It was incredibly hot well over 40 degrees and by late afternoon clouds had started to fill in the sky here and there creating a patchwork of blue and grey hues. There was a slight rainfall, a few drops plopping down, just enough to burnish the air with that steamy dry smell off the pavement's heat. Going for a stroll I went to find the path that would lead out to the camino. I walked past some ruined buildings which had been left in a pile where they had once stood, stone, timbers and clay roofing tiles all inwardly collapsed into a type of material salad. As I walked to towards the edge of the village music was pouring from a window. Someone was playing the saxaphone trying to accompany what I realized must of been Van Morrisions LA concert version. This was the same piece I had just discussed with the young Frenchman just a few days back and I immediately saw his point about it lacking. The music wasn't the same, instead it seemed forced like the saxaphone that was trying to accompany it. As I walked I was thinking of the music and how the original had been a once in a lifetime spontaneous event impossible to recapture. It would have been like trying to recapture first love and hold it in a bottle and yet some people will continuely try, losing their way in endless realms of promiscuity to recapture the moment or the something that was lost. The road out of town led past a woodlot of poplars which stood to one side of the road. On the other side was open fields running down to a thin line of forest that marked the small creek running through the fields. The wind came up and the poplars defined it with a rushing sound. Down by the creek some pilgrims were camping and I could hear a lady softly singing. Another pilgrim walking with his staff and leading a donkey matted with sweat came up the road as I approached the river. To the west some sowed belly clouds were operating in solo, watering a hillside while surrounded by an evening sky. The church bell started tolling in the village so I turned heading back for dinner, thinking of my wife who was probably preparing her own lunch, only six hours behind but thousands of miles away to be continued |
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