Santiago de Compostella

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Catch Up (part 1)

What better way to catch up with the journey than a dedicated photo essay, for a picture paints a thousand words, and I'm a few thousand words in arrears. So without further ado here are a few images to catch everyone up to date. Some images may be out of order so please forgive me if you notice! ;)

Le Sevre niortaise, Chenay

Moonrise-Sunset, Chenay

The chior, eglise St Hilaire, Melle

.

My first wild Sunflower :)

St Jacques memorial,  St Leger.

Wheat fields, near Brie.

Charity Water

Halftime break...

My apologies for not having posted a blog entry for a while. A combination of factors led to prolonged silence, lack of wifi, mountains, and illness amongSt them, but be assured I am still on track, and indeed past the halfway mark sometime ago in Bordeaux. Perhaps then it is fitting that my first blog entry after such a sustained absence should be to thank all those wonderful people who have made this great adventure possible. Those that gave directions, those who without hesitation gave water when my bottles were low, those who gave moral, spiritual, emotional and material support, and those wonderful people who hosted a tired pilgrim at the end of an often arduous journey. For the truth is, without you, none of this would have been possible, you have encouraged and sustained me in this journey in ways I barely new possible, and have time and again generously given selflessly to ensure this pilgrims trail remained strong and clear. For this and so much more, I thank you all.

I have crossed the Pyranese and am now just 500km from Santiago, having covered almost 2000km to this point. There is much to express and catch up with, but for now, this post is for all those who have helped me on my way, we have done this together, and I thank you.

As ever I urge you to take a look at the links in the comments and to the left of this page directing you to charity water, it is after all why I put one foot in front of the other, and why so many wonderful people have helped along the way. Thankyou!

CharityWater

The Last Dragonfly

-The Last Dragonfly-

I will miss your iridescent wings glistening in the golden light, like a constant companion you have shimmered between the shadow and the sun, swept between the thunderclaps, your presence flowing freely, flowering along the length of each great river, la Siene, la Loire, la Vienne, les Trois... and always you are there, and ever shall you remain, in the mountain height, or dark of night, your turquoise splash, a light, in the dawn of our fateful hour. The harbinger of transcendence, forever in remembrance. 

-RMP 2018

Image: Dragonfly, between Azur and Soustons,  Basque France.

A Tale Of Two Cities... (part 2)

La Carillionnaire

'More!?…', oops! :)

Poitiers awaited, and so it was I set off alone this time, along the third great French river I had traversed, after the Siene and Loire, La Vienne, towards the bastion of one of France's oldest universities, whose great scholarship boasted such illustrious Alumni as the great philosopher Rene Descartes.

Hotel Fume, University of Poitiers.

A friend had arranged for me a brief stay outside of Poitiers, at the Benedictine Abbey of Saint Martin in Liguge. This was to be a particularly special time and deeply creative moment, as I eventually arrived on the eve of the summer solstice, having walked the length of the Vienne, and penned the poem 'The Cherry and the Vine', whilst walking, finishing it, and the accompanying artwork, whilst at the abbey on the solstice.

The walk along the Vienne was poetic, not least because it enabled me to pass through some beautiful countryside, but the season was also changing, turning from the rough thunderous late Spring to one of a somnolent Summer. Where there were thunderheads along the Loire, there were now sheaves of golden wheat, ripened for the early harvest, and blown by powerful winds beneath the blaze of an early summer sun. Skylarks filled the air with ebullient song, and enraptured fields sung in the midst of a their gaze.

