Fountain 25. St. Martin de Valalgues, Gard. 8 August

 My waterproof boots and waterproof jacket have deceived me. The rain has penetrated five layers and I am wet to the skin. However, my legs and the very top of my head are dry, so it could be worse. I tuck my gloves on top of the cylinder head to warm while I fill up the tank. Then squelch and swish through a fingerprinted door to the cash desk. A puddle collects at my feet as I struggle, numb fingered, with crumpled euros. The extremely disinterested man at the till said that it wasn't raining two hours to the south which, as fortune would have it, was exactly the direction I was headed.

                      

Within an hour the rain had stopped and for the first time I could see the landscape around me.

I was on my way to visit the allegedly very friendly/amazing/interesting person that friends of friends told me I would really enjoy meeting. I presumed at this stage that this enjoyment would be a mutual experience.
 I was torn between rushing to this rendezvous and taking in the sights, so I paused at the medieval village of La Garde Guerin. Built on the Chemin de Regordane, the village was a frontier post to protect travelers and their merchandise as they went from to and from the Mediterranean to the north with wine, salt, tin, spices etc.
For a poetically surreal account of the village visit this website
http://www.regordane.com/en/la-garde-guerin-lozere-48800/

  I climbed the spiral staircase to the top of the tower with French men in sensible shoes and French women in kitten heels and warmed up enough to remove a few layers which were still more than damp.

      A curious variety of styles and motifs on the superimposed engaged columns, 

including the pleasingly casual, off-centered crucifix, in the church of St. Michael.

    Then back on the Chemin de Regordane.

   The sun is out and it's hot: perfect for drying my clothes.

St. Martin de Valalgues

 I watch the men play boules and between turns they watch me eat lunch.

The game worked its way from the far side of the fountain to under my feet.

The little ball they are wanting to hit is a few inches below me, so I pull my legs up onto the bench careful not to upset my spread of cheese, tomatoes and olives.

 I watch the men as they take aim, swing the metal ball behind him and let go,
catapulting it towards me
I wonder if I'm in a dangerous place.