It was a cool morning in mid-April, and we set out across the French countryside through a thick mist that was almost rain. Eric walked ahead with the Brothers Grim, peppering them with questions and practicing his French. They loved him.
I lagged behind as we crossed a field of brilliant springtime green, so I was alone when two deer leapt gracefully across the dew-wet grass, chased by a black dog that seemed more determined than vicious.
The dog didn’t bark, and the whole scene was weirdly serene. They disappeared over a rise while I stood frozen, trying to remember the French word for “deer” to alert the others.
They never saw it. The moment was magic, and all mine.
camino times two 