the man who went up a mont...

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and realised the battery of his camera was near flat.
Note to Olympus. I love your camera, really. But if you are going to bother equipping it with a charge meter, it may be slightly more practical to have greater indication between 'full' and 'empty'.

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So, a day trip to Mont St. Michel.
An early start for  a drive through the, now familiar, Norman fog... bursting out into clear sunlit blue as the Mont rose out of the rolling green landscape on the horizon. For those as yet not fortunate enough to have experienced this, I recommend putting on a copy of Lord of the Rings and fast forwarding to a suitably dramatic moment of a horseback approach to Minis Tirith.
Its like that, only perhaps made more dramatic and bizzare by fact that the mont does not rise out of an appropriately fantastic landscape, but out of a modern pasture criss-crossed by motor ways.
Theres little so effective at inspiring drama as incongruity.

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After the last few days of low, a moments amelioration.
Some time to sit quiet, in reflection beneath the shadow of the stern stone walls of the Abbey.
A sun dappled garden, and the opportunity to escape the sounds of mass tourism, left only with my thoughts and the sounds of chattering birds.
Before me, the meandering sands stretch into the fog-obscured distance.
Those same thoughts that weighed so heavily for the last few days, dissipate into the crisp foggy blue... I am able to just sit content, and munch my baguette, my soul well fed with homemade pate, onion jam, cornichon and camembert.

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A day nourished by french food, language, countryside, history... and generosity, in the person of my French Mum, Dominique.

Days like these.

In my experience, it is an unfortunate truth of solo travel that, no matter how wonderful the place you are in, it is possible (or perhaps even guarenteed) that at some point the weight of the other will overwhelm you.
An expression of chaos theory at work?  The result of unfortunate coincidence? Its not uncommon to go from a moment of dizzying euphoria, hope and contentment, straight into a trough of the exact opposite.
I mention this, not because it is something new and unfamiliar, but because after a cumulative 2+ years of travel, I am struck by just how common this occurance is... and how the knowing of its nature has absolutely no mitigating effect on the smothering dark of the moments when they hit.
Yesterday could have had little else added to it. So perfect the weather. A ride through golden-tinged green coastal countryside, in fresh air and sunshine. Whispering wheatfields, beautiful sights. Home to apero in the garden, lunch with wine and coffee and an afternoon spent chatting and playing in the garden. Plenty of opportunity to take stock, and realise just how lovely a moment I am inhabiting, and how fortunate I am to do so.
A sunshine day.
A white day.
A day in the plus column.

... a day in the starkest contrast to what follows. Perhaps I could blame it on 3 sleepless nights. Or on the unremembered (but no less potently disquieting) nightmares that were a feature of last nights restlessness. I suppose I could also blame it on a high tide moment of loneliness (yes, I do think the tides are a good metaphor, because like the tides loneliness is ever present for the solo traveller, but its effect rise and fall with their own rythym).
No doubt it didnt help that the day was a grey and chilly sunday.
And likewise it was probably not helpfull that today required me to think about how to handle the annoying logistics of remaining in Europe beyond my visa.
Perhaps it was all of these things. And perhaps it was none of them. All of them, in one form or another have been permanent fixtures in the last 2-3 months. Quite why today everything felt as though it is a weight to great to bare, why it felt as though every problem was insurmountable, every feeling too strong to endure, I dont know.
It just did.  All that remains is to hold your breath and hope the tide goes out by tomorrow.
There are just days like these.

The devil played in heaven.

A sunny spring saturday.
I think I understand where the Tour de France came from, and Im sure it wasnt born out of competition. Ive a feeling its called the 'Tour' because it came from a lot of people who simply enjoyed cycling the countryside of France... because its a fucking beautiful thing to do.
Theres something lovely about taking a rusty, chickien-shit-caked old bike, pumping up the flat back tyre, and taking a left turn up the coast. Up the hill through swaying, rich green fields of wheat, canola and maise. Past an old norman watchtower sititng proud amidst the whispering green, ans then down to Pointe Du Hoc.
Ibe often heard the expression, 'devils playground' but until I dropped my bike in the grass, and wandered the cratered cliff-tops of Pointe Du Hoc, I never understood just what it could mean.
An invasion point, near 70 years ago, it rests now as a vast clifftop expanse of grass and gourse, with battlefirled remains amidst. It is easy to forget that the yawning wildflower scattered casms, covered in green, are the remnants of hellish moments of explosive extreme.
Its easy to forget that the rusty steel tangled concrete rubbish, scattered here and there, are monolithic blocks of man made fortification, shattered and tossed across the landscape with incomprehensible force.
And now, under the mild spring sun, in soft breeze and verdant green, the people chatter and children play. And all this landscape is all the more eery and bizzare, as it is scattered with wildflowers, soft green and smiling faces.

