It’s been three years since I took my last photograph. Photography had lost its appeal and there were no longer moments I wanted to capture, to freeze in time. I only wanted to move on, just to walk... Besides, my camera’s broken and I can’t for the life of me be bothered to get a new one. I’d rather spend the money on a trip to Brussels, that’s next on the list.

I suppose I’d say I have one true fear in the world and that’s staying still. My mother used to say “Oh Alfie, you’re like one of them AHDD children” and after I correcting her, I’d usually just shrug as if to say “Well, what do you expect me to do about it?” It could be said that my mother was one of those people who just had no time for the world, society was not her priority. One time a member of a local charity knocked on our door asking for a donation. My mother stood there, cemented like a gargoyle and poured out a flurry of very high decibel palaver about how her husband was in the marines and how she owed the world nothing because of it. I have to admit, it was a pseudo-logic that I’ve, to this day, not quite decoded.

My father made the decision to enter the Royal Marines at the age of 19 and my mother hasn’t forgiven him for it since. Perhaps that’s why she’s so sensitive about the whole “I owe society nothing” thing. I used to argue with her about it, about how it seemed right that he made his own decision to fight on behalf of his countrymen, but part of me has always despised his decision. I’ve gradually developed a cliché, but not inaccurate, view that soldiers are merely puppets for rich men’s wars and that glorifying the armed forces is just a sickening way to try and justify ******. Of course, I never shared this view with my father, even if I had, he’d have long forgotten. Whenever he comes back from service, I’m usually in some other part of the world, sitting in an outdoor café, preferring my life. It’s thoughts like this make me feel that I'm more like my mother than I primarily thought. I suppose some may call it selfish, but I merely believe it to be good observation, and therefore an intelligent alternative to what society wants me to believe. We’ll stick with arrogant.

My excuse is that arrogance was part of my job; I had to be correct, all the time. I was in that awkward career position, where I wasn't quite high up enough to be able to fully express my own views and so I had to stick to the hard-line “everything has to be extremely left-wing” approach. Journalism: the home to those who mould the minds of the world; or the breeding ground of *******, if you will. Personally, I was lucky enough to have no permanent boss; essentially I was my own. I wrote my columns for Liberal newspapers all across Europe and they edited them at their own will. It paid the bills, but like my views on my father’s military situation, I still possessed that distaste for the immorality of it all. I still remember my first article. I was 17 at the time, the writing type, enjoyed all things politics. It was for a moderately popular newspaper/magazine company in Western France, named “La Quotidienne”. I’d written a piece on local traders not receiving fair deals for their produce and as a result, the editor had asked me if I’d like to have my own regular column. The column was named “Teen Activist”, which nowadays I deem to be relatively patronising, but it was rather humbling all the same.    

I probably ought to explain some geography. I was born in Surrey, England in 1981 and lived there until my mother decided to move us to France in 1985. The military weren't too pleased with the move, because of course, this made us spies. The whole ordeal was a bit messy, but not really worth noting. We moved to Rennes, which is where today, I would consider home; although I haven’t actually seen home for a good 5 years. I guess the important thing is where I am and where I've been, but as I said before, I’d rather concentrate now on where I'm going. To Belgium, my suitcase is packed once more and my tired passport taped like an extra vital ***** to my wrist (because despite my relentless travelling, I always manage to leave my passport in some unsuspecting hotel room by accident). Blame the occupied mind of a ceaseless traveller.

Entre le sac et le ressac
Ma muse nage nue
Au cœur des vagues
De neige immortelle
De la nuit tropicale.
C'est un mélange de sirène
Et de sauterelle
A la queue papillonnante bleue verte et grise
Qui plonge à intervalles réguliers
Dans le sauna des abysses
A la recherche des sources chaudes
Des volcans sous-marins
Où dorment les champignons sauvages
Et où paissent les rennes
En attendant le moka saveur airelles
D'un Petit Prince abscons portant masque, palmes et tuba
Qui danse la rumba cubaine.
Quand ma très chère se déhanche
Elle skie elle patine elle surfe
Elle nage elle plonge elle sue
Entre les battements de conga,
Les glissés et les déliés de son partenaire
Tout en tricotant des pas humides de calypso vierge
Ad libitum.

