Volume 51, Number 9 · May 27, 2004
Name in the Sand
By W.S. Merwin
In the early 1960s I was living in a village in southwest France overlooking the river Dordogne. For most or all of the year I explored the countryside on foot, and eventually I bought, from an acquaintance who was leaving the region, a Vespa, a wonderfully quiet model on which I could go putt-putting along back lanes too far away for me to walk in an afternoon. There was far less traffic in those days than there is now, and before I had the moto for long I took to fastening a bedroll and a few essentials onto the rack over the rear wheel and taking off to wander for a few days at a time, discovering the country to the southeast, southwest, always to the south. I wound my way along the Aveyron and across the Causse Noir. I slept in empty barns in woods or in small village hotels. The country, as I remember it, was still magically unselfconscious, as one hopes discoveries will be. It had years to go before the touch of tourism reached it. I am not sure now how many times, on those trips, I crossed the river Tarn and went up the hill along the river into the main square of Albi beside the huge brick block of the cathedral.
Feature, 3360 words
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