Day 89. St. Christoly de Blaye Nov 3 2001.

Dinner last night had been an interesting experience. We both ordered the 90 franc meal, mostly because it was the cheapest thing on the menu, but we were both a little hesitant about it. The fact that the salad was hot goat cheese put me off immediately, I have never eaten goat cheese before. It turned out to be really good. The cheese was served in hot domes, browned on the top, that rested on wafers of biscotti and by the time I finished I wanted more.

The main course was a little strange. I had strips of beef in gravy, with french fries. The beef was good and the fries were excellent. But with the candle light, crystalware and silk napkins, the fries seemed out of place.

The hostess was a very angry woman, the antithesis of our server in Talmont St. Hilarie. She seemed angry that patrons had bothered to come to her restaurant. She seated us brusquely and then went off to shout at a family who had just come in.

Her husband, or at least her partner, was diametrically opposite. He was short with an enormous shock of black hair and a black beard that ringed his face. He seemed to find everything about life delightful and he was always laughing and smiling. I found his jokes, fast and furious and in a foreign language, almost incomprehensible, a fact he found hilarious and he spent the evening chortling to himself.

The couple behind us began trying to get the proprietresses attention, obviously finished their meal and looking for the bill, but she studiously ignored them and continued to bustle on indescribable errands from empty table to empty table.

Finally the server plopped the bill onto their table as if it was something disgusting that would stain her hands. They got up and hurriedly left. We looked forward to our own bill with something approaching dread. But when we began looking around for our waitress she appeared suddenly and assured us that as patrons of the hotel, we did not have to pay until we left.

We returned to our room and watched French TV for most of the night. Not as much of a cultural experience as one would like to assume. We watched the best of American pop culture in French dubbing. Will and Grace, Friends, Simpsons, all rerun episodes that sounded insanely bizarre with French coming from familiar actors lips.

This morning as we packed we watched the "Ewoks Adventure" in French.

Leaving Mirambeau was hard, not because we were attached to the place but because there was an enormous hill on the south side of town. We had noticed yesterday that we are definitely in wine country and today only served to confirm it. Everywhere were lush green vineyards, stretching to the horizon. It seems as if no other crop is grown in this region. Long lines of vines sweep by as we pedal, like a million lines of writing that compose a vast alcoholic poem.

Every fifty yards is a sign inviting us into chateaux for tours, wine tasting and purchasing. Even the houses seem richer. Instead of small holdings of run down farms there are large, well kept, estate houses surrounded by acres of vines. No grapes though, looks as thought the harvest season has passed. Not a good sign.

Finding our campsite for the night turned out to be a far greater challenge than we had expected. We were both totally exhausted by the time we turned off the main highway and we still had thirteen kilometres to go. Eventually, after much moaning on both our parts we did get to it and it was open so we are grateful for small miracles.

The campground, however, left a few things to be desired. There are many permanent residents and the poverty level was high. We were more than a little uncomfortable. Many sat on their tent porches, drank wine and glared angrily at this pair of interlopers who had broached their privacy. Goats and ducks and dogs had free reign of the place and made their presence felt with trails of feces and the faint smell of urine that occasionally wafted by.

The goats were, however, very amusing and we watched with childish fascination as they chased each other in a never ending ring around a tree. We found a swan and goose floating in small pond behind a fence and Heather proved that she had learned nothing from our trip to England, so many years back, by sticking her fingers through the fence and having it nipped at by the goose.

We went for a walk to the camps office to see if there were pamphlets of information about the area, but the owner raced in front of us, slammed the door and locked it, only to run out again, through the back door. We were astonished by her behaviour.

At that instant her son came running out of the woods carrying her granddaughter while a woman followed behind carrying horseback riding helmet. The owner pulled up in a car, they all piled in and they disappeared in a cloud of dust. I'm guessing that whatever happened it was a little more urgent than us looking at pamphlets.

Next Entry: Day 90. Bordeaux
Previous Entry: Day 88. Mirambeau

Day 88. Mirambeau Nov 2 2001.

Heather's Birthday. 24 years old.

We cycled what felt like a vast distance today and stayed at a hotel this evening. We even went so far as to eat in a restaurant. Our meal was hot goat cheese salad; strips of beef for me and chicken for Heather, but, oddly for such a posh establishment, with sides of French fries.