Madame LeCarvennec had asked the chauffeur to be at Manoir Tregont Mab by 7 PM, the start of civil twilight during the vernal equinox, which would give them plenty of time to get to Pointe du Raz by nightfall at 8:52 PM.

It would be bitterly cold and windy at Enez Sun, so Gaëlle put on her black Lululemon cold weather leggings, long sleeved top, fleece vest, black hooded Patagonia puff down jacket, and black military style UGG leather boots.

Madame LeCarvennec had her druidess clothes and things taken to the island this morning, so she could travel and fly unencumbered.

Gaëlle walked down the stairs, where Madame LeCarvennec was waiting for her. They kissed twice cheek to check in silence. Then Madame LeCarvennec gave her a quarter baguette, ham, and butter sandwich.

Gaëlle walked out into the drizzling cold and stepped into a black Evoque Range Rover. The chauffeur, a middle aged man, armed and former  1st Marine Infantry Paratrooper, gave her a quick glance in the rear view mirror and started to drive.

They drove  in silence up D783 to Quimper, then D784 east to Pointe du Raz. She looked at the windows at the ghostly landscape, houses passing by in a blur. The seriousness of the situation weighed on her, as she slipped deeper into her thoughts, watching the endless landscape of cornfields.

They pulled into the deserted Pointe du Raz gravel parking lot. The sound of muffled crunching rocks bring her back to the moment. The driver stopped. She got out, and gasped at the cold vicious wind. She closed the door, and the chauffeur drove off. She was alone, in the dark Finistère shoreline.  

She walked down the paved trail towards the Sémaphore de la Pointe du Raz, a modern lighthouse, equipped with the latest in high-tech lighting, electronics, and microwave communication equipment. Then pass the Notre Dame des Naufragés, Our Lady of the Shipwrecked statue, till she got to the edge of the jagged rocks jutting into the Atlantic.

Directly in front of her was La Vieille, a lighthouse built on a rock, to the north Phare de Tévennec, a lighthouse built on a big rock and said to be haunted, and to the northwest, the infamous lighthouse Ar Men, called the hell of hells by keepers.

Lighthouses were classified by keepers into three categories, according to the harsh working conditions: "Hell" for houses at sea, "Purgatory" for island houses,  and "Paradise" for houses on land.

5 miles out, she could barely make out Enez Sun. The island was dark. The residents had left. The island was deserted except for the nine priestesses. Gaelle jumped into the air, placing her hands to her side as she picked up speed and altitude. The wind was blowing hard, forming white caps on the waves below.

She saw the bonfire, outstretched her hands, lowered her legs, and started her descent, landing several meters away from the circle of priestesses. A priestess pointed to a sack with Gaelle’s clothes: a white heavy cotton dress, a thick green woolen cloak, and turnshoe soft leather shoes.    

The priestesses were standing, holding hands, around two standing stones called Les Causeur in a field south of Eglise Saint-Guénolé in the center of town. Gaelle watched as they chanted and swayed rhythmically as a group. She knew from her days as a priestess, she could not be part of the circle, as the individual priestesses gave their power to the circle and leader, the eldest of the priestess, to amplify and see into the future.  

The priestesses swayed, tilting their heads back, chanting, but the eldest, Kermorian, bowed her head, concentrating and focusing her Sight. Images would come into focus, and she could make out their meaning, front the context of the subject or their surroundings. It was up to her to piece together the visions and make sense of what she’d seen.

Kermorian dropped to her knees. Her head bowed low. The circle stilled and quieted. Kermorian spoke, “ I see her. She has returned to Paris. She seeks her mother, to bring her back. She had killed many girls and many more will die to resuscitate the mother. She is manipulating men, and one in particular, to unearth her mother. That is all that I can see this night.”    

Kermorian, fell back on her ***, exhausted from the vision. Her second attending to her. The priestesses broke their circle and gathered around the fire, breaking breads, cakes, and drinking wine.  Kermorian weakly got up and walked to the fire, sat down on a cut tree stump and stared into the bonfire.

Kermorian spoke, and the priestess quieted. “She is back. Our sisters in Čachtice had been watching her. It is clear why she is back. To resurrect her mother, whom the French archeologists from la Musée Carnavalet are excavating her coffin.”

