Memories in My Morning Macchiato
Ah, coffee © A. Harrison
Sipping my macchiato of a morning, my memories drift back to Mont St Michel. Obviously. Intriguing how food and smell and memories are so intertwined (I believe Proust may already written something along these lines).
My link lies in a small cup I bought there, a post-modern pattern of blacks and browns, born from the island’s swirling tides.
Twice a day I watched these tides from the safety of the town’s ramparts, which have proved impregnable down the centuries to both sea and invading hordes. Victor Hugo wrote of the waters sweeping in à la vitesse d’un cheval au galop (as swiftly as a galloping horse).
The tidal flats of Mont St Michel © A. Harrison
A bell tolls when the surge begins for, like many a medieval pilgrim, people still drown making their way across the tidal flats.
Some forty montois, or locals, live on the island. Since most tourists come only for the day, as evening fell I sat in a deserted cemetery tucked amongst the houses at the foot of the Abbey. St Michael soared above me, sword raised to the heavens, but stone seats in the wall offered a place to sit and gather repose. A place to feel the spirit of the island, as it pulsed to the rhythm of the tides.
Then the bells called. Having ebbed, the tides began to swirl once more. A glance away, and when I look back swathes of sand have disappeared beneath the unrelenting water. Soon the island will become a bastion of solitude floating on the waves.
Such memories sleeping in a small china cup, now with a broken handle, and which holds at most two mouthfuls of coffee.
A couple of my other blogs you might wish to read:
Just like drinking my macchiato, chopping an onion becomes a lesson in contemplation
A video compilation of photos taken in Paris
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