But I spent most of the day, as we cycled through thickening vineyards, reflecting on Heather. Perhaps it was the tired ache of muscles pushing against pedals that brought my mind back to our first meeting.

In the summer of '93 I had gone biking with James and Ted to meet a pair of girls I supposedly already knew. We were all young and fit. The guys were neat and tidy, I was shaggy with torn clothes. We traveled to Wendy's house, on other side of the Queensland hill and we strained to get there, a distance that seems almost laughable given out present travels.

The girls had waited for us in the backyard, young and flirtatious as only adolescents can be. But they had a third girl with them, just as young, just as giggly, but far more intriguing, at least to me.

From the first it seemed that we must have been destined for each other. We matched each other in our rebellious undress uniforms. My hair grew in rough waves as it grew back from it's mohawk cut, Heather's hair was still short where she had shaved off her undercut. My ripped clothes matched her shaggy cast offs so in vogue with the grunge trend of the times. She seemed so alive, so energetic, and her verve challenged me. I remember holding her in my arms as friends turned a raging hose on us both, soaking us to the skin.

I remember too walking her home that night and talking to her on the gentle slope of her parent’s lawn as pale blue became deep violet and the sky filled with stars. We had become an official couple before I left for home that night.

I remember Heather on our first trip out of the country, a graduation gift really, traveling with my parents to the highlands of Scotland. She was so sick then, a strange foreign country for the first time in her life, jet lag and the rocking motion of the motorhome all conspiring to turn her stomach. She had drugged herself insensible but still struggled gamely to raise her head and watch as we passed through Sherwood Forest. She was so beautiful on that trip, so amazed with every new thing that we experienced. Delighted especially in the soft purple heather that covered the highlands. Nothing daunted her on that trip, not the high stairs of the Wallace Memorial or the thick pollution of London.

Heather has always fascinated me with her wonder at the power of the natural world, whether on our trip to California or Prince Rupert.

She looked at the redwoods as though she understood them, feeling the slow beat of wooden hearts millennia old.
I remember Heather amongst the tombstones below the rocky crag of Sterling Castle, or in Confederation Park at home, enjoying the quiet serenity of flowers and carefully carved stone as thought it was all a spiritual temple for her, a place of meditation.

She has an equal fascination with all things gastronomical. Her insistence that we try the local food of wherever we had traveled. Crabs on the coast, smoked salmon in the car as we drove to Vancouver. The bagets that we ate in Southampton on that first trip that I don't even remember. The way her eye is always drawn to the fanciful displays of food in a window, the same way most would be drawn to a warm fire.

I love her delight in the rain, pulling out chairs onto the sheltered deck of our home by the University to watch a spring down pour wash away the snow and the grit. The rain that fell as we sat on the couch in my parents living room and I asked her to marry me.

I find myself in awe of her righteous indignation at the indifference of the universe and at casual cruelty. She cannot abide a person who so casually swats a dog or mistreats child. She has always been quick to leap into the fray and defend those who cannot defend themselves. I remember my early days of driving and Heather's panicked warning whenever an animal crossed the road, glaring at me angrily if I commented that it was better the animal be hurt than we.

These last few years of school have been very stressful for her. I remember frantic nights as she tried to prepare for her all important "crits" at art school. Her passionate arguments about artistic styles and what constituted quality work. Her anger when she thought someone's work was criticised unfairly and her admiration of the beauty in others works. I remember her surprise and almost stunned amazement when she sold her first really major piece and her reluctance to part with the bowl of dancing leaves in which she had invested so much of herself.

Heather has grown and changed since I first met her on a trampoline in her friends backyard. She no longer wears her hair short or worships heavy metal bands. She has gained a measure of class and sophistication and her vocabulary has mellowed dramatically but the core has never changed. She has never wavered in those virtues that I love.

Now here we are in the middle of France going nowhere and everywhere and still my love for her is strong. We have seen so many things that have inspired and taught. Who can know what lies ahead of us? I don't have Heather's cheerful optimism in the proper unfolding of the universe. I am the pessimistic yin to her yang, but I know that when she has faith I begin to believe.

So tonight we will indulge her gastronomical yearnings and pamper our tired bones with the comfortable bed of a hotel and I will tease Heather about becoming old while looking forward to long life and much happiness

Heather Matwe Designs

Next Entry: Day 89. St. Christoly De Blaye
Previous Entry: Day 87. Saintes

Day 78. Talmont St. Hilaire. Oct 23 2001.

