It just started to snow when I left Flauzins. By the time I reached Rieupeyroux the snow was sticking and I rediscovered the excitement of slip-sliding on black ice, losing control and regaining it, that moment of fear on a held breath, followed by the thrill of overcoming it.
There was no one on the road but me that Sunday morning; no one foolish enough to wander out on fresh snow, up and down twisty country roads.
Slowly the landscape lost its colors, white washed to near oblivion. Trees wore skeleton suits as blowing snow plastered itself laterally to trunks and branches, tracing their core, sketching their past in elegant white lines. The lush pastures of the day before morphed into a speckled nubby grey under the placid gaze of horses, soon replaced by some cattle and a few sheep, and quickly stood empty. No sign of life. Not a bird in flight, not a sound but the swish of wipers and the hum of wheels through slush.
Time undulates with the road. I am lost in the silence and whiteness; I do not recognize the road nor the world around me… did I slip down the rabbit hole? I keep driving on slippery slopes.
Then I arrived near Millau and the bridge rose among snow swirls in front of me, its cables spread like the sails of ghost ship frozen in mid cloud, gliding, appearing and disappearing in slow and chaotic vertical waves of snow. This other-worldly vision was soon overcome when I reached the cleared black road and a toll booth, killing the magic and brought me back where I did not wish to be.
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A bit scary. But I understand about coming back to a place where you did not wish to be.
I do not wish to be a lot of places, but I have yet to figure out where I wish to be if I could wish it.
Funny! It suggests that you are happy where you are., so why would you want to be any place else?