A rebel without a clue.

Cats calling, bin men operative and municipal strimmers timed my sleep to dreams finding a long lost shore. Annie and I at 6:30 upon the day, breakfast and a Q&A "if a pilgrimage was a ..." A school psychologist she is and it was a nice way to spend an hour. Second round of ablutions, socks on and ready for grand depart. I will turn left to visit the amphitheatre, town square before over we go. To turn left or right I will decide after the pont du ... It has come to my attention I need never rush again. The end is not an aim, neither is the start something we can revue, alter. Never has it been how we assign it. First pilgrim - going to Arles - and I think she was returning from Santiago on the Le -Puy route. So very inspiring. But we are all invisibility. A rest. My feet become a little weary. A certain tension exists on the back roads - they're still bitumen, tarmac and not once cushioned for a pilgrims tender parts , but there are a million ways to feel pain ....

The west is now either middle class possessives, drug dependent or mentally disassociated. The working classes have been 'outsourced' to the far East. In between there lies the religious fanatics for whom there is no solution other than mindless idolatry and they have been shipped in to lie alongside the soulless ex-miners in Bar Tabac. The longest day, sun beating down, as another North African argument occurred in Vauvert. The 'etape' is closed there so without further 'a-do' sort out my feet - as well as is possible. Another 13 kilometres before another chance at the dice. 21st is Sunday. Solstice. Now this town has a 'middle class' riot occurring in the cattle auction house (or is this an arena?). An unreal man with shades, highlights, EA tee steps up to the mic and there it is. To walk 30 odd kilometres today into the blue and see middle class D'oc in all its meh: Gallargues. Dance frenetically you pointless representative of the entertainment...