|Did we take a wrong turn? Thought Waikiki Beach was in Hawaii!|
Love the song, "I was born under a wandering star," from the Lee Marvin movie, Paint Your Wagon. "When I get to heaven, better tie me to a tree ... cuz I'll just start a-wanderin, and you know right where I'll be ..."
D-L must've been born under that same star because she's a curious explorer too.
(By the way, this is a 'dueling blog.' D-L and I are blogging about the same experience without reading each other's first. You can read her version of events at: http://theexpatwriter.blogspot.fr/2013/06/getting-into-rhythm.html.)
This evening we hopped in Barbara's car, and ostensibly headed for the beach. But before we could even turn toward Argeles Plage, we decided to meander north. I'd heard about a 'certain' secluded beach that I'd tried to find before on my own, unsuccessfully. D-L had once been there. But that was more than two decades ago, so no she didn't know the way either.
We continued north, trying just about every turn that seemed like it might lead to the sea. No beach. Or at least not the one I was searching for.
Before long we had left Argeles-sur-mer altogether, and one road we turned down looped back under the so-called highway (two-way traffic). As we awaited a long line of cars, led by a tractor trailer, the truck almost plowed into us as he tried to turn into the little side road we were on. A kind car driver allowed us to cross the traffic and continue north again.
Soon we were running a gauntlet of hundreds of parked cars on either side of the road, people of all ages streaming to a wooded area with multiple tents. We later learned from a poster that it was a music fest. One lazy guy stuck his thumb out, hoping for a ride to the entrance.
Not finding the Plage Nord, we continued up to Saint Cyprien, and I showed Donna-Lane the golf course where I plan to practice and play ... when I get a chance ... and perhaps she'll join me from time to time. She had played golf growing up in Reading, Massachusetts, and again with colleagues when she worked at Digital Credit Union.
Finally, I wanted to show her some thatched huts I had noticed on a previous solo wandering. Fishing huts, she readily noted. She suggested we pull in for a closer look, and we ended up strolling down a gravel path, stones crunch-crunching together as we stepped. The path was bordered by a site naturel protégés and featured little signs describing the various plants in the marsh. At the end of the path was a large inland lake, edged by a warm sand beach and wind-blown scrub pines.
So I guess we found a beach after all, and it was to the north. It wasn't the beach we had set out to find in our mini-quest. But it's not really about the beach, is it? Life isn't about the view itself - it's about sharing the view.