Passing through such wonderful towns as Veigne, where I stayed in a Dormir for pilgrims at the behest of the wonderful local priest, Jean-Jacque; and Drache, where the locals had made a beautiful domicile for pilgrims just outside of the town with a spectacular view; I slowly made my way down the Vienne, towards Poitiers. Along the way, stopping to meet with locals and take in some of the world cup games. As ever I was blessed with the company of fabulous souls, like the couple I met and befriended one evening, late after a forced march to a shop of 11km only to find that the shop had closed some 15 minute's earlier. After laughing a little, I asked the Universe for a sign as I wandered out into the countryside without food, and laughed when the next road sign I passed, someone had literally scratched my name into it, as a word play on a place name, which I duly followed, to find myself invited into a deeply hospitable home by these two wonderful souls. But then, that is the way of things, if you ask a clear enough question, don't be surprised if the universe answers you clearly.

One of the striking notes of interest in my journey along the Vienne was how much of the natural flora and fauna had been preserved along its banks. Far more wild than it's cousins, the Siene, or Loire, the Vienne, harboured sheaths of wildflowers along it's banks, and amidst these bastions of antiquity a profusion of bees gathered the loving nectar and pollen, so that along with the ebullience of colour and smells emanating from these wilderness areas, came the living loving hum of bees once more. Something that northern France had been almost devoid of. It was great to see the bees thriving in such a place, and although all but wiped out up north , here they thrived, and along with them, the honey.

Andrei, my travelling companion from the trip along the Loire, was ahead of me, and we arranged to meet in Saint George, just outside of Poitiers, so as to travel into the city together. It was a sweltering day, and the approach to the city was steep and arduous, it was easy to understand why the city had been such a vital strategic point during the various campaigns fought around its environs. Climbing through it's steep narrow canyon walled neighborhoods in the depths of a heatwave, there came upon us the sweet sound of blues echoing through the hazy canyon walls. We made it to 'Liberty Square', adorned with a small replica of the statue of liberty, and ringed with elms and oaks, palms and students from the university, and rested for a while, listening to the sweet tunes mellifluously drift through the narrow streets.

Before long it was time to make our final seven kilometer hike to the Abbey in Liguge, following for the most part the river, fed by the ancient spring upon which the Monastery had been built in 361AD. The monastery itself had been constructed by Saint Martin on the site of an ancient Celtic spring dedicated to the Celtic deity Lugh, and it is a point of interest that both Lugh and Saint Martin were known for their connection to the Raven. Saint Hilaire, was so impressed by Saint Martin, after meeting him upon the road, that he had gifted him the land around this basin, where he had constructed his first chapel. Much of this earlier work has been destroyed by various invasions and forces over the ages, from the Carolingian excesses to the Merovingian kings, the site had been destroyed, moved and rebuilt, yet still some of the heart has remained, and is at present in the process of excavation.

The stay was impeccable, and the rest enjoyed by weary pilgrims could not be faulted. The large welcoming smile of our host, Marie-Laurant, was a door through which we enjoyed the most Benedictine of welcomes, quiet and humble, a perfect foil to the nuns of Saint Martins Basilica in Tours. Superb food, cooked by our Tahitian Benedictine chef to perfection, and a wonderful soulful service each evening accompanied by Gregorian chant was entrancing. It is an interesting point of history, that Martin, who had resisted official posts or recognition in life, even if he was finally tricked into the becoming bishop of Tours, was the point of such dispute between the cities of Tours and Poitiers upon his death, until the dispute was finally settled with the monks of Tours secreting his body away to the Basilica in the deep of the night. We left as we arrived, with great heart and a smile, and Jaan.

Lugh too would not be silenced, as many of his traits and stories, rolled into the myth that surrounded this humble man of conviction, so too 'Room 13' still rumbles on the solstice and quakes like the cockpit of a Lancaster bomber, but that may be the air conditioning for the archeological dig in the catacombs, fortunately I enjoyed the quiet solitude and bamboo groved outlook of room 10, who can tell ;)

So it was, the journey to Liguge, and Saint Martins first chapel, and the site of western Europe's first Monastery, brought us full circle in this remarkable story of conversion and contemplation and melded itself with the myth of antiquity, in the seasonal dance, and the trance of this remarkable man and my discovery of his path.

