his main course in one of the photos- it was a two-hat meal.

But it was without conversation, without sharing without joy.

Enough of my night in Bearn. I thought about sharing this episode- for it is so far from the image of the penitent pilgrim, but I decided to, for two reasons: it was part of the package and I had no idea until Fritz opened the door, and what was to happen in Navarrenx.