Day 21, the 8th of may.
As the sunsets, I am drunk. My wineskin ruptured and so the only sensible thing to do was to drink its entire contents, rather than let a single drop of french wine be wasted on the dusty road. Unfortunately I only realised it was broken after I had replenished it with a whole new bottle.
Cullinary success! French Onioin soup in a single pot, with pasta for nutrition, and grilled Rublichon cheese, bought in a village market, where the other stores were closed, to let the marching of bands and armistice pass.
I eat enough for two, perhaps three.
Grey cycling day. Got lost without the sun and made a massive detour. Silver hat bands tumpet thorugh empty villages. Its the end of the second world war.
Even a samba band which snaps me out of my overcast mood, that I see people dancing in the street, and look up to realise that the sky is only ten kilometres away from clearing. That rythym always makes me think fondly of certain people and places.
Later I take in a beer in Tours in the sun. Finding a campsite is a pleasure, and todays, though a ltitle exposed, is incredible in its riverside beauty. There is a rope swing that I do not use.
The loveless traveler thinks of lovers. Do the dishes tommorow, scrape the cheese from the pan, and brush my teeth in the morning.