I urge you once again to check the link on the top left of the page to go to Charity:Water, a wonderful organization, doing the essential work of making fresh water available to everyone as a right on this beautiful planet we call home. Please feel free to check them out, it is after all, why I walk this journey, for them, for you, for all.

Merci :)

P.S. slight issue with WiFi and images so will post photos with the blog post when I can.

Saint Martins life in stains...

I thought I would take the opportunity to share some stains from Eglise Saint Martin in Pons, for much like the stains in the Cathedral of Orleans which depict the life of Jean d'Arc, these stains depict the life of Saint Martin, which in both instances is unusual,  as usually the stains are of the life of Christ. So without further ado... a quick pictorial of Saint Martin, as he is a central figure in both the Basilica in Tours, and the Abbey of Liguge, outside Poitiers... and thus bridges part 1 and part 2 of 'The Tale Of Two Cities'. :)

The charity of St Martin, who divides his cloak for a begged while in the Roman army.

That night Christ appears to St Martin in a vision and he is converted.

Thankyou for spending some moments to view the stains from Eglise St Martin, Pons. As ever I urge you to visit the link on the top left of this blog to visit Charity Water and spend a moment to see what they are doing. 

Merci :)

A Tale Of Two Cities... (part 1)

Basilica of Saint Martin, Tours

It was the best of times, it was the… oh wait, wrong story! :)

It is perhaps appropriate to begin this tale by mentioning a third city, from which this tale begins, for the story of Tours and Poitiers would be the poorer for the telling if one did not mention Orleans. So it was then that this tale begins in the escape of Orleans late one evening, bedraggled and slightly sodden from the ever present thundershowers, I walked late one evening towards the outskirts of Orleans, having had a long day travelling through the city where I had stopped at the Cathedral, met some wonderful folks, two German ladies and a helpful assistant on her first day in the shop within the Cathedral, and a rather bizarre and obnoxious fellow who had attempted to procure monies from me for resting on his floor.

So it was that I found myself walking briskly from the city in the late evening and camping in a municipal parking spot for campers in the quaint city of Saint Hilaire, having crossed the Loire to the left bank by the bridge of Saint Nicolas, formally the bridge of Saint Mesmin. This was the former Compostela, having been changed in 1885 by the French government to the other side of the bridge. I was oblivious to this of course and simply following my intuition and inclination at the time, and the way seemed natural to me. I camped the night and in the morning moved on, after coffee and conversation with some of the locals to the church of St Hilaire and St Mesmin on the outskirts of the town, after following a couple of locals who seemed to know where they were going.

Eglise Saint Hilaire and Saint Mesmin, St Hilaire 

On occasion it is good to be lead by ones intuition and recognize the things ones awareness is drawn to, so it was in this instance and down the narrow alleyways and winding outskirts the locals led me to this little gem that would begin a big adventure, firstly along the Loire to Tours, and then onwards along the Vienne towards Poitiers and the Abbey of St Martin in Liguge.

St Hilaire and St Mesmin 

After spending a little while taking in the eglise of St Hilaire and St Mesmin, I noticed that I was almost completely alone, for the Compostela had been moved to the other side of the Loire some hundred years previously, imagine my surprise then when along came the two German ladies who had approached me in the Cathedral in Orleans the previous day. We laughed a little at the coincidence, and swapped email address's. I moved briskly on my way after our meeting, feeling it had served it's purpose. Some short while later I was to meet my travelling companion in a field on the left bank, the ancient route of the Compostela that almost no one travelled anymore. It was as well I arrived when I did for he was suffering a bout of sunstroke, and was without water, so it was we helped one another for no sooner had I supplied the water than he showed me how to connect to the internet with roaming, something I have been eternally grateful for ever since, for until that time I had been hunting wifi from library to library for previous seven weeks.

