A rebel without a clue.

With the sound of warbling birds, the church clock chiming the turning of the season, the welcome turn towards unbroken blue skies and the descent of a long sun as I strode towards the eye of Ra. Holding my rucksack by my side drifting freely down the valley into ... and without a care in the world; except a definite tiredness creeping in my lactic sore muscles, when I heard the sound of straight-four engine coming from behind and beyond the receding crest of the road I was happy and thoughtless. The sound is a joy to my ears; something I had seen and paid particular attention to throughout Croatia in 2010. A vehicle I found in swatches of a crazed coloured brilliantly roughed by age and holding a patina glistening with Mediterranean reflections. Bringing me out of me revere I saw coming towards me down the dusty road a truly classic motorcar: 747cc of French automotive genius: a Renault 4.

Yep, even in France on a Monday mornings, commuters are running to catch buses or trams and getting their heels sheared off. Quinconces is the hub for a café and croissant and mass transits. With a start I awoke after a worriesome night; there was a gargantum effort between the heat, the sleeping bag, my body and that fizzingly fork tongued mozzie. Every time I heard it's high frequency humming the battle to end it's existence began in earnest: but the cunning insect had seen this coming and had an escape car ready to extract it from the situation. Hearing is not the same as seeing. Blood sucking git! Magnum Kisses! It's an Ice Cream Choc Ice for the 21st century. If any girls kisses me and she tastes of cream she'll be straight to a dental hygienest. Bullshitting commercial Crap. Before I dismiss Bordeaux in this soul searching eye there is the small matter of the Garonne. All the rivers I've been caught fighting in France come to here and it is a river dreams a...