It was a hazy morning and the heat took us by surprise. And yet the ground had not yet dried. An oily mud clung to our boots and the brambles of barren blackberry bushes pulled at our jacket sleeves. It wasn't magic, it was slightly oppressive. But it was where we needed to be.
As the extremely dangerous chenille processionnaire are out, we can't take risks with the dogs and so brought them to the path behind the Chateau de Barbegal as it is a relatively pine-tree free one, which means less potential for trouble. Remi and I both love to let them run ahead, to forget their small town limitations for a bit. It does us the same good.
That change of view, that infusion of emerald rice stalks cut through an inner and outer fog. At last the path widened and the remains of the Roman aqueduct rose up to our left. Shaking stones of nothing than nothing of the all importance it once was. But more of that another time.
I struggled to keep my footing in the uneven terrain and looked down to do so. And there I found, as I always do, the Alpilles that fascinates me the most. The texture and just so juxtapositions that draw me in until I forget about my buzzing numbness, tired cobwebs or questions.
These messages. My messages. I remember them and count them off like beads on a rosary or a mala.
These old stones underfoot, they have been here so much longer than I have. So keep following the path...
...keep following a path.