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Whiz A spider web glistened with night dew. The valley below us was shrouded in fog. We were above in the sunshine and loving it. Descending into the fog we rode to Sombernon. The pâtisserie had a special on chocolate croissants, so I took the opportunity to stock up. Sharon spied a washroom next to the tennis courts. Apparently France's non-refrigerated eggs were, once again, not agreeing with her system. I still held out hope that I was going to keep mine. At the sink we washed our clothes and strapped them onto the back of our bikes to dry. Sharon wanted to wash her hair but people had arrived to play tennis. A woman and her son approached. They asked "Do you need anything?" That was one of the most pleasant questions touring cyclists could hear. We answered that we had everything we needed and thanked them for their concern. As they left, Sharon asked me, "Would saying a shower was something I needed be in the right vein?" We rode on small roads enjoying the scenery. Everything was vibrant green from the recent rains. Streams charged their way through flower bedecked meadows. One meandered furtively through a field then, glinting in the sunshine, doubled back on itself numerous times. Fishermen with long poles tried their luck. Cows were spectacularly white. Newborn calves glowed like heavenly visions. Gray wool lambs with black faces and legs bleated. Dandelions dotted meadows in an extravaganza of yellow carpet. It was idyllic except for the wind straight out of Siberia. With the strong headwind we even had to pedal downhill. I hated that. It felt like I was being cheated. The sun poked out from behind frozen cumulus clouds. My back felt hot while my front felt like an iceberg. It was like standing with my back to a campfire on a cold evening. France astonished me with its amazing number of paved roads. We had been on a paved one-lane across the top of a farmer's field without one house in sight. No one had passed us in either direction. We came out overlooking Saint Seine L'Abbaye where we admired the view from a strategically placed bench. I could tell Europeans weren't used to picnic tables. A couple set their lunch on the table then stood while they ate. Another car stopped, the driver got out, came to within twenty feet of us and took a whiz. Sharon marvelled at how uninhibited they were. We dropped swiftly into town to the abbey. Above the entrance were ghoulish gargoyles, their mouths hung open in a howl; their arms beckoned. The church had an intricately designed stained glass window. But instead of being able to enjoy its full beauty, all I could think was: "Too bad it didn't open." It smelled like someone had died in there and hadn't been found yet. I didn't enjoy the old churches. They smelled like mouldy rocks. Shingles looked like old cedar shakes. After passing a few buildings I realized they were actually flat pieces of rock stacked like shakes. I wondered how long the warranty was good for. The road paralleled a stream where Sharon stopped to wash her locks while I tried to fix the radio antenna. A forest was beside the creek. Sharon pushed her bike inside to find a camp spot as I finished putting the remaining screws into the radio case. When I looked up I couldn't see her. Confidently I pushed off into the forest. I wasn't able to see her until I spotted her pink bike bags. "Do you think we should go farther in?" she asked. "I don't think we have to," I responded. "I could barely find you and I knew you were in here." We chose a flat moss covered group of rocks. For a change, we wouldn't have to worry about playing steam roller during the night. And just when it was my turn to be on top. We had settled in comfortably for the evening when suddenly there was a grotesque howling. Something was caught in a struggle, then sub ethereal screams diminished into the woods. I was glad it had chosen a direction away from us. I told Sharon she had better sharpen a stick in case whatever that was came back. It had made the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. |
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