Worn Smooth

In the big 300 year-old fireplace downstairs a fire burns and crackles, warming the house and I am tucked away in my little bedroom at the top of the stairs above the Kitchen at Camont.

The rain has started. I can hear the gentle pattering of drops on the leaves outside my window. I wonder how many other souls have listened to the quiet of the night from under this same red tiled roof.

France’s edges are worn smooth. Wherever I look, there is beauty. In the Gascogne countryside, I see it in the smiles of the people who have welcomed me, fed me and helped me. Her song is sung in their mellifluous voices. As I run my fingers over her old stones, I feel it. The woodsmoke carries it as the sun sets and the night begins. I taste it in the local food, some of the best I have ever been privileged enough to eat.

Gascony is filling me with a grace I believed I had all but used up over the years. But, it is still here, and I am drinking it in slowly, replenishing myself…drop by drop.

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Comments

  1. bill law says

    kate, it has been a pleasure following your adventures in camont and environs this past week or so.
    your post today is beautiful…
    (it perfectly expresses feelings i was unable to articulate after my time there last march)

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