A rebel without a clue.

I'm laying in a double bed as the day begins below: the bakery is there. Life is truly 24hrs in this auberge: I could smell the dough leavening. People depend on the auberge for miles around. Their bread is great. One day before Saint Jean Pied-de-Port. Breakfast is at 6:30. I'm away by daybreak: 7:18. Quite lovely Piperade last night: I'd forgotten how lovely that sauce can be. Suddenly English voices can be heard. I felt silent for so long. The merging of the paths. But now I feel alienated. So I stop with my nature. No need to struggle against what my head says no to. Saint Jean is where everyone heads to begin their disappearance into Spain. It's a bottleneck. For me it is a battle against apathy. Had some food in a very ostentatious and underwhelming environment. Only €14.50 though including a local Basque cidre. And now I am in the Refuge Municipal €10. Someone left some odour eaters which I find very useful indeed, the toe section of the sandles snapped yesterd...

The fun has vanished: Any joy has departed, But what is to say? Little mindful occurs! A gap grows between The substance and This dispossession. Feeling a barren drought Where sweet liquor poured Freely, refreshing thought, Which ran fathoms deep

It is really an addiction: Travel liberates me, But without it any Thoughts disintegrate Into a pit of despair Where they surrender Pitifully, falling flailing Losing touch. But now a station recedes A distance wakes Ripples dissolve Out of patterns The route is ridged Dividing infinity  Into suburbia.

It used to be gas masks. Now it's quite unreal, Without bombs asking Are you immaterial? So fat and disfigured You wobble in the breeze This sun melts tallow As you shit your sen! Always make the customer pay.

With only 15 passengers and 4 aircrew the sky was alive as the sun found its way to the borderlands and clouds patrolled north to south in waves breaking reds, oranges, indigos, purples and azure between ridges, in heightened shades of white, grey, charcoal and blue. The aircrew brought our disparate bodies onto the wing section as a motley crew and what could've been so much fun became a paranoid two hours hidden in our own capsule protected behind a face covering... What is time? What is the rush? Am I racing against something which has always dogged my heels? This need not be! The first morning of a different way, again! Heading north east out of Girona along the Camī Sant Jaime I stop for a final café solo before hitting the path I've so sought all summer, but rarely found!