A rebel without a clue.

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 t...

Pilgrimage decamp @ Cahors, Midi-Pyrénées. Pt.3. Sounds when I arise and the feeling songs of the dawn chorus were within touching distance of my mere bed; Mother Nature's bed. A solid floor without give or sag or impressed body yet! Time will mold to fit my shape as the earth reaches to draw me down to rest in peace. Seven bells called my body up before my descent was permanent and never again would the world be blue and jewellike and free. With time for a douche and a re-fix of my tent I left to find Cahors right bank and swim to the Cathedral and a Market jumping a volume gallic and brightly painted in product hues; piles of fraise and cherries and asparagus and pain and fromage and jamon and nouget. I wash my mind in plaisir of traditional simplicity and find French Coffee Shop where I left it yesterday to consider my day trip to Puy-l'Évêque and fine wines; quite possibly the finest wines on the finest day of this random and unthought path I tread: Juin cinq. ...

The Bar Ouf. A half eaten bottle of wine With an incomplete percentage of cheese. Twenty Five Euros and 1/3 if On The Road but for what it is worth: a tent; sleeping bag; blanket and the left bank of the Lot to sing me to sleep. The birds signing yet fade back to hooded eyed peace. Neither have I lain here pondering the somethings of bird outside my bivvy and beyond the drums I hear sounds the wheels of fortune calling me. No candle today, but stretched out to await the dawn sing song call. You only sleep when it is dark in the world. A clock I dare to see strikes the twice tenth hour and I wait upon the last blackbird to cease it's frantic soliloquy.