Andrei and I, Liberty Square,Poitiers 

Saint Hilaire had been made bishop of Poitiers, and it would be he who initiated the tale of which I was about to embark, for on the road St Hilaire had met St Martin, a newly travelled pilgrim who had been released from the roman army in 356AD. Together they were to establish the first western monastery in Liguge in 360AD, but more of that later. First there was a trip down the Loire to navigate, and as per my previous photo essay, it was a trip filled with companionship, sunshine and thunder. It eventuated in our journey to Tours, and we were as yet unsure of our accommodation in that ancient commercial capital, one that the Romans had occupied and Richard the Lion Heart had later assailed. We entered however in slightly more peaceful terms even if we brought a little thunder with us.

Firstly, we had been made aware of a little church in Vouvray, just north of Tours, by a previous visit with a lovely couple, in Onzain, Who had recommended that we visit the church of St Martin and St Vincent, which we duly did, and finding the beautiful restored organ in the church quiet, stopped next door at the presbytery. All the priests were out, save one seminary student, who offered us coffee and sanctuary from the blistering sun. He duly phoned the monastery of St Martin in tours and connected us with the nuns there, and booked us in for the evening. A couple of hours later, after a last walk along the Loire, we were in the ancient city of Tours, which Richard 'le couer de lion', had besieged some years before hand.

St Martin Basilica, Tours 

The nuns received us with grace, and we stayed within the walls of the monastery, off rue de Descartes, in the centre of tours, in the abbey, beside the monastery. Our visit was punctuated with the meeting of a Canadian gentleman who shared the accommodations with us on our first night, and we all dined together later that evening, with the nuns preparing a hearty meal for several guests including some young classics students, studying to become classics teachers and sitting their final exams.

Crypt in Saint Martin Basilica, Tours 

The following morning both my travelling companion and our new friend left on their journeys, and I was left to rest a foot strain I had picked up down the Loire. It can be terribly frustrating having such a small injury, for the east of me ached to push on, but I was wise enough to know such an injury can seriously jeopardize such an endeavour if not rested. So it was I was left alone with the nuns of St Martin's basilica in the Benedictine abbey of st martin in Tours, for the following two days. During this time I learnt much of Saint Martins life, and spent time in the basilica and surrounding old town in particular.

Old Tours 

He was  the patron saint of conscientious objectors for instance, after his own act of contentious objection following his conversion. Quite a stance in the roman army, but one that ultimately won him both prestige, a following, and his freedom from service.

Saint Martin Basilica, Tours 

Having spent an extra day in tours, and rested my strain sufficiently, I awoke the next morning early to catch the light from the abbey and the service in the crypt with the nuns. They sung like angels, and were accompanied by harp, which made for an ethereal experience, especially as I had come to know them briefly during my stay. Truly loving and beautiful souls, their order, although administered by the Benedictines, are found in only two other places on the planet, England, where a small order is centered, and New Zealand.

Saint Martin Basilica, Tours 

My stay at the abbey and with the nuns had a profound effect on me, a reverence. It was with a full heart and spirit I left Tours to travel the 112km to Poitiers...

Jean Piero, Andrei, and I , Tours 

Once again, I urge you to visit the link on the left of this page to Charity water, and check them out, they are an awesome organization, and the link to donate to them is on the top left hand side of the blog... thankyou. More from Poitiers and Liguge in part 2. :)

The Cherry and the Vine

-The Cherry And The Vine -

The pilgrim and the monk barter at the door,

While the heel stone, kicked, heals

From stones flicked and trod upon the floor.

At the dawning of the age - which is the sage?

The cherry or the vine? Lugubriously entwined,

An ancient story, filled with sweet fruits,

The revelry of this banquets true glory.

I have heard the skylark

Call the golden chariot from out the storm,

And watched him chase the zephyr with his song,

Until the air, in rhapsody, filled my heart and soul in epiphany.

I have seen a hundred crows 

Murder a million shafts of gold,

And bold, flock into the reaches of the thunderclap,

To bow down in unison to Ceres ancient call.

The rise and fall, teetering upon the edge of the day.

I have watched as the honey bee, my friend,

Danced between the pistils of delight.