What a relief to wake from a night of sleep with no interruptions and feeling a hundred times better. Today I feel as though I am almost me again and I am anxious to get going. But a hundredfold improvement is still not all the way. I still hack and cough, sputtering for air, even if only once or twice every 10 minutes. We resolved today to stay for the whole day and sleep one more night in our sagging bed. Our next destination is a long ride from here and there is little sense in tackling it while still sick.

Today we are homebodies resting body and mind, cleaning and clearing and getting ready to tackle life with canvas walls once more. We find that when we rest in a place it become our home, we leave our marks, scattered debris that proclaims our territorial boundaries, and we learn the features and it is hard to leave.

Fear for the unknown has sent me searching for a phone. I am not willing to trust the guide that has proved so deceptive, so disappointing. We tramped out together and found a phone not too far from our lodgings. But when the operator asked courteously for country codes and city codes that we did not have I gave up in frustration.

We continued up Talmont’s centre street where we found the Super U and stopped for groceries. Heather showed me the seafood section in delight. Even after almost thirty days in France we are still delighted by counter tops swathed in ice and a colorful display of seafood. The shrimp in a woven wicker basket flipped and writhed in angry spasmodic jerks, as if cursed with a foreknowledge of their gastronomical fate. Eels and deep sea fish stared up from their frozen bed with lifeless eyes and the crabs here seemed listless and crusted with sand. Heather walked purposefully through the aisle of the market, trying to feed us and still not destroy a budget already broken and shattered. I fell behind and drifted away into the aisle of books and music and toys. ABBA came over the radio and the stock clerk counting inventory unconsciously broke into song. I flipped through books on Vendee legends, naval history and prehistoric artifacts. I was startled to find references to home in the book on naval history. The people of the Vendee had been delighted, it seems, by the crew of the HMCS Iroqois when, after liberating the area of Nazi occupation, they had erected a huge cake declaring “Vivre la France, Canada, Angleterre et Amerique.” What delighted the French so much was, unlike messages from their other liberators these words were delivered bilingually.

The books were a surreal mix of French culture and pervasive American influence. Dark French police novels, covers adorned with sexy women and guns rested on racks next to Buffy Contre les Vampires and Anne Rice novels. The racks of toys mixed unknown French action heroes and G.I. Joe dolls. But all the video games were American and even the boxes were English with no translation. French had been the international language of diplomacy but now gave way to English, international language of computer geeks.

Heather finished selecting our meals for the day, a fare not much different from yesterday or the day before, meat, cheese, grapes and the ubiquitous French baguette. We returned to our hotel, our haven, and ate our lunch.

We hauled out our sand and grime coated tent and threw it into the shower and let the water run. I leapt in and scrubbed dirt and sand away until the showers floor resembled more the sea bed than anything else. We threw our sopping dwelling out the window and let it dry over the kitchen roof. And then we did nothing. We lay in bed as I read Heather Hyperion, then she slept while I snuck out to the phone once more. Even as I walked our previously sunny and warm day disintegrated under an onslaught of clouds and down the rain came. Heather had woken up in time to see the rushing clouds and save our drying things. Armed as I was this time with calling codes and city numbers still I failed to get through and I feared my failure might have more to do with a closed campground than inability to use a French phone. I returned to our hotel in disgust.

As I did the clouds dissipated and a brilliant rainbow filled the sky, arching, like a tourist ad for the perfect vacation, over the crumbling ruins of Richard's castle. I stared and longed for a camera and knew that moments like that were not really meant to be caught on film.

I arrived once more at our sheltered door and a realization hit me. We have lived with the elements, on an intimate first name basis, twenty four hours a day since, it seems, before time began. We have considered weather to be our friend, our foe, our ally and our indifferent nemesis and we are always aware of it. We have come to think of ourselves as weather conscious, knowing the pulse beat of the skies, and yet, now, behind the shelter of solidity, weather is forgotten. Not merely relegated to a secondary status, not ignored, just forgotten. Rarely do we look at the sky and never to assess what the next minute of life will hold for us. The sky and clouds are merely pretty decorative objects that no longer dictate our lives like the stars on an astrologers chart. Three days and we have become absolutely disconnect from what had been the most important aspect of our lives, and we had scarcely noticed. How many other things pass from places of critical importance in our lives and we never notice their passing?

