Last Walk to the Beach (LWB) Part 1

It sounds a little like dead man walking doesn’t it, but it’s far less dramatic. I merely want to take one last walk before going home to Geneva. I’ve made this walk for over 27 years and although the trees have stayed the same, a majority of other things have changed.

Many of the 18^th century houses have been replaced with ticky-tacky vacation homes and slightly less ticky-tacky year round homes.

I miss the scrawny Catalan women with their black dresses, shoes and stockings and white aprons. Their gray hair was always pulled back in tight buns like my Nova Scotian grandmother. On a table in front of their houses, they would sell courgettes, tomatoes and aubergines from their front gardens trusting passers-bys to call to them to come out so they could be paid.

The last vineyard was replaced four or five years ago by the gendarmerie.

This walk always has memories:

*Of my oohing and ahhing over the beauty of everything French and Bill pointing to dog droppings and telling me they were more beautiful than American dog droppings.

*Of walking with a lover at night, his arm draped around my shoulder and bats flying over head. He told me of the good things bats do, what cleverly constructed creatures they were.

*Of the outdoor movie theatre where I saw Crocodile Dundee in French without understanding a word. The area has now morphed into a miniature golf course.

*Of the man who ran one of the camp grounds along the route, suggesting we go out. I didn’t.

*Of running through the rain to get back to the village

But they aren’t sad memories, just accumulated ones, because I will make new memories with each excursion. And this walk will be held in my heart until the next time I do it.