11th Day

11^th Day

            Bonjour!

            One week ago I am biking into Eymoutiers chased by rain.  One week later the villagers are greeting me.  I ran into the younger and taller cleaning lady at the Casino.  Last night there was no rain and no other campers.  The hill was dry and all mine. 

            After using the Internet I surveyed the town.  This looks like the weekend of the year.  Carnival rides are being set up in the Stalingrad Square.  The appellation was puzzling and doubly so when one of the avenues bordering the square was Ave de Karl Marx.  The rides are common to all carnivals, bumper cars, merry-go-round, Ferris wheel, and so and so on.   

Every shop is decorated with the same red and white bunting that stretches across the streets.  I took several pictures and I hope this technically challenged old guy can up load them on the next blog.

            I bought another can of Butane at a hardware store and paid 50% more than the one purchased in Limoges.  This was the first sign of being a tourist trap.  Hopefully, I wasn’t gouged too badly for the jacket.

            The village was bathed in sunlight during the entire tour of the village.  As I headed up the hill the weather started to turn nasty.  The last vestige of shadow faded away as the gray clouds covered the remaining patches of blue.  The rain lasted for an hour before giving away to a light drizzle and sunlight. 

            More and more I recognize the value of show and tell in education.  I want to find a type of soup I show an old package.  I want to find a can of Butane I bring along a can of Butane.  It has to be equally effective in the classroom.

            During an interval of sunshine I walk the perimeter of the campground.  Only Peter Rabbit, the tan bunny, is hopping about and he scurries beneath a fence and out of sight.  Curlicues of gray smoke are rising from the chimneys of the stone cottages bordering the park.  By the sixth trip the sprinkles have returned.

            It looks like another night of camping alone.  It is very quiet up here on the hill.  My birds are back, two little wrens, not the seagulls that terrified Tippy Hedren in the Alfred Hitchcock thriller.  They are pecking at the crumbs that fell from the table.  

            Eight nights on the mount.  The rains came back with vengeance.  This morning the fog is down to the treetops.  I hope the weather cooperate for the village’s big weekend.

            At 11 last night, a SUV drives in and deposits two young teenagers.  They set up a tent in the covered laundry area.  I walk around to see what is happening.  The be speckled, gray haired lady driving the SUV must be the mother of one of them.  Soon after, she drives off.  This is definitely not Griffith Park in “Rebel Without a Cause.”  I read until they quiet down.  Then at 3 they start talking loudly enough to wake me.  After several minutes I hustle to their area and motion them to hush.  They do but now I am wide awake.  I finish the mystery novel by Baldacci before falling asleep.  Down to one book by Coben.