Bird of prey
En route, we sat in a roadside cafeteria overlooking a small rural vale in which sat a small farm. It was the hunting territory of a bird of prey, perhaps a kestral, perhaps a kite. We watched, fascinated, as the bird prowled its realm. It began sitting on the railing of the veranda our table overlooked and lazily swooped across the fields to the farmhouse gate and sat again. As we were eating, it was waiting its opportunity to do likewise.
We're in Annecy. It's a beautiful place, mountains, lake, narrow streets, old-town atmosphere.
|Sunset over Annecy|
|Moonrise over Annecy|
|Backstreet gig in Annecy|
|On Annecy lake|
I was struck, sitting in a town square bar, by the prettiness of the French language. En masse, it's a mellifluous babble. Definitely easier on the ear than any other we've encountered so far. It's not a new thought, I suppose, but against the backdrop of ten weeks and many different languages encountered, it reoccurred to me.