Tracing the line

Back home, in our little slice of Le Manoir, I let Relive know that the activity is over and Relive tells me in turn that we've walked 13 kilometres.  I pour us a glass of wine and pop some acras de morue in the oven for an apéro while Relive creates a satellite video of our peregrinations.  

A thin yellow line leaves our little slice of le Manoir and wriggles around a bit about 500m down the road; a quick stop at the garage to see if the car would be ready by Friday.  On the yellow line goes, veering off to the right beneath a bridge, and follows the bank of the lake.  A photo of Bernie staggering up a wooden ladder out of the water with a large stick in his mouth pops up.  On we go, the air yellow with mimosa and daffodils, wine red wooden balconies and twisted pine.  

The yellow line stops; a photo of a plate of oysters on ice and seaweed with the lake in the background.  Beyond the lake in the very hazy distance are the beginnings of the Pyrenees.  You can barely make them out.  

On we go, our belly's full of salty buttered bread and shellfish and our heads light with a côtes de Gascogne.  The line goes on, running beneath the inland dune where we can hear the muted boom of the ocean.  up it goes, into the dunes and back down where the waves are crashing.  the line staggers around the beach a bit which is me running back and forth with sticks for the dog.  A photo; a beautiful piece of seaweed, filigreed and like a miniature tropical tree lying in the sand.  I pick it up as a gift for my brother.  The line makes a wavering shape for a couple of miles along the beach then veers to the left, up over the dune and onto the esplanade. then back down , along to the jetty, through the town and back to our little slice of Le Manoir