Banks of wildflowers, 

Deposited upon the waters edge,

An oasis of sacred sanity in the madness of modernity.

And in the end my friend,

To rest beneath your ancient boughs, the hours.

The cherries ripened in their season, plucked,

For the celebrants of nature's creation.

A Bacchanalian misadventure, 

Still young upon the vine.

To lift an ancient curse, 

In revelry, and time.

The season spent, I bent my heart to the wind,

A somnolent breeze, eased, through gnarled limbs.

Selene dipping her redolent toes into the clouds,

A repose, that every wounded heartbeat would allow.

Spring has gone, 

And Summer too has Autumn in her sights,

Like a farmer who wills the vagrant from his land,

The ravens hand will not be stilled for long.

But these are the days of the long sun,

Where neither pilgrim nor monk are king.

For in the still places,

The byways of those redolent spaces,

The ancient cherry still ripens,

Wrapped in Dionysian splendour,

Crowned, with the perfumed clutch of a wild rose.

- RMP 2018

The magical light of the Loire

Thunderstorms in tow...

I thought it best to once again allow the images to speak for themselves, for the journey down the Loire has been one of powerful and magical light and energy. Bright sun infused with thunderstorms, and all the while the somnabulent Loire lazily ambles along beside us...

Eglise Saint Hilaire and Saint Mesmin, across the St Nicolas bridge outside Orleans, the 'old' pilgrims way

Walking to the Loire from St Hilaire 

First evening camping on the Loire, just outside Grande Rue

Boise, Swans, and my travelling companion along the Loire Andrei

Magic along the Loire

Lunch at the pottery just before Charge, thunder on the way...

Racing the rain in Dionysian splendor, just outside Artingay

After the deluge descended the perfect sunset in Charge, Loire.

Fred Chabot's 'saxophonist', outside St Vincent Eglise, Amboise

Above: Organist plays Satie in St Denis. Below: Saint Denis,  Amboise 

Saint Martin Basilica with Charlemagne's Tower, Tours

I hope you enjoyed this brief trip down the Loire. It has been a pleasure to take you with me, and as ever there are many stories that will go into the book, along with friends and companions along the way.

Andrei and I 

I urge you to go to the link on the top left of the webpage and support Charity:Water in their drive to give everyone access to fresh drinking water. It is after all why I am walking the 2000km to Santiago de Compostella from the Netherlands. So please check them out, they are a fantastic charity doing essential work.

Merci :)

RMP

The Dance Of Innocence

'The Waltz',Camille Claudel, Nogent-sur-seine

The Dance Of Innocence

At days end, the weary traveler mends, and hopes in fate to find a friend.

Waves, that peak on foreign shore's, and know only the harbours of destinies sweet Amour's.

Twas another time, one in which your hand slipped in mine, twice I drew it out, thrice you clasped it once again.

'In another land, in another tongue,

The same heart beat's in everyone.

In another time, in another place,

The unity of life, loves infinite grace.'

We met as waves that beat upon a shore,

That only yesteryear were ripples, no more!

The dance of innocence, swept across a floor,

Like a one winged bird, waiting to take flight,

Lyra and Aquila smiling down in delight.

The artist and the muse, trussed twice, bemused.

The battles we have waged to keep our heads above the waves,

The spinning maid and the cowherd too, all are saved, all renewed.

How much is lost when we say we have won?

Then two become three, the artists great revelry,

Of tune and sound, and all the beauty spread around.

A grub, feeding on the popular! Became a caterpillar,

And wallowed in the smog of industry;

Yet, butterflies need a swan, to feed upon,

Cocooned in a marooned inspiration,

Until in quiet silence, nature's belly opened

And a wing was born.

Two butterflies that dance upon the tumult of a warm spring sky,

Torn between the thunder and the sun;

Over grassy knoll and brook, they run,

Between the glades and blades of grass,

Along the forest paths, and ancient waters,

Spilling their iridescence upon the flowering effervescence.

