The Song of the Other

steBarbe12

Alder staff in hand, boot-shod feet sore from several days of hard-trudging, I walked slowly through fading day of the fleeting summer to the tiny village of Sainte-Barbe. To my left the sea and descending sun, to my right the fields of gorse and grass concealing ancient standing stones, and always ahead the image of my destination--its wind-worn spire rising steadily in the distance. In the village, I shook off my boots and hooded tunic, laid my staff against an old stone wall and entered … [Read more...]


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