I set out this morning into thick fog. As I walked along, I found myself singing,
Who would true valour see,
Let him come hither.
It just popped into my head. It must have been the challenge of the cold and damp. I tried to convince myself that it wasn't raining even as the drops pinged on my Tilley hat.
As I passed through the first village, I asked a woman if there was a bar in town where I could get a coffee. It was closed, she said, but would I like to have a coffee at her house? I declined, but was touched by the gesture, one of those " little nameless, unremembered acts of kindness" that one encounters on the chemin. My spirits revived.
The fog lifted, and I took a photo of some cows for a friend of mine who has a cow fetish. In his apartment, pictures of cows vie with books for the available space on the walls.
At the next village I found a posh restaurant and ordered a coffee. I sat at a little table in front of the hostess and watched the clients come in for lunch.
A couple entered, the woman holding a large spaniel who was struggling to get away. He didn't want to dine at this restaurant. Nevertheless, the hostess made a great fuss of him. There is no discrimination against dogs at French establishments. I have seen them sitting on a chair around the table with their master and mistress.
Not one to miss an opportunity, I visited the loo. As I sat there, the light went out. Oh, no, I thought, it's happening again. Then, I moved, and it went back on again. An interesting innovation on the timed switch!
I finished my coffee and walked on.
As the sun came out, I sat down with my back against a tree and ate my bread and cheese. The birds sang and the wind sighed in the trees. All was right with the world.
I walked on into the afternoon. My reverie was disturbed only by the mournful call of the cuckoo and the occasional angry snarl of a chainsaw.
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