The front door of our gite during magic hour.
The fields wait for warmer spring temperatures.
A small cabbage survives through the frosts. |
EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNAL December 12, 1998
Near Urrugne
Cote Basque
Rich’s shadow is a Giacometti. An orange sun brushes the treetops
and our babbling Nivelle reflects an overgrown network of naked branches. He stands on the
pad of soggy grass in front of the gite and describes the clump of mud he’s removed
from beneath Alfi’s headlights. The wiring has been caked with mud and leaves and the
connections intermittently connect with all the jiggling and road debris.
Rich wears the headlamp and conscientiously explores Alfi’s
underbelly. Tired turn signals, headlights, a lazy rear defog, that disconcerting rubbing
noise that reflects on stone walls when we drive slowly through medieval towns. The day is
warm and Rich investigates his peeves. |
Rich fixes Alfi's turn indicator wiring through the headlamp.
The remains of a satisfying scratch sit on fence wiring. |
