text: Bordeaux to Dax - Peregrinations
  Day 34. June 10, 2013. Le Bouscat to Grandignan
  The priory at Grandignan
  I was delighted to pass by the Palais Gallien again, a misnomer, because it was never a palace, but wrongly identified as such centuries ago, and the name has stuck. Even what remains is a wondrous sight. Hidden away in the middle of a rather bon quartier, the equivalent of what my old Aussie mate George would call a leafy suburb, behind the stone houses sits in silence this magnificent ruin, once loud with the clash of armour, roar of lions, and cries of Christians. The whole structure remained until the 18th century, when most of it was demolished to make way for the expansion of the town.
  For lunch, I bypassed the many bars and brasseries around the squares and found a humble little restaurant in an old stone building on the way out of town. I ordered le plat du jour, a couple of kebabs with salad and chips, and my usual quart de rouge. This aways comes in a little jug , but there is room for stinginess or generosity on the part of the establishment. One can fill it up to the neck or up to the lip of the jug. I pay great attention to this. When the wine arrived, I could tell I was in Bordeaux for the wine was a deep red, and the level was closer to the lip than the neck. I was content. It was a very pleasant meal.
  Day 35. June 11, 2013. Grandignan to Barp
  I trudged. Words have magical connotations and connections because of their sounds. You trudge like a drudge. Trudging has a touch of shuffling and suffering about it. Trudging can become tumbling and stumbling. You trudge across a muddy plain. You trudge through sludge. You trudge along a dirt road with the light grey colour of the soil matching your mood. You trudge in a straight line to get where you want to go. I trudged.
  Day 36. June 12, 2013. Barp to Saugnac
  Day 37. June 13, 2013. Saugnac to Labouheyre
  Plane trees at Labouheyre
  I was half way along the five kilometres to Pissos, when a fellow on a bike haled me in English and stopped to chat. "You're from Quebec," he said. "I've heard of you. I met this lady with a very loud voice."
  Mike was from Texas, and had walked from Paris to Tours, but had then bought a bike to continue en velo. It was a pleasant little interlude. We chatted for about ten minutes, and then he was on his way. We won't see each other again, but we'll probably remember each other because of the lady with the loud voice.
  I remember singing a song from Annie Get Your Gun in a school concert, and now as I think about it, I find that intriguing. There was no music in my home, no singing, and yet something must have encouraged me to get up and perform. It was a good school I think, the East Claremont Practising School, or Prac, as we called it.
  Day 38. June 14, 2013. Labouheyre to Onesse et Laharie
  My old mate John from Perth has asked me about my favourite piece of music. Last year he set me off by asking a similar question about poetry. This time I won't go on at such length, because when it comes to music, I'm very much an amateur in both the English and French senses of the word. I lack the knowledge and understanding to appreciate the subtleties, so my criterion is pretty basic: the music simply has to carry me away.
  A piece immediately comes to mind: from the opera by Bizet, the Pearl Fishers duet sung by Jussi Boerling and Robert Merrill. This is one of those pieces which rises above the level of the rest of the opera. Great music is great all the way through. Other music has moments of sublimity where the composer achieves greatness in morsels. The Pearl Fishers duet is simply sublime.