I left the rowing club at 8 am and paddled into the centre of Toulouse. I negotiated a few portages and stopped outside the train station, looking a little out of place with my boat on the street.

For a few hours I wrote, happily getting interrupted by people asking about my boat and trip. Some delivery cyclists came and sat on the next bench and I got chatting to one guy, Asad. He asked about my adventure and then told me about his, escaping Afghanistan five years ago and getting to France. Asad was curious why I was choosing to do such a journey, and I don’t actually understand my own motivation. It must seem crazy that someone as privileged as myself should choose such hardship. Perhaps my life is so easy and undemanding that I seek adventure to add some excitement and depth. Sat next to Asad, that thought made me a little embarrassed, my adventure so superficial in comparison to his. However, some of our feelings were mutual – looking back he enjoyed his journey and it bought him pride.

I ate some bread and then left, the square now busy. The urban environment quickly became leafy again as Toulouse disappeared behind. I’m now on the 240km Canal du Midi, having finished the 193km Canal Latéral de la Garonne. The towpath streamed with city cyclists enjoying a Sunday afternoon spin and I longed for some solitude, my mind overwhelmed by a day in the city. This adventure has been intense, so much packed into a short time. I need time to unpack, ponder and process things. Soon enough, the traffic did ease, and my mind melted into tranquillity.

I watched the sun set over the rolling ploughed fields that now surround the canal, and then paddled for a little longer, knowing night would soon fall.