Kermorian waved Gaelle to her. “You are the closest to the archeologist and the mother. He will lead you to the daughter. Only then will we know how to deal with her and how to stop her from resurrecting her mother. The mother is the one who decimated our people. She must not be allowed to return. When the archeologist removes the iron stake through her heart, and the daughter feeds her blood, the mother will resurrect and seek vengeance on our people.”

Gaelle knew of the horrors the vampires had wreaked on her people. The systematic slaughter most of the druids, priestesses, vaters, and bards, killing the leaders, dispersing the followers. She then killed the men, so no fields could be tilled, gamed hunted, or women and children protected. They died by the thousands, the luck ones were taken into slavery by the Romans.  

The Celts abandoned their cities, dispersed, and hid deep into the forest of Europe. Our people hid in forests around Rennes, Broceliande, Quimper, Carnac, and Armorique.  

The Celtic culture was slowly forgotten and replaced by Gallic, then Roman, and finally French.

A small group of priestesses and druids were able to **** and stop most of the vampires. The others fled Europe, going deep into the desolate and savage Ural mountains, where they stayed until now.

The Christians and their new ways dismissed vampires, fairies, and magik even though their Holy books spoke of Lilith and her sisters in the garden of Eden, succubi, and magik.

Gaelle had seen excavation, the coffin, and Gerard. She’d gotten close to him, ****** him, and made sure he'd not forget her.

I write more about what I see when I close my eyes than what’s right ahead of them; I try not to, but it's inevitable; imagination is how I feel something raw and true, pull myself back to a computer or a notebook and empty it all out, or rather empty most of it out and leave the rest, leave the bits I forget and forge new ones as I write.
Everything though, behind the delicate eyelids I call my own, that black sockets which contains the trailing optic nerve that carries precious messages to my brain nestled in darkness (my whole body is illuminated on the outside) is produced from what I see, every-day, monotony and then some strange sweet beauty that sticks out of all the d’habitude, sticks in my brain like chewing gum, ready to be ****** and pressed against the walls of my brain, pulling and tugging at itself like taffy trying to figure itself out. I translate this to written thought, awkward and jumbled words, sometimes something that fits together. It wants to be something, each thought wants to be released into the world.

In a way, each word I write reflects life, but it breathes life into something ordinary, changes the filter setting on the photo perhaps portraying something more alluring, or I’d hope it does, hope that I could make someone feel the way I do when the night is blue, the trees are darker and the hazy glow of streetlights lap my window, dancing in the cool glass pane that separates the world inside from the world outside, the day is not ready for morning, everything's at once still so one could see how heavenly it all was. Maybe I am a newscaster, maybe I am a conspiracy theorist, I say “In case you haven’t seen for yourself, here it is, 5am in the Northern Hemisphere, in a bedroom with pink walls and creeping ivy vines hung across its ceilings, with a warm lamplight that leaves gentle gray shadows on the bed stand that has been painted white, so lovingly, by my mother’s cousin….. this is what it’s like (to me, to a fool, to a nobody) but this, this is from your friend, and I want you to imagine it in your own head and I hope it’s beautiful in your head, as beautiful as it is to me.” I don’t wish sleepless nights on you, but I hope that life blesses you with something of the sort, maybe it’ll change your mind.
not always though
not always do I write about beauty, and sometimes I learn what I think when I write it out
it all feels random but it can’t be, it might not be, there must be some self within me that writes these words with true intention, first thought, best thought.

I cannot write myself into self-hood, existence through some physical tangible proof that is these words on this paper
because my brain knows better
I must be something more than words on paper, I’m a physical body and I am a soul and I am I am. I inhale cold air in the dead of winter and feel it sit like a weight in my lungs, like a punch in my stomach, I taste blood in my throat when I run too far and too fast for my own good and my heart tries to catch up with me, and my sturdy legs buckle at my knees when I’ve walked too far. In some way, these sensations, these memories affirm my livelihood, my existence, my place in the world. I do not have to be great, I do not even have to be good, I am, I am, I am, I create for myself and if I find something valuable in the stale-clumsiness-that-is-sometimes-kind that is my perspective on affairs, my World, then I will give it to you dear reader, not so you will love me or so you will care, but because I like to share wonderful magical little things with the world. Through specificity, of location or experience or taste or shape or color, we find our human universality within one another. We understand that they understand.

I’m making a folder of tiny intimate photos I’ve collected from my camera roll, some are collage bits, one in fact, is a note from a book I found in Rennes with my roommate at the time.

