Last night the moon rose so large in the south that for a moment it looked wider than it was tall. Not a perfect circle. It had that slight orange tint that folks tell me is pollution in the atmosphere messing with the light. It was quiet in Collioure, especially compared to Friday. Friday the streets heaved late into the evening with tourists licking ice cream cones and wandering from restaurant to bar to beach. And by Saturday night they were gone. Back to whatever they call normal life, away from this small gem on the Med. I got here Thursday and went straight to work. Harvest is timed well to coincide with the exodus.
We sat and had a beer and watched as people raised their phones in a vain attempt to capture the moon. I'd left my camera at home and swore about it for a moment.
Walking these streets triggers memories. Like St Andrews, it's one of those places you never quite leave. There's always some sort of residual vestige of having been there. It's such a curious feeling, that sense of being somewhere and inhabiting it completely. I don't understand it, which is probably why I spend so much time writing about it.
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