Stone Houses

Day 2 was harder for all the reasons I thought I’d enjoy it more. I caught my train into the countryside and was directed to a quaint hotel on a big roundabout, but otherwise surrounded by fields. I dropped my bags and went for a walk along the country roads, enjoying the views of rolling hills, white cows and stone houses. It’s exactly the sort of scenery I like to join. Few cars whooshed by. The cows took an interest in the man with the foreign smell. Each house, separated from its neighbours, had its own history, often overshadowed by a huge wooden barn that leant threateningly over the house. But it all made me sad. This was the life Marie and I had talked about having. We’d buy a house in a sleepy village like this, rent out the house, do up the barn and use it as a base to store our things and come back to between jaunts in developing countries.

By the time I got to town, sad became angry and I was looking for release. I bought a bar of dark chocolate and a bottle of water for 1 Euro 72 and sorted out 72 cents in change. I didn’t have a 1 Euro coin, so I gave the checkout lady a 2 Euro coin. “No no no,” she said, in the condescending way of some French, after she’d watched me go through the whole exercise. “C’est trop.” She held up the 2 Euro coin, “C’est suffis,” and put the rest of the change back in my hand.