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Back home for Apero,
Lunch and wine...
and the afternoon chatting and playing on the lawn.

Duck Whisperer.

I fell like yesterdays post about Travolta has left an unnecessarily negative taste, and I feel a need to restore a little balance.
And so from the ridiculous to the sublime.
The ducks.
3 more amusing and pleasant birds it would be hard to imagine. In the morning their flapping quacking, raucous, smiling greeting before they waddle rapidly out of their cage to the food, is an entertaining way to start any day. And I must admit to more than a few minutes passed each day watching them chase each other playing, eating and ... when the occasion requires it... kicking chicken and turkey tail-feather.
But most satisfying of all, is when 9 or 10 in the evening rolls around. When there is a crisp fresh scent in the air, and a slowly fading peach glow in the sky. It is then my 3 little ducks truly come into their own, for no matter where they may be frolicking in the field... Under nettles, in the long grass, or amidst the low ruined stone fences... a quick call, and a shout to come home, will soon see three waddling, quacking heads bobbing through the rich green grass as they slowly, inelegantly make their way directly back to their cages.
Never fails to bring a smile to my face.

Travolta the Turkey.

Turkeys must be eternally grateful that they were marked for domestic cultivation, because I am certain that failing human protection, evolution would have weeded them out along with the chickens years ago.
Even among the rich pantheon of idiotic birds, Travolta stands resplendent in his vapid, peanut-brained stupidity. Travolta, so named due to his constant, shiny black plumed, puffed-up, strutting display of pointless machismo. Even though his mate sits asleep, in the dark at the other end of the garden, he struts and puffs his way through the day, sailing his riddiculous black feathered boat of ineffectual ritual up and down the garden from sun-up to sunset... in some bizzare perpetual poultry version of Saturday Night Fever.
So misguided and constant is his need to show off, he often mistakes ducks, chickens... and me, as a competitor for the sweet affections of his female.
We often talk of eating the poor idiot bird, but considering his preening, strutting obsession often prevents him from eating, we've decided hes not worth the effort.

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Cleaner and washer-woman for the day...
A dog day afternoon for Belise the spaniel.
And for me, exercise and dozing in the sun, before an early evening walk to the waterfront to drink Cidre and play 500.

Sun. Cidre. Sea.

A day with the brilliant blue sky and sun....
Perfect to finish work lunch and head down to the shore to the shaking heads and clicking tongues of the locals... two antipodeans running across the low-tidal flats to dive into the knee deep channel water.
They missed out.
Knee deep and sandy it may have been, but it was cool fresh and salty.
Cidres by the waterside in post swim contentment...
and a late afternoon walk home through the dairy fields.
For those that still dont know, this is Normandy.

... how do you know you are in France?
Theres 5 cars in the driveway and they are all peugots.

17 and sweets.

Family day Sunday.
Outside it may be grey and rainy, but inside theres crepes with cheese, ham, mushrooms and Beschamel, red wine, and a fire.
A perfect afternoon to be a part of the family de Bernieres. Its the grand-daughters 17 birthday and half the family are gathered (when theres 7 kids with kids, gathering the whole family is an occasion undertaken only for the repelling of invasion) to sip champagne and eat cake-art from Bayeaux.
... Cafe skills come in handy in the remembering of names...
theres Dominique, Julie, Louis, Hugos, Clement, Isabelle, Markouf, Justine, Julienne, Capuccine, Marine, Benoit... me, and the other antipodean interloper.
Some things are unique... the closeness of family, the genuine unforced happiness and warmth at a shared moment, the unfettered enjoyment of the simplest food and drink.
Some things are universal, 17 is a shit age, and your 17th with family a frustratingly awkward exercise in social purgatory... and of course every family event must include a 2 year old, with a non-functioning volume control and incomprehensible speech.
 Ending the day quiet by the fire after the best fucking pumpkin soup to pass human lips, with crusty bread and a bottle of red.
that is all.