A rebel without a clue.

Pilgrimage decamp @ Cahors, Midi-Pyrénées. Pt.8. Taking my turns round the cathedral to Saint Etienne I was washing my head and neck with water from the holy font when Brad walked beyond me into the space. I watched him and noticed he hadn't seen me so I waited til he had gotten solumn and spirited and launched an attack upon his calf like I was a devil reaching up to pull his measerly body into the place we're all going to go (right on brother!)? We were truly happy to bump, bounce and brave the subtle Ways that continue to deliver interleeveing of our data streams. But we worried about the virus or corruption in Michael's datastream. His packet to packet had become an exception error from which his only resort was to install a recent backup or wipe his thought clean, or return to his manufacturing home and call the whole thing off? Driven off the way by the longing for a return to apple pie, jelly and burgers. Nothing was alive in his eyes; I've felt close to that b...

Pilgrimage decamp @ Cahors, Midi-Pyrénées. Pt.7. Walking round the bend of the tumultuous Lot and walking up to a cliff overhanging the linear cataract if I didn't have fear my mind would not resist. Something distant is occasionally speaking to me with abrasive voice: I dismiss it quick and confound with joy le vie. Awaiting fixed to the spot I stood gollum strong, again for the swallows to dive under the arch for 'the' photo, but they failed to show twice. Following the route GR65 I went above for views of the city and bridge in the foreground and was nervy towards the edge; in sandals I could topple over. It is a majestic city below and beyond. Why pass through unaware on GR65 unless you see only god ahead and not all around. On my own that voice! I don't know who it is. But it is not the seeing eye. It must be some damned creature infested in a distant cellar. By one I defeat the other one because I know and is wrong. It is a noise from the past; distinctly on it...

Pilgrimage decamp @ Cahors, Midi-Pyrénées. Pt.6. And then? No music we passed reversed and I looked out the windows at more of those vines because the college femme left Cahors but didn't return to Cahors. Thus amazing my mind was assaulted by estrogen then but vigneron back over the Lot numerous, too many to recall, into Cahors to hop and collude the streets directly back to rue Jacobins and a tin of lyonaise salad, cheese, jamon la fôret noir and baton baguette and the fin de seicle le vin Prayssac: Une printemps dans le Lot. Write drunk? Edit sober! Not this trip. Write at leisure au Matins French Coffee Shop. Cheers Yann the French man. He has a crossover vibrance from his travels he is more blooming French than the conceited pelegrin I spend evening meal and petit dejourner waiting to switch on? However from the last night David the Flemish allowed me speak in our fast English tongue to the confusion of all francophone francophiles frankly anywhere! Funny it was? B...

Pilgrimage decamp @ Cahors, Midi-Pyrénées. Pt.5. Yesterday? The phone died as the sun reached the azure in all its hues. So I could walk a number of fifteen kilometres from Puy l'Eveque to Vire-sur-Lot over the Lot at le Port de Vire and north along the D58, such a coincidence I dare not discuss it now! With gathering momentum I reached Duravel and stopped for quiche, eau and to run out of money with no cashpoint in sight. After a quick bowel change, oil change if you will, I looked no further for the 25cent I was then short of for the bus and decided to continue my path back along the main route to Puy I'Eveque all along consider how to financially live out my current deposition in Lot/Cahors. In Vire-sur-Lot, after five kilometres through generous vines left and right, south and north, gauche et droit I looked for an elusive Chateau I had seen pointed to twice but not come to! I came to a conclusion of a one third Way on this journey: Chateau de Hauterive. Up this gravel d...

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.