Loches

"Her expression was of blank indifference. The wind whistled through the crevasses, and time stood still."

Loches, Loches, Loches. We entered this quaint medieval town at about 120 kph, rental car ablaze, chased by literally dozens of rampaging elephants. I remember jettisoning all our luggage at the first narrow sharp turn in the road. By a withered old woman beating an oriental carpet with a very weary-looking cat. In the rear-view mirror (through the smoke), we could see woman and cat rummaging through our stuff.

Speeding past castles, bars, cafes, and churches, we began to outpace the scampering pachyderms.

As Darkness Settled In

A View Up


Street	It's Jake	Old Rooms	Fortress	Blue Sky	Entry Gate	Narrow

Before long, we found ourselves quite deep underground. Pitch blackness and an absurdly curving stack of very small books surrounded us. I thought I smelled Kronenbourg beer.

That's when things began to get a little strange. I've never been a professional stage magician or fortune-teller, but at this point, I could have been convinced of just about anything. You could have told me that my whole left side was made out of bits of fuzz and rococo doilies.

Shady

A Gate

Nice Lawn


Sky View	The Donjon	Megan	Looking Down	The Old Cathedral

Hunger drove us to escape our earthy clutches (with armfuls of the tiny novellas). I think I later ordered tasty petite chickens for both of us and, of course, suds. With almost criminal passion, we ate, drank, and skipped about.


Church Door	Inside	Megan and a Fireplace	Plaque on the Floor

Comfort is key. So is history. Luckily, Loches is filled with plenty of both. And some of the opposite as well. Often in odd combinations. Somebody should take a very close look.

We hid out in a pretty terrific castle for quite a while. Megan was dressed as Joan of Arc. I became Charles VII. I overwhelmed my detractors by quoting profusely from my newfound miniature manuscripts, switching effortlessly from near flawless American English to English with a wild, wild French accent. Villagers of all ages gasped in awe of my linguistic prowess.

Looking Down from Tower

Dining

My victory was short-lived, however. I began to get that sloppy ping-pong ball feeling again. Bouncing between a desire to relax and a desire to sip lager, I was truly at a crossroad. Heck, we both were. I kept smelling Kronenbourg (1664). I had two distinct, vibrant visions of comfortable chairs. I don't know what Megan smelt or saw. We can only imagine.

I had to have oranges! But we were in Loches, of course! The storm really picked up at this point. Crashes of rain and bursts of thunder laced with electricity.

Living

Textured Walls


Portal Pose	Up the Stairs	Downstairs	At the Top	Prisoners in a Cell

Ducking the elements, we scurried down several flights of stone and iron stairs. We saw odd things and odd people. I tossed a runty tome at two guys in a cell. They drooped and/or napped.

Then trapped. We were down in the dreaded cellar. Where the creeps and rats crept and ratted about. I had a hankering to pose and Megan was always quick with the digital. A close inspection reveals my entrapment and classy footwear.

An Old Small Cell

Down in the Cellar

I demanded satisfaction. An escape was quietly revealed by wisps of stormy air wafting from time-worn holes in the wall, near a gilded door guarded by a witch-docent. Her expression was of blank indifference. The wind whistled through the crevasses, and time stood still. Until we managed to sneak out.

Of course we headed for a sidewalk cafe, featuring hostesses tempting our arid souls with pure liquid gold.

A Prisoner's View

A Fine Rest Stop