We stopped at a bookstore in town where everything was under 10 Euros, and there were vintage films and books of collage and small chapter books, pocket sized ones (they were 2 Euros), and three men ran the store in rotating shifts, they sat on chairs and played chess and smiled at the onlookers as they passed by, never once advertising their goods. They knew whoever stopped at the stands would care and there were a lot of people who cared in Rennes, about literature and art and love and things that are so often overlooked in the States. I don’t mean to make an indictment of Americans and their culture and their loud cars and silver cities, neither do I condone the French…

I’m getting ahead of myself. The note in any case; it’s written in old French cursive, I couldn’t read it if I tried, but I haven’t tried yet. Maybe I will someday. one day.

Brighid walked off the escalator at La Gare Montparnasse and headed straight to a ticket vending machine, entered her destination, Quimper, inserted her EMV chip and pin debit card, and took the dispensed ticket.

She walked into la grande salle, her roll-on in tow, as she passed a group of African teenage males. One stepped out of the group, walking up to her with a grin, and asked, “hey chérie, quel est ton six.” She smiled, having played the game before, flipped her hair, walked away, and said, “dans tes rêves petit.” The boys laughed, mocking their friend’s in vain attempt.

She walked to quay 5, found the blue and gray TGV Alantique, and boarded coach number 3. She wanted to be left alone, so found and sat down in a no-table solo chair.

Tomorrow was a full moon, and Brighid and her sisters were to meet as they did every equinox eve.

The train slowly and smoothly pulled out of the station. Brighid was always amazed at how smooth the ride was, remembering a TF1 documentary that the TGVs used Jacob’s bogies to achieve that smooth ride.

Once outside Paris the train hit its maximum speed of 250 km/h (155 mph), briefly stopping at Rennes, Vannes, and Lorient before arriving at the Gare Quimper terminus.

Brighid waited till the coach emptied of the few passengers traveling to Quimper this time of year, pulling out her phone, opened up the Uber app, and typed in “72 Chemin de Tregont Mab, 29000 Quimper, France.” A driver responded, already waiting at the passenger pickup at the front of the gare.

She got her roll-on, walked off the coach, and out the gare. It was typical Quimper weather she thought to herself: dark, wet, and cold. She saw her ride, a blue Renault Kangoo minivan. An Algerian driver got out, opened the door, taking her roll-on as she got in, and closed the door.  

“Manoir Tregont Mab Madame,” the driver said in a thick Marseille accent. “Yes,” she replied relieved to be home. She leaned back in the seat, closing her eyes, not wanting to chit chat with the driver. She could feel her body relaxing, her pulse slowing, her anxiety ebbing.

The Tregont Mab, built after the French Revolution, was 6 km southeast of Quimper, in a secluded forested area, and was owned by Madame Gwen LeCarvennec, a member of her tribe sworn to serve the Druidesses of Enez Sun.

Madame LeCarvennec was 12 when started working at Tregont Mab, and had become chatelaine in her 50s. The house mother, responsible for the care and protection of young druidesses as they came and went from Quimper.

The car turned off the paved road and onto the long winding dirt road to the manor, finally reaching the crushed rock courtyard and stopping. The driver rushed to open Brighid’s door. A young apprentice girl greeted her, instructing the driver to where to carry and drop off the roll-on.

Brighid walked into the house, relishing the smell of baking bread, stewing chicken, and the slight pleasant musky smell of an old French house. She loved this house and the many memories inside. It stirred deep emotions within her, remembering vividly her coming of age and deep and lasting bonds built with the druidesses. She laid her coat on the foyer chair and walked down the beautiful intricate blue and beige ceramic tile to the kitchen.

Madame LeCarvennec was in the process of taking groceries out of a wicker basket when Brighid walked into the kitchen. Madame LeCarvennec looked up and her face lit up, smiling. “Ah me petite biche,” she said, putting down the groceries, and kissing Brighid on the cheek two times.

“Come, sit, tell me what has been happening with you since the last time I saw you, cherie,” she said. Brighid sat down at the table and Madame turned to the cupboard and pulled out some peanuts, chips, and Pernod, then to the frig for a pitcher of cold water and freezer for ice cubes, setting everything on the table. She put the peanuts, chips, and ice in separate bowls. She poured the Pernod in two glasses and gave ice thongs for Brighid to serve herself the ice and pour the desired amount of water to dilute the Pernod to her taste.

