depart Lodève; Saint Pons le Thomiére, Mazamet et Castres en bus; an earthly ab(be)yss

As my age increases, into the darkness's I am witness, I am less and less interested in anything displayed in the towns I pass through - museum, gallery, castle, shop or bar. Life repeats here this morning as it did for ever. My host forgot I was here because he was on automatic, so he didn't get up for breakfast. He hastily brewed me a coffee cafeteria and comes to the apartment with a tray of breakfast spreads ... He didn't know I had bread: or was he going to return later with it? Any mind ... I couldn't do anything today really, and at eight am a bus carries me onward. It is going to scorch.

Bus Ligne 301 to Clermont-d'Herault and 303 onwards. Someone spoke to me, 'a Quebec, as my body was resolving into a dream (and I think the bus driver saved me money because he said I may use the ticket at least twice again). Time to return to the dream while he returns to his hand in glove.

These are deep yawns I am feeling. Where next? Saint-Pons de Thomiéres.

Of course there is a fascinating eglise in every village, because once these monolithic stone structures were what controlled every thought, action and misdeed. They were probably built by serfs and slaves too! They're always in the same format because that allows us all into a regimented heaven? Some error of our design requires us to replicate over and over; we are batteries. Those who control our Earth also wish to corral our entry to 'their' private domain.

Disappearing along the steep sided valley, where le Taur does flow, I am today to cross over into Tarn from l'Herault. At only €1.60 I scratch the million bumps covering my tête.

Anywhere they can, in France, the French will build their vineyards ... but why is wine considered such a luxury when it is everywhere. We are being sold an illusion as something much more solid much too often for me to take wine officinados seriously (more I have learnt of my folly).

At 10:15 am it is 21°C.

All the industry has gone, many of the houses are boarded up - hotels without doors, glass windows, dilapidated bijoux boutique, piles of traffic heading through the single carriageway in the heat of the day. Articulated trucks heading the only way: towards Béziers; the opposite direction; any direction; a direction; gone. Overweight locals stumbling blindly into the supermarket, as sub human untermensch, pulling their crisps, coca cola and rhum onto the conveyer. The town has died, but no one left. They must've put heavy metals in their water!

Ha Ha Ha you're a shit shutdown town; your blood is so thin that nothing lingers here to feast. At 1150 I catch another bus towards Castres: the sun is belting down again.

The next train to leave for Castres is at 2pm. Le Gare is closed, but the platform, with its shade, is open. The insistent incessant chatter to my left, two mature women à la Les Dawson, leave me wondering why they can't just let the shadow be?

Then a teen with a ghetto blaster attends the stillness; the world is doomed.

Waiting about in stinking, overheating, fly infested stations always puts me in mind of the one bit of Ernest Hemingway I recall (I think it was him) from 6th form: a short piece on photocopied A4.

Things are looking up one of the mature women leaves the scene and I feel the other won't speak again until it is in her defence once the solace Gendarmerie charge her!

Asleep on the bus for half an hour. Now I awaiting a train at Mazamet (alt. 242.04 metres).

It is a purgatory. Connecting with various close towns, via little or no means, other than train, which is on strike, or on bus (which takes forever), but what else should be happening right now?). There is no difference walking or connecting. They're both an unbelievable drain on any mental, physical and monetary resource. The locals are showing signs that they're are not enjoying this heat either? Someone mentions that their is a replacement bus service, from 3pm, to Castres (I only had to go to the other end of the town centre to discover thus fact and now I must head back to the Gare SCNF). Five of us wait out of the sun, in the dust, next to the cacophonous building site. Maybe it is a level below our purgatory, but not quite in the mud at the very bottom?

Patience because by any means is a good means to go and if there was no test you wouldn't recall life's journey at all!

Oh! it is Gratuit Pour Tous ('pour moi?') par Libelllus.

Funnily I think this is the way it was meant to be! The piles of vacant locals on here. What is the meaning of all this. Time for more food. I would decline on a chase longue soon!

***

Walked across Castres to the SNCF Gare to waste a little time. Now I might be insight of rest!

Ta da ... Room 9 at the En Calcut Hilton (Abbey) it is where silence is a golden rule. All the days trials are behind. If the Father let's me stay until Sunday or Monday I will be devout daily. Saint Benoit. Time to study the reason behind the loveliness and tranquility. There just aren't enough places like this left. From Saint Oswald's to here in a couple of weeks. I have goosebumps all over from a joy; I don't think it is the bites!

It just cost €5.60 to catch 6 buses. That can't be right... I think in l'Herault they gave me passage for so little (€1.60) that there must've been compassion pouring toward my much eaten tête.

***

Sleeping heavily reveals the Truth.

Saint Benedict was a naughty boy presenting such strict rules. What money was behind him? Was/is the Roman Church a castration of Christ? He was standing on the Freeway as a means of Toll; the troll was hidden below the bridge but Benoit was stood barring the way. Forgetful of the location of the place of the altar of the Christ. This is a repackaged parable. The meek will inherit the earth. There is so little God, Christ or Holy Spirit inside Roman Catholicism that it surprises me that all the billions haven't seen this Truth? It is complicity of the ancien regime and a state sanctioned religion; yet it still lasts? In the final days it returns with a vengeance because it is a sign of the devil. Strip away all the layers and the heart beats, but it is nearly suffocated. Who are the reptiles! Come out to bask again so I can gobble up your multitude. Do not let one escape the cull. Political, church, secular and business leaders are all part of this myth; but I must ask why?

As the multitude gathers for the Messe I am reminded transubstantiation is literally cannibalism.

What it the attitude that must waste time? Come to the garden for solace away from those who see in the Messe a connection which never was. The last supper is a suggestion of the history of the past. All this religion is a cult of death.

However I find friendship in Philip Joseph, the frère hôtelier, who helps as much as the is able with love in his heart. This man is good. On the morning I will head up to the GR 65 and Figeac.