Bazas

A day off. So many days of hardly any sleep. Too many mosquitoes in the rooms. From Château to Gîte they're always here. Yesterday was hot ... The room stayed hot. It's a tight spot. Two bunks for four. I wonder who will join me today. One raft of pilgrims left: some Dutch and some French. I'm on a top bunk. I snore, oh well. I have groceries for dinner. This is Dimanche and nothing goes on after lunch. C'est soir? Zero. Hand washed some smalls. Ineffectually. Being a pilgrim is quite boring. Being a tourist is intensely boring. Being a servant is totally boring. It's a dull day, but it won't last. Tomorrow is a short day: 17 kms. Counting bites is absolutely a waste of time. It's inevitable. My eyes are quite tired.  165 kms in six days is not a problem.

The world I see is exactly the same: a different accent but the same sense of boredom. Waiting for something to happen. Yesterday morning walking out of Le Réole was a moment. The sunrise behind me and the fog resting on the Garonne and then a cloudbow.  I can think of no expression to define the experience: spectre like I cast a shadow onto the murk, but from the murk rose a bloom 180° bright grey against duller grey. There is no better experience than the morning and a mist increases the sense of peace I find in this moment. The Earth has infinite potential to please, appease, upend, smooth a furrowed brow. It is enough really. The sun show is always something singular and uplifting.