Last night’s stay was in the shadow of a grain silo. Quiet and peaceful though that may have been, it was not, as they say in the Brisbane Valley “Picture Esk”.
Today’s spot is a little different, with quaint little houses built beside converging mill streams, with a great Gothic church from the fourteenth century overlooking it all. “After centuries of warfare, it is now the only historic building left in the upper town”, says the description in the brochure. This in a town where many of the lower village buildings are still visibly scarred from wars of a somewhat later time, and as always the impact on us is sobering if not sombre-ing.
It’s an arguably more civilised kind of war being fought at high volume on a television set today as we browse the shelves in the grocery shop. Argentina is a goal ahead of France well into the second half, and the shop-keeper is not looking at all happy. We consoled her as best we could in the face of what seemed like certain defeat. “Ah”, she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, “It doesn’t matter, we will still come to work tomorrow.”
By some miracle, France made a comeback in that match, and we moved on, unsure whether the shop would be open tomorrow or not.
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