tracks

Motor topped up with water. Mist burning off fields; fullish moon westwards, rising sun eastwards. Season of mellow fruitfulness, etc.

8am Thursday morning. We're at the VW garage (again) in Perigueux. Monsieur le Francais hasn't yet arrived. Luckily, though, the hose for the waterworks has. 

When he gets there, he's all charm and proffered coffee. Hour and a half, he thinks.

Which comes and goes, as does Monsieur. He comes back, and gives me the good news – hose is fitted. Then solicitously he leans forward. There's more. 'The bad news?' I ask. 'You need a new waterpump and thermostat.' We're due to catch the boat tomorrow, via something I want to see in Brittany, several hundred miles away. I must have looked a little despairing, as he says 'We have them in stock.' I'm disconcerted by his niceness, his attentiveness, his nothing's-too-much-trouble-ness. (I don't think it's just my cleavage, though I have finally changed out of the sleeveless dress I've been wearing for days in the heat, for a lighter slightly cleaner camisole-over-camisole combo. I also don't think it's just the fact that he's about to relieve me of a large chunk of my recent earnings.)

Another hour or two.

We finally leave at around midday. It's disquieting not to have to look under the van for the fuites every time we stop. Although we know it's been fixed, the fact that the temp gauge sits at 3/4 isn't very reassuring, though it is still extremely hot outside and we are motoring fast. I've promised TM a swim in the Atlantic in the sun and I don't think we're going to make it.

We arrive at Locmariaquer, at the heart of the tremendous megalithic complex of Carnac and its surrounds, a favourite place of mine, just in time to catch the sun going down (just out of the frame in the pic below, on the right in the far dunes, are Les Pierres Plates – a huge barrow cromlech with astonishing prehistoric engravings reminiscent of some of the carvings at Newgrange in style):

and we are so tired now that, even though the sea is warm, all we want is to eat and sleep. We park up amongst other vans in the camping municipal (yes, again! I must be losing my edge) next to the beach, air jasmine-scented and a small breeze in the pines accompanying the hush of the sea; and my big rich salad in the simple bar more than makes up for yesterday's salad disaster, and at half the price.

An early walk:

and we're off; next stop northern Brittany, where a tree-embraced meadow that we stop in briefly turns out, once again and like, apparently, the cathedral at Perigueux, to be on the French Camino. That's just about everywhere we've stopped this trip, apart perhaps from the VW garage.

Take notice of your dreams, I think. The universe offers itself for our attention.
 
The universe offers itself.