Pilgrimage decamp @ Cahors, Midi-Pyrénées. Pt.4.

Pilgrimage decamp @ Cahors, Midi-Pyrénées. Pt.4.

With a punnet of the smallest and sweetest strawberries I wait until the bus sails into Cahors Gare sun brought a lunch under the perspex shelter, young cheese and sunflower bread, and now I switch to the lounge of the Gare to eat seeds and flesh so red, pouting and rude. The time to go is thirty five minutes of French muzak drifting lightly and Whitney Houston simpering slightly simply stumbling in this sunstruck wait station.

In my head and chest I recall Jared, Angela and Nicola and The Bodyguard when we were inseparable. Jared Nelham. York Clifton Moor years have passed beyond that day for us, but I believe that was a happy halo of a few hours; and I will always love you.

In the dried muddy boots I left my tent to dry in this peach of a day. Blue from horizons all around 360 degrees without clouded shades. A few contrails play about the skies like soaring dragons in flight. Every thing is still and waits the carriage of the sun to his level best and I contemplate the uth in head gear and inner space.

Well, you can tell by the way I walk... I am going nowhere? Staying Alive.

To confuse a cute passing French mademoiselle who becomes a feature of us awaiting at a station. I confuse her by confiding the photo she participated in but knew not. Out our driver has one eye focused at me, attentive, and another watching my shadow, lazily, and off we go to Puy l'Évêque for the day.

Another coach journey another distance metered out in songs played at a level to requite the hours; Monomania -Deerhunter. Unburdened the hour flies in the songs played while street signs sigh as they represent constricting temporances.

Look at those row upon row of growths fragrant and fixed until they give away the secret in the changing of all seasons. I am presently pleasantly pondering the real reasons for my eventual escape from nothing real. From all the north and all the south of the escarpment, divided by Lot, sits the future of the Cahors Malbec. The birds swoop waiting for the buds to open and jets burn after the scorching skies. Primary reasons to open and thrust the berries thus as we thrust upon the left bank westward. What an adventure for the pelegrin de l'vin as the east sinks and the airs swirls.

A family tragedy. Son kills sister over the vineyard. Belmont. A father who created it died for it to be broken betwixt two competing emotions; a very French story of vine and humanity. The son wanted to be honest to traditional values and the daughter needed modernity to ruin the perfect with heavy corporate hands.