The summer runs, and wild communion, sips in revelry,

Imbibing cups of Dionysian splendor,

While art thunders with every beat of your wings.

Two hearts that long were parted, found once more, in joy, restarted.

A bough of mutual bliss, interwoven - a heavenly kiss.

The mandarin duck and drake return,

from celestial realms of rainbow coloured clouds,

where no snake may injure them, nor burn, anymore.

The wrong is righted, the song sung amongst the Autumn willow,

Eases their craft upon silver streams of moonlit lantern's.

The waters break and ripple, just a little,

To fall upon some foreign shore,

In time, in waves,

Once more.

-RMP 2018

Recognize your coincidences (part 1)

Recognize Your Coincidences...

I finally have the tablet working, which was generously donated whilst on the journey, and think I can connect it to the smartphone by way of Bluetooth, so my keyboard just grew exponentially, and has made two finger hunt and peck possible … Thank you Claude, you have been a wonder and inspiration! So, without further ado, a little story to attend to the remarkable sequence of events that have accompanied me on the trail so far.

This little story is about taking the time to recognize your coincidences, something that is not always easy to do when in the hubbub of daily existence, but for which much must be said in favour; and how patience in all things allows for the natural unfolding of events to come full circle.

Firstly a little back story, literally, for it concerns my back, and the fact that for many years it has had the tendency to go out, having damaged it when I was a young man throwing 20kg sacks of potatoes around when working at a greengrocers in my teens for an after school job, and later, after a motor cycle accident left me incapacitated for several years.

When it goes out, I am usually laid up for several days, 10 Days to two weeks normally, so it was with consternation and a little distress that I found myself lying in my tent in the middle of the French countryside with my backout for 3 days and nights unable to move.

Trapped in the tent, outside Fere-Champagnoire

I lay between two crops one of wheat and the other rapeseed, and the farmer had come to checkout who this stranger was. He had been very helpful and kind, but I was determined not to let a silly thing as a back problem defeat me on the journey after 750km, so he agreed to let me stay there and I simply lay on my back with the most tremendous thunderstorms raging overhead, just outside Fere-Champagnoire.

The farmer had given me excellent directions on how to make town, which, after 3 days I had managed to do, albeit gingerly, but with numerous poems and some good rest under my belt. The back wasn't good, and I found rest at a small hotel in town who agreed to allow me to pitch the tent in the back and use the facilities while I mended a little. This I did for a couple of days, thank you Astrid, and the 'Hotel de Paris' , in Fere-Champagnoire.

Kittens at Hotel de Paris, Fere-champonoire

After a couple of days recuperation, a blog post, and some important parcels sent, I decided I should try and make the next destination. In some regards the back was better when the pack was on even if carrying 25kgs is not the recommended recuperation for such injuries, as it provided some excellent lower back support. So on went the pack and off I trotted on the trail towards Orleans, along the Seine.

Connantre, Champagne-Ardenne 

My first port of call was, Connantre, and the Library, where I met yet another wonderful librarian who

Eglise Saint Martin, Pleurse 

helped me greatly. The light came back with the sun and I ambled on to a Templar church, Saint Martins, and pitched my tent after some good conversation with the locals, who again helped me greatly. It was there I began to have doubts as to whether I could continue, But Nogent-sur-Seine beckoned the next day, and it housed the Camille Claudel Museum, which I had ardently wished to visit.

Eglise Saint Martin, Pleurse 

After packing up in the morning, with my neighbor kindly bringing me coffee with several sugars to get me on my way, I headed the 20+ km to Nogent-sur-Seine, making it just before the thunderstorms broke overhead. I arrived on a Sunday, when most shops were closed, but managed to pop into a little local supermarket whose kindly owner allowed me to charge my phone beneath his awning as the deluge descended, and gave me directions to the local church.

