I shot a squirrel

This morning I opened the curtains deciding what to do on my last day in Bourges, as daylight entered my room I gazed out onto a white landscape.

Overnight a fairy had sprinkled icing sugar all over the town, cars were caked with snow, the railway tracks speckled as were the pavements. Snow continued to dance towards the ground, disappearing as it made contact.

While strolling off the map of Bourges, discovering a cemetery and prison, the temperature was like a yo-yo, the wind would pick up and with it more snow drifted down from the heavens. It would warm up as soon as the wind died down and the day would hold a promise of happiness.

Having wondered around a suburb of no name, I returned to the familiar side of the tracks. I hunted for the shy squirrels in the Jardin des Pres-Fichaux. Once the families had moved on with their boisterous children, the park quietened down with the birds returning to the ground, the crows returning to the branches and one single brave squirrel uncertainly scavenged around coming ever so close.  I waited patiently, not moving a muscle as it scampered around the path. It had the funkiest hairdo imaginable .

Once my mission of shooting the squirrel I trod onwards back to the cathedral where again, I sat inside spellbound by the 700 year old building. Not so many people were visiting the cathedral so I sat in silence for half an hour before walking around the aisles stopping at each stained glass window trying to understand the stories depicted.

When I returned into the real world, the ground was damp having just had a downpour. I was grateful I had remained dry in the sanctity of the cathedral, blissfully unaware of the bad weather.

Last night, after supper, I wondered around admiring the town under darkness. Pizza delivery bikes flew through the streets like mosquitoes, all the drivers leaning forward determinedly racing against the clock of cold pizza. The town was quiet with only a handful of people cruising the streets. The smells as I wondered the streets were gorgeous as I etched them into my memory. The smell of wood fires burning keeping inhabitants warm drifted down the streets, eateries preparing food or just the simple smells of a European winter wafted about. All pleasant.

Supper last night was at the restaurant at the base of the hotel. The little French I thought I knew turned out to be none at all. Tartar in my head is a sauce. Tartar d'buef in my mind was beef with a tartar sauce. Turns out to be nothing like that at all! I was served a plate made for a giant with an entire irish harvest of potatoe chips with what looked like a mountain of mince that the chef forgot to cook. I swallowed my pride, my knowledge of French menus and slowly, very slowly, I swallowed this meal that landed before me.

I sit in a square overlooking a fun fair like carousel, gazing out the window as people rush past to reach their destination quickly. I have just warmed my insides with a cafe or espresso and a chocolate muffin. I plan on heading back to the hotel to start the process of packing. This afternoon I will be going to Les Quais Du Prado, I fear the entire town might be here but I will brave the crowds. This place is the only shopping centre in Bourges. I have not been there so will take a wander.

I have checked the list once, twice and three times. I have seen all the sights of Bourges. Now for the final basketball game tonight before the early train to Paris tomorrow. My French adventure draws to a close quickly.

Bon journey from Pooh and I.