A rebel without a clue.

I thought I was following a figure in white or a white deer. It is the horizon I am following. Maybe it is Apollo or Hermes I seek? Or there is something of myself in this elusive figure. It never gets closer; always beyond my grasp. And I can never catch the figure because the being is me. Let it disappear this desperate following. There are no copper coloured slugs this morning. Yesterday, while leaping over purposely fallen trees and branches, I hesitated to step on one. The sun's rays reach through the ribbon of flittering oaks, delineating The Way from the pine forest and pink heather grows in the gaps. Finally birds begin their chorus - it was silent except for the distant rumble of Autoroute de Gascogne. But it is still without a breeze and the fern radiates back the sun from amongst the pines.

Today is forecast hot. 31°C. It's clear too. A full complement of stars are out while I head for petit déjeuner and coffee. Usual approach. Tried not to wake French guys, but I dragged a chair and burst a paper bag over the fretful gentleman. This establishment is just a bar. The Tabac is across the street. No TV or Lotto or PMU. He got very worried when he realised there were not enough beds for him, wife and mother-in-law ... That's some triplet. There is a TV ... He just forgot to switch it on. Now this is the car I dream of driving. Although last night I dreamt of Whitby and Hull. It's usually dark, dank and rotten in the dreams I contend of those places. And Hull was hell like, except for some excellent converted factory/bar. But, again, I was wearing zero - nothing on to hide my modesty and I was so was very nervous - especially with Glenn driving. Two large coffees. Bloody 24hr none news. It's all planned. What is news? Is it really necessary to a peaceful day? I...

Short one. Broke all the rules. Shot along the closed route. Bugger it. Clambered over felled trees most of the way. Became fearful that the bridge over Autoroute de Gascogne was going to be absolutely out of bounds or missing - maybe this is why the route is out of bounds? It wasn't missing and neither were the midges! None of the road building operatives challenged me. One shock my hand ... Respect, you are walking all the way to there? Rare spectacle a male donkey, ass, mule galloping over the fields to stand braying at me. Guess that stallion didn't like me breaking the rules. This is my way. Faced him off. Said hello and he just snarled! 

To approach walking as an occupation. Walking Monday til Saturday, with one day to stop and collect oneself. Is this fair? A lot of pilgrims walk every day - with some shorter ones thrown in (technically not proper walking, I think, if it's over by noon). It's not a race; who am I to judge? Even though I demanded better of myself today ... Guilt for some perceived fault. Drinking tea. I've six eggs(boiled), Baguette, fig biscuits, lemon water. I bought Penne pasta to eat tonight, with the remainder of the pesto I carried for several days. I've one bullet-like avocado ... It's not getting ripe: picked too early. Avocado usually breaks down soon. It's food. The Avocado was ripe! Unusually thick skin. Woody. That would have hurt falling on an unsuspecting perambulator. So two eggs, one avocado, some pesto makes a nice sandwich filler. A snack. Had enough at déjeuner. Second day of steak. Set menu - €17. Same steak as last night in a simpler set up. The sun is sc...

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...

Good morning world. No bites. Blue skies and a freshness which was not felt yesterday. Time for coffee. The couple don't drink it. I can understand why not. Not ripe apples: which look like cider apples.

Have I seen all this before? Or have I only thought this before? Looking at anything is dependant on some prior knowledge. Otherwise it is not in focus, has no prospective. These shapes would mean nothing. Who am I? This is as deep a question as it is possible to ask one self? My feelings of loathing or loving are only mine. They are not anything beyond. Hearing a voice. It means nothing unless in give it my attention and some "meaning". This means I really have a choice. It's always a choice. I think I finally understand. This voice inside. The one dictating to the page. Hello. Who is in control of that hello? Why do I need a word of greeting to me? Beyond my simple self I am sure I need no words. Words are abstract labels. I think that's the correct term. That chair is not simply a chair. At it's core it is mostly empty space. Physics holds it as seeming substantial matter. And this physical world seems so inescapably real. But only from my limited knowledge...