After a brief charge and a deluge of colossal proportions, I headed to the church. This is perhaps where a second little aside might be handy, as it concerns a Catholic Saint named St Roch, who wears a cockle shell as his emblem, something I too do given the association to the Camino St Jacques, which I am currently on.

Saint Roch , Nogent-sur-seine 

When I first arrived in Gallerie-Ephemere, a place I have mentioned in a previous blog entry. It was mentioned by the artist in residence there that I looked a little like St Roch as I came down the drive way, and of course I was oblivious to the meaning or association at the time, but later learned of his exploits and laughed at the obvious similarities. The same weekend I arrived in Nogent-sur-Seine, St Roch was being celebrated in Thuin, Belgium. The place that houses the aforementioned gallery. To be honest I was unaware of this at the time, but later the connection seemed apt. For as I walked into the Church in Nogent-sur-Seine, on the left of the main alter was a stunning statue of St Roch, and I was somewhat flabbergasted and decided that I was in the right place, recognizing my coincidence.

So, I simply decided to stop in the church, realizing that perhaps the connections were too coincidental to simply be coincidence. I waited quietly for about 30mins, when a Hungarian gentleman joined me in the church, and who it turned out worked as a translator, and whose French and English were impeccable. We were soon joined by a Portuguese gentleman who spoke no English and my French is sketchy at best, but the Hungarian gentleman was able to swiftly translate the fact that I looked for some accommodation that evening to rest a little. He was brilliant and immensely helpful, and after a brief and jovial conversation took me to the priory, where I met Didi the Catholic priest from the area, who immediately offered me assistance, a shower and lodgings. It was a wonderful gesture, and I stayed in Nogent-sur-Seine, for the next 3 days, gathering strength and solace, along with taking the opportunity to go to the museum.

Priory, Nogent-sur-seine 

In that time Didi and Glory, the two Catholic Priests of the parish were absolutely gracious hosts, and I have to thank them for their hospitality and care. Without their intervention I doubt I would have been able to continue.

Camille Claudel Museum, Nogent-sur-seine 

Whilst in the museum I had noted a work entitled 'charity', by Alfred Boucher, and it was mentioned at the time by a fellow observer, whilst I admired it, a title by the way that seemed apt given my pilgrimage, that there was a larger work in the park close by, by the same artist, and so I had decided to see it before leaving.

'Filial piety ', Alfred Boucher, Nogent-sur-seine 

The next day I said my farewells, although it was a little disconcerting not to be able to say thankyou and farewell to the Portuguese gentleman who had brought me to the priory initially, for he had been absent since the initial meeting.

I headed to the park, which I found with some wonderful direction from some locals, a tour guide, and others along the way who all spoke to me in English, which in itself was a little peculiar, but for which I was deeply grateful. The park was closeted away in a little corner beside the museum and a school, and I entered a small gate to a marvellous statue of 'filial piety', by Alfred Boucher. It truly is splendid and well worth the time if you get the opportunity.

After some time with the statue it was time to leave and as I wandered down towards Gustav Flaubert's residence and away from The city I noted a gentlemen with a cane walking towards me, we spoke briefly, and he too spoke English well, so we talked about the fact that we both had staffs, and both were fishermen, and had bad accidents from which we recovered, a lady came down the street and chatted with us, also in English, as if it were beautifully timed, at that instant out stepped the Portuguese gentleman from the house in which the three of us were having a joyful and animated discussion. I am not sure who was more surprised, he or I, but we met jovially, and it was the perfect opportunity to say our farewell to one another, and indeed Nogent-sur-Seine.

The residence of Gustave Flaubert, Nogent-sur-seine 

We each melted away, down our separate paths, and somehow the entire stay had come full circle, and it seemed the very best of ways to say farewell, to what had been a stay of immense import and recuperation for me, without which the journey may not have continued.

Nogent-sur-seine from the bridge

So, in passing, try to take the time to recognize your coincidence's, for although man may think in terms of cause and effect, and work particually, creation thinks in meaningful ways, and God works in waves.

;)