Last week’s story ended at Mont-Saint-Michel. Thinking of it still takes my breath away. It is awe-inspiring in its beauty, scope, location and singularity.

I count myself lucky to have finally gotten there.

One aspect I didn’t mention was the boxwood and rose garden on a cliff high up near the summit.

In some ways, it seemed perhaps out of place. But as I stared at it and the view stretching forever far below, I saw that it was in perfect harmony with this magic castle and abbey and mountain—all in one—and its many, many layers and features.

The next morning we were leaving early. I hurried a small breakfast and hustled the half mile down the road so I could get a last view of it. As with most spur of the moment walks, it was worth it. The morning sun glowed up the island, and now the tide was in, making it look like a floating castle.

I pulled myself away and double-timed back to the hotel so I wouldn’t be last to board the bus.

(A few years ago, my son and I visited St. Michael’s Mount during our Cornwall tour. It is grand and still royally furnished but not nearly on the scale of its French cousin.)

It was Tuesday. How could anything compete with the sensory immersions in Giverny, Omaha Beach and Mont-Saint-Michel and everything before and in between?

The next stop was Saint-Malo in Brittany. On the way, we passed stunning scenery like this windmill. (Moulin?)

We passed many brilliant yellow fields. They were mostly rapeseed grown for canola oil, but some may have been mustard.

Somehow there was a different feel when we crossed into Brittany. The Breton flag flew in many places.

That creature is a cloaked ermine in one field.

This is one of the six Celtic nations.

The Celtic nations or Celtic countries are a group of geographical regions in Northwestern Europe where the Celtic languages and cultural traits have survived.

(Hmmm… I wonder why Galicia isn’t included.)

Saint-Malo is a survivor. A walled seaside city seemingly untouched by modern times. The bus dropped us at the harbor where hundreds of sailboat masts bobbed and swayed in the gentle breeze. In another harbor behind us, big ships were being loaded and unloaded. There’s a great deal of ferry service between Saint-Malo and England—just across the channel. The single-handed sailboat race—the Route du Rhum—begins in Saint-Malo and ends in French Guadeloupe in the Caribbean.

Our guide led us into the city through a stone arch gate and onto the cobbled streets. We passed a brightly signed pastry shop.

“That is where you can get the famous Saint-Malo pastry Kouign-amann. “The name comes from the Breton language words for ‘cake’ (kouign) and ‘butter’ (amann.)” I’m pretty sure everyone in the group targeted the place for a return visit later. Thence to St. Vincennes Cathedral. Jacques Cartier, the European “discoverer” of Canada, was from here. He is featured in a large stained-glass window. (He also has a statue on the ramparts.) Thence to the ramparts, where we were given time to explore on our own.

You can walk around the entire old city on the ramparts. The views can be stunning. The waters are dotted with islands with medieval fortifications. Saint-Malo also has a strong history of piracy—or privateering. There’s a statue on the rampart to the most prominent one. The Corsair city gave the privateers free rein—as long as the king got a share. After I’d made the circuit, I went back down into the city. There are cafes and bistros everywhere you look. All look inviting. I visited shops and the marche (market)—with its tables of fresh meats and seafood and produce and even flowers. I wanted to try everything.

I did make my stop at the Patisserie Bretonnes and got a beurre et sucre version. (Butter and sugar.)

It was delightfully rich, sticky, crunchy, flaky, complex and simple.

Back on the bus and on to Loire.

Dinner that night was in a small mom-and-pop restaurant near Amboise—Le Bonne Etape.

We were told there was to be a singer there. He was a slight man with a tousled mane of gray-white hair.

He spoke very little English, but our guide, Karen, helped translate for him. He sang French favorites, enlisted tour group members to come up and sing along, and told anecdotes (which had to be translated.) He’d had a long history as a singer. One album produced long ago. He said he sang at Mick Jagger’s wedding. Mick has had a chateau just across the street for many years. He told the story of the Sinatra signature song “My Way.” It was originally a French song.

Paul Anka heard the song, altered the words, pitched it to Frank, and the rest is history.

He entertained us all throughout the wonderful dinner. He had plenty of jokes—which needed to be translated—and a joie de vivre that was contagious.