Brighid had never stopped being awed at the Ouzo Effect, Pernod turning milky white when diluted with water. She savored the anise smell, picked up the glass, and sipped.

Madame sat down next to her and placed a hand on hers. “How are you doing,” she asked with a frowned expression. “I am tired,” replied Brighid, putting the glass down on the table, “and afraid of what is about to come.”

“Have the others arrived,” Brighid asked. “They have and are all on the island preparing for tomorrow’s equinox,” replied Madame getting up, opening the refrigerator, pulling out eggs, butter, and ahead of Bibb salad. Brighid watched her in silence prepare an omelet and salad for dinner. She took another sip of Pernod sliding deeper into her thoughts.

Madame placed a plate of omelet, salad, and a big piece of fresh bread in front of her. She thanked Madame and ate slowly, thinking through what had and might happen.

When she’d finished. Madame called the girl to take her up to her room. She followed the girl up the winding green-carpeted staircase to the master bedroom. The girl turned on the main light, turned down the sheets, threw open the floor to ceiling drapes, revealing two all-glass french doors, then turned around, turned off the main light, and closed the door quietly behind her, leaving Brighid in the dark.

The bright silvery light of the waning gibbous moon lit up the room. Brighid opened the doors, cool cold air flooded into the room, as she took off her clothes, rings, earrings, and bracelets , placing them on the chair by the window, leaving only her torc on her body.

She knelt on a sheepskin rug. Next to her was a tray with a carafe of wine, a chalice, a bee’s wax candle in a holder, matches, an athame, a scrying mirror, and a bowl of salt.

She carefully took the items and placed them between the sheepskin rug and the open doors. She took a handful of salt from the bowl and from the center of the sheepskin poured a circle around her. She picked up the athame in her left hand, pointed it down at the circle of salt, slowly turning left, and softly whispered,  

“Earth, Air, Water, and Wind, blessed be Awen, you who are of me and around me, guide me through the night, show me light in the darkness, so mote it be.”

When she had closed the protective circle, she sat naked on a sheepskin rug facing the outstretched forest below. All was quiet, tranquil ‘cept for the occasional eerie, forlorn hooting of a strix owl.

Brighid placed the scrying mirror in her lap, lit the candle, and drank the wine. Slowly she began taking deep belly breaths, breathing through the nose, exhaling through the mouth, releasing the stress in her body, and calming her mind.

She softly began chanting A-I-O, A-I-O, A-I-O, allowing her consciousness to shift and receive the flowing spirit of Awen, the wisdom of the trees, and the life force of Mother Nature.

She was no longer a Gallizenae, a ****** priestess of Enez Sun, but her power of sight had not totally faded. She still could see, albeit hazily, into the near distant future.  She knew the older she got, the more it would fade, and eventually, she’d lose her ability. Her Second Sight

The ****** priestesses were chosen because of their gift of Second Sight. As a priestess aged out, the remaining eight, would look and find girls coming of age who had Sight. Former priestesses from the mainland would fly to her, test her, and if she passed bring her to Tregont Mab for training. Of the handful, only one would be chosen.

A girl’s Second Sight started at menarche, which was starting earlier in modern girls, which made training harder as the girls didn’t have the emotional or intellectual maturity to understand what was happening to their bodies or the responsibilities of being a priestess.

The girls were taught the history, language, and customs of their people and given a new Celtic name. Then they would be taught the ways of the Druidesses, incantations, flight, command of the sea and weather, shapeshift into whatever animal, heal the sickest, and foretell the future. But most of all, they were taught devotion to the pilgrims seeking out their counsel.

When the Honored One was chosen, she’d fly to Enez Sun, and in a ceremony, a brass torc was permanently wrought around her neck, never to be removed, as a symbol of holiness, a protector of her people, a Gallizenae of Enez Sun.

As one of the nine Gallizenaes, and a Sacred ******, she could not be touched by man, and no men were allowed on the island of Enez Sun.

A Gallizenae loses her Sight at 25, the same time the human brain stops synaptic pruning and reaches full maturity. During a ceremony, she retires, flies to the mainland, where she is bathed, washed, and scented with oils. She is led to the center of a circle of her people, laid naked on a bed of flowers and herbs, and given a young ****** man to have sacred *** with. A druidess at their feet and a druid at their head, the young man’s throat is slit during *******, allowing the blood to spurt and spill on her, giving her his vitality. The druidess spreads the blood all over her body and hair, painting her in red from head to toe.

