pilgrims rest

the place where pilgrims rest. a town glued together by some relics of the Cross. what utter nonsense. yet for thousands of years pilgrims found themselves in this small village. we walked up the hill to the monastery. but not to visit it. for breakfast. behind the big monastery that fills half the space of st guilhem is a square with a massive p-tree in the middle. probably over a 100 years old. we order a typical french breakfast. it consists of a sawn in half baguette. strawberry jam. apricot jam. and strong black coffee. the cobble stones of the square glow in the hot morning sun of the mediterranean. a fountain with icy mountain water dances behind us. as if it is performing for the tourists. delightful atmosphere. a sense of spiritualism fills the air. not the religious type. the good type i guess. i wonder what it must have been like way back when. when the religious folk came to worship three chips of wood claiming to be from the Cross. if ever a money making scheme. we enjoy the tranquillity and laugh about the stupidity of relics. the village suddenly starts to wake as we work our way through 3 baguettes. tables are carried out of cellars. chairs packed out. umbrellas put up. cobbles swept and polished. perhaps the pope is visiting. i guess not. perhaps he has been here. not a chance. we order more coffee and the flying dutchman poses in front of the p-tree. a spiritual experience in itself. can one man be so silly. can one man make you laugh so much. i think laughter has more power than relics. what do you think. perhaps the laughter we left in st. guilhem will take the village to the next level. a new millennia. i truly hope so. long live the pope of laughter. long live the flying dutchman. viva la france. amen