I entered our room, or rather tried to enter. Heather had set up the tent in the room to let it dry out of the rain and it blocked the door with a fabric barricade that yielded but would not give. After minutes of struggle I finally squeezed into the room. The tent was on its side and the blue groundsheet rose menacingly in our little room, a blue nylon monolith, a science fiction metaphor for our journey. I expected to look in to the mirror and see wrinkled hands and face, Also Sprach Zarathustra humming from spinning bike wheels in the garage below us.

The smell of sautéed onions and freshly baking pizza drifted up through cracks in the floor, taunting us with delicious scents and odors too expensive to inhale. Tentatively I went down the stairs and asked our hostess to kindly explain the phones to me. Instead she called the campground in Marans, a long ride away, and confirmed that they were open until nov. 15. I appreciated her kindness, but as the ancient saying goes: “give a man a phone…”

Strange how much I will regret leaving here. In the sunken bed and water stained walls I have found a sort of spiritual balm. Talmont can be an ugly little town, slowly decaying in the sun of southern France and the rains and winds off the Atlantic. But it seems to harbour a soul full of inspiration such as I have found in so few places, a taint of artistry that calls out to be created. Tomorrow is the pain of hard bike seats and the elements and I can only hope to find that feeling elsewhere...

...and pray that my bike will not say “we have a problem Dave.”

Next Entry: Day 79. Marans
Previous Entry: Day 77. Talmont St. Hilaire

Day 77. Talmont St. Hilaire. Oct 22 2001

Last night was a nightmare collage of wracking coughs, fevered dreams and aching muscles. Every time I surrendered to exhaustion and slumped down to the beaten and broken mattress my lungs protested and sent me upright in a volley of coughs that sounded terribly like the vicious barking of a dog. So violently did I cough that my head began to explode with pain with every movement. Even as my body shook I castigated myself for imagining that I could bike across France, let alone a significant portion of Europe. Only as daylight touched the casements of our window and cast first hesitant rays of light across the mossy kitchen roof was I able to find the solace of sleep.

I woke to an incessantly pounding head and church bells that no longer sounded sweet, merely loud. Heather dressed then disappeared out the door to find food to sustain us. I crawled feebly into the booth that served as our shower and curled up on the floor, allowing the scalding water to cascade over me as if in a metal and plastic womb. By the time Heather returned the room had filled with a choking steam.

Heather hadn’t merely purchased groceries but had braved an unfamiliar tongue and a slightly deaf pharmacist to bring me soothing drugs and cough syrup. She was flustered and embarrassed, trying to convey her exact needs in a foreign language had been hard for her and she kept apologizing, as if I cared that she had mispronounced the word for “husband” or “heaving cough.”

After being drugged and having a rest I began to feel human once more. Unable to merely do nothing we set out, if not energetically, then at least with a little enthusiasm, to see Talmont Castle. The castle rose from a series of decaying fortifications on a rocky outcrop near the centre of town, its crenelated and corroded peak almost lost behind a swirling murder of crows that made the place seem sinister even in daylight. We climbed the steep path that led to the wooden shack that served as the twentieth century gatehouse. The castle seemed wilted, in a way that only a tourist attraction in the final days before closing can be. They had lost their credit card machine so we were forced to dig into our dwindling supply of coins.

Built by William the Bold in 1025 and modernized by Richard the Lionheart with ideas brought back from Syria, the castle sprawled out, a conglomerate of accreted pieces. The wall that separated the lower courtyard form the upper had disappeared with age, the majesty that once must have been the lord’s manor had crumbled to dust and the castles defensive face had fallen to reveal the bones building beneath. William the Bold had built his castle over the church of Saint Peter and the beautiful arches and vaults of the bell tower peered out from surprising corners.

We climbed the staircase of the western tower and stopped at its first branching. Here was the base of the ancient bell tower, a niche almost walled over during the hurried building of outer walls. A silent room with a single entrance and windows so high and narrow they could scarcely be seen. Here William, and Richard after him, had stored their money, their jewels, and their suits of ceremonial amour. Here was a treasure chamber any thief might have given his arm to find and we stalked its floors and casually appraised its vaulted ceiling.

Then we climbed again and climbed, to the second floor that opened to the wall walks and higher still to the command room that had opened to the sky as the ceiling collapsed and higher still to a terrace beneath the flapping flags of Richard and a view from here to the sea. Below us the clustered red roofs of town bunched together in silent huddles, their red paved surfaces a highway about the streets.

