Monday mornings DON’T get me down.

The Tramantane has stopped howling and started whispering, although a turtleneck under a sweatshirt is required to maintain a comfortable body temperature.
My early morning walks are curtailed to woodsy areas within the confines of the village because it is hunting season and if I venture into the mountains I don’t want to be mistaken for a tall fox (probably the only time I’d be mistaken for a tall anything)
The old path to Collioure was a good start when I came across a Robert Frost moment,

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Unlike Frost and much of my own past, I took the path more trod.

I love looking at how the old mountains fold into themselves. Occasionally a shot would echo down and I wondered if a boar had given up its life to become a roast and sausages.
If I could ever figure out how to get this photo at the top of the blog, I might replace the Boston Gardens one now there heading EXCEPT, my New England Yankee roots run deep. The last time I left Boston I wasn’t sure if I would ever go back, but as they say you can take the girl out of Boston, but not Boston out of the girl. Besides, I cannot deny so many decades of my life nor do I want to.
As I gazed at the mountains the next scene for Mama’s Ring the novel I am currently writing came into my head. Five-year old Pippa is in tears and Mama Martha arrives and saves the day to the astonishment of both MM’s daughters, Emily (Pippa's mom) and Helen, and off they will head to Boston Children's hospital where Pippa will undergo yet another round of tests to see why she has the fits of uncontrollable vomiting.

Thus armed with my writing plans I headed for a cup of tea at La Noisette and a last read before going home. Unlike most days, the tearoom was deserted, but then it is Monday and many of the stores are closed and the wind does not encourage people sitting outside. But the tea is just as good, and the 13th century church stones just as lovely and I can chat and commiserate with Patricia the waitress about her upcoming holiday, which will be spent in Argeles because of her sick son.

By the time I reach my computer, the morning has half gone by, and as I am about to settle into my writing, I am anything but down feeling that my day has already been a success in terms of just plain revelling in life.