Here he is. (I’ve lost his name! I’ll get it somehow, and you can look him up—when he was much younger.)

We stayed over near Amboise, which long ago was the royal seat of government.

The area is riddled with miles and miles of tunnels. The area was mined extensively for stone for the chateau and other buildings. But the method was to dig sideways into the ground so as not to destroy the fertile surface land. The holes are now incorporated into homes built in front of them. Wineries use them as the perfect cool storage for their product.

Our first stop the next morning was Chateau de Chenonceau—the Chateau of the Women.

Or, “This castle isn’t big enough for the both of us.”

Catherine Medici married Henry II at 14. It was an arranged political union. But Diane Poitier became his mistress. (“Mistress” is a kind of informal court position.) When Henry became king, he gave the chateau to his mistress.

Sometime later, Henry was injured in a jousting accident and died a week later. Catherine now had the power to banish Diane.

Catherine, as a Medici, was a skilled poisoner. She had her own “pharmacy.” A typical assassination would be to give a gift of gloves lined with poison—like arsenic—to the target.

Diane was expelled from the chateau and wisely left quietly.

The chateau is in an idyllic setting. A river runs beneath one of its wings.

There are two formal gardens. The larger one is Diane’s.

The castle is filled with art and tapestries and artifacts.

Our next stop was the Monmousseau winery. This old family business specializes in bubbly—Methode Champenoise (champagne-like wine that isn’t made in the Champagne district cannot be called champagne)—as well as other varietals. The owner took us into the tunnels, and we passed tens of thousands of bottles aging to perfection.

Each section is labeled with the variety and the date set down.

“We have 18 kilometers of tunnels, but only use 6.”

6 kilometers of wine…

A forklift came rumbling out of the dark, transporting a load of bottles. Very surreal.

Of course, I bought a bottle to bring home.

From there, we went to the medieval town Amboise.

We were set loose to wander. I wanted to visit the chateau where da Vinci spent his last few years. He’d been invited to France by the king, who was a fan.

We rendezvoused at the set time after lunch, and a local guide gave us a tour of the king’s chateau.

It is set atop a low mountain, and the keep is filled with gardens. Off to one side is a chapel where da Vinci is buried.

They think he is buried there. His body was lost for a while a couple of centuries ago when the castle fell into disrepair.

When it was time to meet back at the bus, I stopped on the way at a bookshop I’d passed going in. There was a Little Prince display in the window. I knew I wouldn’t buy anything because I’d already picked up some souvenirs—taters in jars, wine…

But of course, I couldn’t resist.

One is an edition with new illustrations (I don’t know why I bought it. You can’t improve upon perfection.) The other is a folio facsimile of St. Exupery’s notebooks.

Thursday, the last day of the tour, I awoke to the news about Merry. That changed everything as I struggled to finish last week’s story and send it across the Atlantic.

We stopped at Chartres on the way back to Paris. It is a stunning cathedral. It survived the destruction that the wars and revolutions wrought on so many other buildings. It is built on a grand scale.

Its acres of blue-stained glass are famous worldwide.

I lit a candle and said a prayer for my friend and companion.

Back in Paris, we checked into the hotel. The rest of the tour was going to a group dinner and a Seine River cruise. I’d decided to pass on that. I liked the tour people, but I’d spent plenty of time with them. I’ve found these group dinners can often be… average.

I opted for one last evening in Paris on my own. I Ubered to the Arc de Triomphe and walked down the other side of the Champs-Elysees. It was a distance, but I continued to the Maille mustard boutique. I purchased two of their special brew mustards, which were decanted into ceramic mustard jars. Then I made my way over to Au Pied du Cochon. I hadn’t had snails yet! I couldn’t leave Paris without a dose of snails. I sat out on the sidewalk in the front row and watched all kinds of humans pass by.

Going home.

The trip was wonderful. It was just that the ending smacked me in the face.

I still choke up when I think of my little Merry. Little? He was nearly twice as big as his brother and littermate Pip.

I wish I’d been there. But he was in good, loving hands. Family.

We left for the airport at 8:15. