The lost domain.

A few days ago I saw a dead cat on the road, its face smashed in, and I felt... nothing. Well, a momentary flicker of pity, and some revulsion. By contrast - and I don't mean to sentimentalise - I remember finding a squashed hedgehog as a boy, and being inconsolable. That openness of heart represents, for me, the lost domain of childhood; perhaps it is also what the mysterious estate was for Le Grand Meaulnes, or the special summer session for Gene and Phineas in A Separate Peace. Why do we have to lose that openness, and can it be regained?

Is this sexist?

Men lead with rucksacks, women follow with perky boobs.

Annoying things.

This is not very Zen, but here is a list of things that annoy me: 

French breakfasts  (yesterday's baguette and jam) - how did Napoleon's army ever get as far as Russia? 

Enticing signs for gîtes/ B&Bs that have closed, forcing frosty nights outdoors. 

The French for a pilgrim's stamp - 'tampon'.

Goretex - it never truly keeps you dry.

Pretty but ghostlike villages whose houses are all shuttered up because they are summer holiday homes (more saddening than annoying).

Shops that close from 12 - 3 (the siesta is fine in sweltering Andalusia, but here?).

Locked churches. 

People who complain too much.

Trying days.

Back in Beirut, I used to dream about tiring days of physical activity with my friend Phineas, about not knowing where I would sleep, and about a distant but realisable goal (Finisterre). Well, I now understand the old adage, be careful what you wish for (...). The physical aches have lost their pleasant novelty, and so often my mind races ahead and fixates on the distance still to go, or starts to make anxiety-inducing plans for the future; anything approaching a peaceful state of beneficent mindfulness is lost, and there's a whole lot of dukka. These are the trying days.

Mythic motifs, merging time periods.

I was told that pilgrims could receive a blessing after morning mass in the cathedral at Puy. I walked there before dawn through foggy winding streets, without people or cars. It could have been the year 1250. I'd forgotten how bizarre holy communion is, but was oddly moved by the blessing itself. Then a day walking through the area terrorised by the 'Beast of Gévaudan' between 1764 and 1767. There are still over 100 wolves in the wild here. And toadstools everywhere - the original shamanic hallucinogen (apparently) - eating them might really merge time periods, but so far I have not indulged. 

'La Bête de Gévaudan'

Amanita Muscaria in the woods.

Finny the party pooper.

Finny is becoming an increasingly good walking companion - he knows the daily drill, rarely pulls on the lead, and is often off it altogether. However, I do blame him for sabotaging my date with a hotel receptionist in Brienz (CH). I met her for a drink after work, then we took Finny for a walk by the lake. The moonlight was twinkling on the water and casting its silvery spell when Finny stopped to lay a hypnotically steaming turd on the promenade, which I had to bag. A real buzzkill, and not the behaviour I expect of him at such times. 

Blessed be the cheese-makers...

Yesterday I was enjoying a sunny breakfast when an older Frenchman, a bohemian - white pony tail, beret, cardigan - stopped to talk to me. He came out of the café again a short while later to offer me a slice of local cheese. He said it was alive - I assumed in the sense that yogurt and yeast are alive. I ate a bit - inoffensive. Then I noticed that the rind was moving in the sun - it was covered in tiny pullulating grubs, the size of sand grains. It's called 'fromage aux artisons' and the grubs give it flavour, apparently. The French!