Souastre
I am now sitting in a very different bivvy, some four of five miles from our last position. Have investigated village whose name is like the noise of a lemon being squeezed (Souastre). It is much the same as the last though a little more attractive owing to the hilly ground. I am with a queer mixture now – the little ex-sailor with whom I once shared a calf-house, or pig-sty, or hen-roost – and unshaven individual with a very receding yet double chin, famed for a constitutional aversion of H2O, a comic-looking yet exceedingly boresome ginger creature who tells you the same pointless anecdotes of his colourless past every day, and two brainless boys who get half tipsy on the smell of a bottle of vin rouge.
Walk March 