A rebel without a clue.

Have been forced to pay a little too much for an open and light weight sandle built with walking in mind. Probably less than the uk. My feet will now survive the evenings with a chance to freshen up. Looking for some lighter sock, which I was unsuccessful finding, I found a string of three very interesting shops. First a bric-a-brac with reflections of the Chemin Saint Jacques amongst some novels and a surprisingly sexy selection of early 1970s chanson. Then a fromagerie with at least two fromage de la Pays. Very local. Very lovely. Like a cave aged Lancashire or Wensleydale. Finally when I had little chance to find the sexy sox shop I stopped via the couvert marche and was assaulted with a fantastic wine merchants offering local produce too; including this local biere. Auvergne produces Whisky using Armanac casks too. An interestingly northern British town curiously between Paris and London. Just bumped into Thomas who has been walking and sight seeing all day. I am still feeling the...

Checked in. Spoke to an attendant about where I'm going and for why. Chucked my bag with oversized and watched it passing through the scanner to be seen next in Paris. Passed Security. Rapidly felt down 'where are you going today? Is it business or pleasure?'. Paris/Pleasure. 'please remove your boots'. Seismic security. Reaching departures. A quick purchase of a new cover for the Kindle with the broken binding. Bottle of water and £20 later: need food at some point that isn't trash our over priced mass market. Unrealistic. Accept the inevitable.

I've been to this station before but I didn't see it. I was blind. Really a different era. I'm not blind anymore. No rushing threatened by my own ignorance. The cigar shaped building of Terminal Two is a UFO north east of gay Paris. Vending machines are filled with the same Mars Confectionary. Selecta bonfide universal. We just got going on the flight when I opened the page on "On The Road". I had read a short introductory section or two then I felt the pressure of our steady descent towards the out house that is Terminal Trois CDG. Reminds me of Cairns or someother non-existing frontier zone. Airports, unlike train stations, make me feel I list sinking for lacking both a head or a soul. I spot a Relay I last saw that at Bermondsey Underground some years ago. It sells all the magazines a rampant person without a head or soul could flick through. Magazines are a 21st Century reflection of the early 20th Century trapped forever chained to the 20s consumer culture...

German, Swiss, Argentinian and many many French. Relais Saint Jacques. Le Pu(y). The long day is over the rest of me begins again. Speaking to many many people happily for a breakfast over pain and confecture : abricot and fruit de la boisson. Café and peace. In the dark I climbed the steep slopes watching for any appearance of the cathedral, showered in incandescent light, the incline was great and brought my body, without a map, directly to the doorway into my bastion for this only night. Free. All given for free. A man awaited me two hours past the curfew and helped me with smiles and nods towards the bed. Divinely ordered and clean. Perfect. No headaches. No nightime fears. No worries of flea bitten ungrateful soreness. I sit considering those black and white polished cobbles up the side of this ancient volcano and feel something better for yesterday's cloudy straining against the perpetual interlocking of modern transportation. Striding up the pumace stoned relic. To the lor...