The full Hemingway - as described in A Moveable Feast. Coffee (that cup is a joy - it sings out La Belle France, non?), calvados and pencil and paper.
But the little shot against a cold morning can be the start of a slippery slope, apparently. And it can be hard, or even impossible, to climb back to the moral high ground. Apparently. Who cares, it's freezing out there and I've still got around twelve miles to walk tonight where I hope a wood marked on the map will provide shelter and concealment. As I get closer to Paris wild country, woods and derelict barns are becoming rarer. I contrasted the way of the wolf against the path of the dog (and perhaps that's also the way of Werner Herzog contrasted with Paddy Leigh Fermor, my two very different walking influences on this jaunt) in an earlier post. Perhaps for the last hundred miles to Paris I'll be more like a cunning urban fox.
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