A feast is held, and the body of the young man is burnt in a wicker man, releasing his spirit to Awen as naked women danced ecstatically around the fire.

Brighid vividly remembers looking into the eyes of the young man when he ******* and his throat slit. It was that of ******* ecstasy then horror, as he realized he was dying. It had turned her on, feeling his **** spasming as he came, the sound of the knife slicing flesh, his last breath hissing from his cut throat, his body deflating, and his **** going limp inside her.

She remembered being painted in blood, the frenzied dancing, and going into a trance around the burning wicker man, then nothing else, except waking up the next day, no longer a ******, a priestess, a Gallizenae, and sobbing all day.    

She was still a druidess, and her new responsibility was to protect the nine Gallizenaes and her people. She would be sent out to live in French society, and listen for and report back any threats.

Brighid continued chanting, slowly going to a trance, and looking into the low yellow glowing candlelit scrying mirror. “Mother, maiden, crone,” she repeated, while never blinking or breaking eye contact with her reflected image.

A blackness slowly flooded her visual periphery, till all she could see were her eyes staring back and her. She stilled her mind, taking slow deep breaths. The eyes in the mirror morphed from her brown doe eyes to seductive sapphire blue cat eyes. The face slowly came to light and focus. A woman with shiny raven black hair, alabaster white skin, full lips, and stunning long-lashed sapphire blue cat eyes.

Brighid stared, enthralled by her beauty, her face forever burnt in her mind. She didn’t know who she was, but she knew she was dangerous.

I have one week to make it back to Paris and meet Rayne at the airport.

Goodbye magnolia trees and Margaret the cat, I'm out the door early and into town for coffee and to figure out what direction to move in next. "Toodalure San Fargeau" I hope sometime to pass back through. After freshly ground coffee, an orange juice,  some homemade yogurt,  cigarette,  and a piece of alvacado toast, I head out of town in what I believe is soo (south). Stopping only to snap pictures of a castle and a church, seen yesterday.

The next town down, I pas a cemetery and a veterans memorial,  but no restaurants, or even a post office.  There are a lot of these little residential villages from what I've seen all over France. On my way through the village after that, I stop to check my map, and see that even if no one picks me up on the road, I should be able to make it to a place with water and perhaps food within the next 2 hours, there's a large community another couple villages away.

A younger guy pulls over to a stop in front of me and says, "You look as if you could use a ride," I climb in what looks like a work van that has been outfitted to sleep or live in for short periods of time on the road. William is a carpenter by trade who has recently broken up with a girlfriend, and is getting pretty sick of his boss. He's headed west to spend a week of vacation time with a girl there, and to decide if he ever wants to go back to his job again. He's also a pretty good guitarist and a new fan of bluegrass.  We stop at the next town and I spend my last few euros to get us coffee and hear him play. Afterwards, I decide to continue our conversation as far as he's going so, my new direction is now west. Closer to major transit anyway, and still in route to collect my friend in the city at the end of the week. (All trains go to paris)

Dropped off in the city of Rennes, (pronounced more like "wren"), it's a collage town similar to where I'm from only with a river running through it, a slightly better transit system,  and a few more boulangeries than Denton. Rennes is a city rich with midevil history, some of the first tournaments began with knights there. But 11th century walls renovated by 13th century lords, restored again by architects, masons, and builders of the 15th century,  is fast becoming victim of 21st century "could give a **** less" newbloods. I decide to stay for the night so, I look for a place to play. The first person I meet is named Francis, he is headed to a cafe/bar for "english speaking night" there. I go with him, but he skips hanging out with the group inside and instead just chats with me for a bit. He has been to India where I am going and he's an English teacher so, we have good conversation,  and I learn a little bit of "le france" too.

As the night goes on, drunk kids who've just finished exams flood the streets, and though there are many great interactions, compliments on my singing, and everyone is having a good time, I only make pennies. And after phoning to check in with Mom, and checking to see how Rayne is doing, a drunk local woman shows me to a spot where I can crash for the night.

