We're walking in the village of Camon. An old lady is standing by her front door, keeping a light hold on a steel post. Prettily dressed, with a knit top matching her skirt, wearing slippers. She starts talking with Roger. She had heard something like the noise of someone walking with a cane (Roger was using his tripod as a walking stick), she wondered is somebody had hot hurt and might be needing help, so she came out to check. She is merry and in perfect command of her mind. Roger says that she reminds him of his mother, who’s ninety-seven years old. She laughs gaily. Ninety-seven? I’ll have you know I’m ninety-eight.
She wondered is somebody had hot hurt and might be needing help, so she came out to check. She is ninety-eight years old.
I would have loved to take her picture for this travel log. I didn’t dare to ask.
I really liked this recounting of your encounter. People don't use descriptors like “Merry” anymore. And the woman herself sounds delightful; I too wish you had been able to get a picture of her, but never mind I'm sure reading this in the future will bring her back clearly to your mind.
RépondreSupprimerTaking this opportunity to catch up with your blog. Love the pictures, and especially the video of one of the B&Bs where you stayed–it's a couple posts back I think–makes me really wish we were there.