The new day dawned in a sky clear of cloud, bringing warmth and light which returned us to consciousness. I was quickly elected to obtain fresh bread and set out to research the choice available. The question wasn't merely which of the six scattered boulangeries to give trade to, but of the variety they presented. Pale fluffy pain de campagne, dark and dense pain de seigle, rugged pain de six cereales, or pain aux noix studded with knobbly promise. They came as plaited brioche, slender baguette, or mighty miche just to confuse matters. The quest for healthiest options usually reduced me to the humbler shapes of pain complet, but the near variant pain de son always confused the issue. I ended up with a dark mixed grain loaf crowned with a stippling of mixed flakes; the promise of health under-written by the legend au levain naturel.

  So, it wasn't such a quick shopping trip, as Karen would well have known! My return found that she had drifted off after my exit and was just coming-to again now. The bread was soon sampled and pronounced 'good to excellent', but I hankered after porridge; this was prepared with salt and water to a stodgy consistency, then served with butter. It was an uncommon choice which evoked an uncommon memory of trekking days in Ladakh; this current choice substituted oats for the barley which is a staple of the diet there.

  Having been severely affected by the altitude in a rushed crossing of the pass, Shingo La (5500m), I stumbled in 'other-worldly' frame through snow and ice to discover the rocky terrain of the upper valley, where distant cries of the yak herders rang. I suffered an extremely rare loss of appetite, and an even more worrying lack of alimentary through-put which lasted five days! The derangement also included nausea. There was no swift cure for any of these symptoms as the valley holds its altitude well; my mind cleared first, then the nausea slowly subsided. The oases of village life surrounded by verdant barley production beckoned a welcome in this arid terrain and the very occasional trees gained extreme significance.

  My quenched appetite lagged the valley's augmenting vivacity until I followed the purple robed traders to the village of Itchar; there I was installed in a dwelling on a hillock which stands proud of the valley floor. From the outer sides, this vantage point kept watch over the tumbling Zanskar river and the scant eroded footpaths which led from Kargyak and on to Padum. The col adjoining the mountain flank held a large chorten and an irregular polygonal mani wall, where children played and goat herds milled in waiting. I slept a good night in the room with earth floors, and in the morning after I arose and dressed, a purple shawled lass with an honest round brown face knocked and entered; she brought me a small steaming dish of ... porridge, re-fried in salty yak butter.

  It was late morning by the time our breakfast finished in Amélie, and now the sun was streaming into the room; this brought Mediterranean heat, to a level unparalleled in previous weeks. The privacy offered by the second floor balcony prompted Karen, to get down to some serious tanning of those parts which are rarely reached. I left her to this time-consuming business and went in search of internet access. From the plane shaded place at the top of the hill, I crossed the river which descends from the Gorges de Mondony and travelled the far bank to gain the busy center. An enquiry in the library sent me to a computer in La Poste.

  The staff there were keen to sell me a 7 Euro access card, but could not help in detailing the type of service offered or the conditions attached; as it seemed I had no choice, I subscribed reluctantly. After insertion of the card, the computer quit its scrolled and pop-up advertising to welcome me to the log-in screen. There began the difficulties, in filling a box obligatoire demanding my postcode. I got round this somehow, but then the program demanded an email address and password; it was obviously designed for local residents. I squinted at french instructions and bypassed these obstacles to actually raise the front page of lycos.co.uk; at last! The relief however was short-lived, for after logging in, the system abruptly kicked me out. Several re-tries proved that this was no vagary of digital protocol and I finally gave up after wasting 25min of my card, spitting hate and venom for the ill-presented system and its keepers. It was finally apparent that this option was not going to speed my words ahead of 'snail-mail'!

  After obtaining postcards, I jostled with the crowds which come here to seek better health; the thriving establishments which permit access to restored Roman baths are not alone in extracting revenue from these pilgrims, for the brass plaques and knockers on the portals of the medical professionals also attest to amassed wealth. I travelled the pavements watchfully, anxious to avoid that which yesterday's deluge had not managed to flush; French dogs (or their owners?) are not so well trained as their British counterparts! Re-entry to the appartment block freed me of the throng and the piped music which seems to animate it. Inside, I found that Karen had dozed yet again, permitting intense UV to smarten tender white loins in an un-anticipated fashion.

  The postcard writing was completed, but I decided that Mother was due a call; the question was, could I rely on her to record my kiosk No. before the remaining two units of the phonecard expired? ring ring, ring ring, ring ... 'Hello Mother, can you take this number down please?'
  'Oh its you Lee, just let me get a pen!' One unit gone 'Hello, yes ?'
  'The international code is 00 33, and then its 04 68 83 87 9 ...' beeeeeep 'Damn!' I exited back into the now quiet street, wondering if I could still find a shop from which to acquire a new card; daylight and shopping hours were coming to an end. Back down the hill, I found one, and another phone box nearby. Mother hadn't given up on me and of course was ready with the pen this time. She relayed family news, the death of a near and dear friend, and the hassles of a recent plane journey.

  Beyond the perspex kiosk walls, a mangy half-starved kitten was learning some trying life-lessons. Intoxicated by the odour of grilled fish remnants emanating from inside a large green municipal bin, it leapt from adjacent boxes to surmount the lid. I first saw its head and shoulders appear over the far side, before it slipped back. It came into view and earshot mewing pitifully, to try again on the near side, but lacked the power to accomplish the mantelshelf finish from boxes available, and fell earthwards, twisting inexpertly to regain its feet. As if these trials were not enough, it was then discovered by a sturdier stray which obviously considered the bin to be part of its territory. The ensuing skirmish had a predictable outcome, but after the older cat had re-inspected this nook to conclude it was not missing anything, the kitten returned from the shadows. It eventually scrabbled onto the lid top, to find no access past secure latches, there to dither perplexed, tormented by the smell of food, so near yet so far.

  The call finished and I exited the kiosk to seek the kitten, but it was wild and fled my approach, melting into the shadows. Back at the flat, Karen had some dinner ready; I fended off the pique to conscience plagued by the visage of that poor waif as we settled to dine. We surfeited profusely and even excessively on salad and a hotpot of chestnuts, orange fleshed squash and tomatoes. The washing was dry, we were well stocked and rested. The next three days should see us push right ahead to journey's end and we felt ready to depart; in fact, it seemed essential to do so, for our bodies would not stand another feast of such inordinate proportions!