The next morning, after making only .70cent dealing with drunk students last night, and fussing with homebums this morning,  I decide to take off and see Brittany's other city, Saint Malo, on the coast. I make camp next to the motorway and slept in a bit late, but found a ride about half way there, deciding to stop en route to see a little town where every single building was sourced from the granite quarry there. I walked about a kilometer into th town when I found a pub and it began to rain. The frequent rain in Brittany makes the countryside lush and green, like much of the south I've seen so far, accept here, there are more hills and coastline landscape much more similar to Oregon or Washington,  in the states.

Tim has been a local here for 18 years, moving here from England after meeting his wife, she's the lady behind the bar who laughed at my sign, (on my pack it says, "apprends-moi le français, s'il te plait"). He says that when he met his wife, he was forty (something) and she was 18. They're both good company,  and after a couple songs and a bier, I am invited to supper with them. (Duck).  

Tim gives me a lift the rest of the way to Saint Malo. Through the gates of "cite' corsair" to the wall facing the Atlantic... Atop it, I am 5 thousand miles from anyone or anything I have ever really known, with 6 'roes to my name, the closest I will be to the US for the rest of this adventure, and I'm looking out over one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen in my life.

Two cafes' later I met Arthur, he tends bar but it's his night off, he wants to write, play music, and go watch the sun go to sleep from the beach. "Ye' are mot!" That's how you "cheers" in San Malo. I have a few drinks, Arthur's treat, and we're watching "coucher de Soleir."

The next morning it's time for me to leave "pirate city," and continue finding my way to meet up with Rayne. Cafe, cquesant, found a couple euroes somewhere, mail a postcard off, and I'm walking country roads again in no time.

I leave the ocean coast a walk for several days through yellow fields that feel to me like I'm strolling through an oil painting, forests where I camp by streams of running water and wake up to snow on the ground, passing 600 year old places lost in time, walls and stone structures reclaimed by nature and covered with moss and ivy, everything dating hundreds of years older than anything that still stands in my country. As I reach a road at the edge of the next town, a woman pulls over and asks if there is anything she can do for me. I am tired from sleeping on the ground and days of walking, I'm out of food, water, money, and haven't passed anywhere to play music since leaving Saint Malo. I tell her that I would take a lift into town for water, if she is offering.  

She takes me to a cafe for coffee, trys to phone a place to see if I can play music there, buys me a sandwich, some bread for later, pastries at the boulangerie, then drives me to the otherside of town and leaves me with 20 euros in my pocket. Time spent with her was brief, so brief that I never got her name, but she spoke of how fortunate she has been in her life to live long enough to have things and be able to to help. Speaking momentarily on budist and stoek philosophies saying, "Now, is the gift we are given to do what we can with. The goal to being pressent now, is to Not Worry. And to use the 'now,' you ask, what can I do?.. If nothing, then No Worry. If something,  then you do it so, No Worry."

I walked for a little ways and fot a short ride that took the confusion away from my directional questioning for the remainder or this trip. . . Walking along "Rue de Paris."

Many more miles to go still, and it's getting cold out again, but my needs have been met, I have a positive mental attitude,  and all I have to do now is walk .






Stop Auto... (preview)

I do wish that I knew a bit more of the language still, I am learning, but I still feel like somewhat of a disappointment when hitching a ride and found not to be as good conversational company as most hoped. Still, hitchhiking is pretty easy in France, and after factoring my pace walking thus far with the amount of time I have before Rayne lands in the city, I decide not to risk coming up short of meeting her there, and to just hitch the motorway for the last 300km or so. I stood at a roundabout for a few minutes with my thumb out and got a ride most of the way to where I needed to be, the toll booth entry for the motorway headed nord.

Honks and waves, and smiles (probably at my hat and guitar) accompany my short walk there. It only takes a few minutes and I get a ride to the outskirts of Le Mans where I have to change highways. I hopped out of a car, and straight into an argument with law enforcement about being on the wrong side of the toll booth. I go find cardboard and make up a sign that reads "Paris," and in route back to the proper road, a man yells at me and tells me that he will get off work at 7pm and can give me a ride to Paris then. So, I sit down at the McDonald's and read for the rest of the day.

Stephen turns out to be a pretty stand up guy too, and although he's not supposed to have anyone else in his "boss' car" that is just for travel to and from his work, he lives 20 minutes from Paris and I ride with him 2 hours all the way, and he drops me off downtown.