France. Day 1: Two Truths And A Lie.

This time? You're off to France. Ryanair. You don't have Priority Boarding. You glare at those in the Priority Boarding queue. You should have got Priority Boarding. 

Soon, you're above Carcassonne, circling. Circling. Circling. The pilot speaks: 'Sorry for the delay, ladies and gentlemen. There appears to be a hole in the runway. The French tell us they should have it fixed in about fifteen minutes.' You smile with the others. As the plane jerks to a punchy, paroxysmal halt on the holey runway, the stewardess lets out a gasp of shock and fear. You smile with the others.  

Later, you sit and watch as a bat collides with a branch of the almond tree. There's a date inscribed high up on the front of the house. You try to remember if it was Napoleon who changed the calendar or if it was one of those Central Asian dictators. Or both. You wonder if you'd change the names of the months, of the days of the week, of every single person, if you had the power. 

The rabbit hutches are worn, neglected, locked. Histories murmur from within the stone walls. At seven, the Angelus tolls. You think about Skibbereen and famine pits and colder, simpler days. You miss the heart of your life. The light here is sharp yellow, the heat hard and strong. You're glad to be here and so, so glad for the wit and wisdom that's here with you. And you want to be at home.