We followed the passages to the latrines, to the murder hole above the gatehouse and through a maze of stones and dim light that almost left us lost. The castle seemed a mountain, stones that had been heaped one atop another in careless disregard, and then hollowed to make space for those who inhabited it. Artificial caves in an artificial hill a hundred feet above the town.

We descended an endless stair on the castles far side, sure that we must be descending far beneath the ground, only to emerge on green grass. Outside an ancient defensive tunnel disappeared deep into the earth, its hidden recesses gated off from prying eyes.

We left the site and wandered outside and only then did we realize that even the hill on which the castle stood had been fortified, the walls serving now as the rear walls of sheds and houses. The castle had been shattered by Louis XIII and the famed Richelieu so that the region's Protestants would have no place to hide.

We returned to our hotel room, how strange to write that, my pen almost automatically wrote "campsite", our hotel room and we began to pack. There is a lively debate in my mind tonight about whether we will leave at the first sign of light tomorrow or rest another day with a solid roof and bed beneath us. We cannot really afford to stay. We will pack tonight and see how things are in the morning.

As we pack we are desperately trying to lighten our loads. There is so much that we carry that we do not use but we cannot easily bring ourselves to part with. Things of sentimental value or things those we “might use if…” I am trying to learn the mystical art of packing. How do you arrange things so that you can get at what you need without flinging everything else across whatever space you have? There is the story of the Greek man, I forget his name now, who wanted simplicity and so owned only his robe and a drinking cup, until one day he saw a beggar using his hands to drink from a fountain. With a cry of joy he threw away his drinking cup. We need resolve like that.

Next Entry: Day 78. Talmont St. Hilaire
Previous Entry: Day 76. Talmont St. Hilaire.

Day 76. Talmont St. Hilaire. Oct 21 2001.

We woke to misery. The tent was coated in a thick layer of sand, the sky was gray and water had seeped in through the corners. Both of us were ill, Heather worse than I, but we were equally wracked with coughs we thought would have left by now and Heather was congested enough that her head ached.

To leave or not to leave was the question that plagued us. I wanted to go, Heather wanted to stay. I felt a need to leave this campground with its sandy plots and rattle of dead branches against one another. Heather wanted to stay, looking at the gray sky with a weary eye, not willing to deal with another day of rain. Finally I prevailed and had begun to load my bike when the clouds opened in a downpour that left me soaking.

We agreed to stay.

But time passed and while the clouds did not lift they lightened and I argued to go once more. Our destination town was not far and I wanted to be on the move. Finally Heather capitulated and we packed up once more, fearfully watching the skies. Even as we worked the clouds blew over and revealed beautiful blue sky and brilliant sunlight that shone down like a benediction.

Still, packing was not easy. Cleaning the tent of the grime and sand splashed on by last nights storm proved impossible. We were forced to give up and we packed our filthy dwelling away angrily. We rode out into perfect sunlight looked forward with an optimism that was misguided, if not foolish. Because it was Sunday all the stores were closed and we had no food. The lady at the counter of our campsite reassured us that there was a large supermarket nearby, ready to cater to our nutritional needs. But when we found it even the McDonalds in the parking lot was closed. We had little choice, today we would eat short rations, finishing off the leftover peanuts and hoping for a quick dawn tomorrow.

We headed east, leaving the ocean behind, but not the ominous gray clouds that peered over the horizon like a rising swell of waves. The gray became dark and black and the clouds swelled with a heavy weight of water until they could hold back no more and burst open in anger. We were caught almost halfway to our goal and were soaked to the skin once more. The clouds parted as swiftly as they had gathered but the suns feeble light did little to dry us.

We reached Talmont sometime in mid-afternoon. Even the restaurants and bakeries were closed and there was no sigh of the promised campsite. Finally we found a clue and headed back out of town.

We found the campground alright, the one our guide promised “open to the end of October” and once more it was closed! I stared at the “ferme” sign and felt anger boil inside of me. How can you plan a trip if your guides are full of faulty information? How many more time would we face the gut wrenching disappointment of “ferme” and feel the stress of not knowing where to sleep? My anger hit a critical juncture and I flung the book from me in disgust. Three hundred and sixty degrees from which to choose and unerringly I hit upon the ten degrees that are occupied by my distraught wife. The book bounced off the front of her bike and my anger dissolved into depressed apologies. It felt like I couldn't even get angry without screwing up.

Despondently we headed back to Talmont facing the inevitable fact that we had to break the budget once more and find a hotel. We had not lost all our spirit however and decided that a two star hotel was better than a no star hotel and hence we followed the signs out of town. What the signs failed to mention was that the two star hotel was in fact on the beach, a good thirty kilometers or so from Talmont. We gave up in despair once more.

We returned to town for our third time and sought the low budget places in the crowded streets. The first, catering to truckers, had a huge sign hidden on a back window, closed until October 29. The second didn't even bother with a sign and was merely closed. Mere words cannot convey the cold numbness that had dropped over us. We stood listlessly in the street, listening indifferently to the silence of the city. Even simple decisions became impossible to make. How could we make another when all the others had turned out so wrong?

Finally our aimless and careless wanders brought us to the Boule D’or, a restaurant with lodgings over top. I went in to ask, not even caring anymore what the reply would be. The young woman at the counter seemed surprised that she had a tenant and showed me the room with an apprehension that could have been fear, excitement or surprise. The room was small and I didn't really see it, didn't really care. I went down to Heather and we stowed our bikes in the filthy garage. We climbed the steps wearily.

The room was a square covered in white wallpaper with blue splashes and water stains near the ceiling. A yellow bed with a fold in the middle large enough to hide a person stuck out in garish repose from the rotten wall, beside it an old beaten wardrobe. On the east wall, where a window looked out to the back roof of the restaurant and a panoramic view of lichen covered roof tiles, was a single wooden table and a single wooden chair from which I am writing even now. The south wall sported a sink that hung loosely from the wall over orange tiles that covered the hardwood flood. Beside it was a booth two thirds the size of a phone booth, in which we could shower. Our toilet was down the hall, with no sink of its own.

Despite the crudity of the room it somehow added up to more than the sum of its parts. I could picture myself huddled over the skeletal table, beside the window that looked on nothing, scribbling madly with pen in hand, the very posture from which I write these words.

The room had, has, an ambiance that brings to mind lonely struggling authors, painters, artists of all stripes and the frantic need to create that can tolerate no distraction. Even the church bells sound sweeter from here, more real and relevant to the passage of human time. But ambiance and peanuts a poor meal make and I was getting more ill with every clang of the bells.

As night fell we went in search of a pizzeria that we had passed earlier. San Marco’s was a small dive with mural of Venice covering one wall, yellowed from cigarettes and age. The pizza was excellent. The pepper oil served in a long tapering beaker with the leaves and peppers floating in a golden soup with a taste that burned lips and tongues and left you wanting more. San Marco on the Avenue of the Sands. Our server was young and polite, as all those who want to be elsewhere but know you are their paycheck can be. His mother bustled about warning us to be careful of the spicy oils, watching with delight as we ate our first ice cream in months and running around with a happy smile and familiarity that made the restaurant her own. Even flustered as she was, trying to use their new, intricate, credit card machine, she never lost a brilliant smile. We left reluctantly, our bellies hardly full, the smoke from fellow dinners burning my lungs and forcing long painful coughs from me that tore at my throat.

As we climbed the stairs to our room Heather noted a strange light at the hallways end. She looked out and gasped. The fortress of Richard the Lionhearted, the centerpiece of Talmont St. Hilaire, was bathed in a gentle blue glow, as if rising from an ethereal mist. The church that rose beside it blotted from view.

We had visited the church earlier, after we deposited our gear and gained some volition back. We had sat in the pews of St. Peters and talked seriously about the future of the trip. With campgrounds unexpectedly closed at every turn and both of us so ill that we can hardly bike, let alone clamber over ruins and tourist sites, our future is hazy. I have no desire to end the trip, but our budget will not allow many stays like tonight's. I despair a little, feeling as though we have failed in some esoteric fashion. We have seen so much and yet so little. But tonight at least I am too ill to contemplate going on.

I cannot help but feel like a pale shadow of Keats, with my tiny room, wracking cough and despair. But I am not dying, I am not a poet and I have the hope at least that in the morning my despair will be gone. At least our walls do not shake tonight as I cough and I can sit up by electric candlelight. Darkness outside with light inside is strange to us and looking at the clock I see that it is almost 9:00. An hour past our bedtime.

Next Entry: Day 77. Talmont St. Hilaire
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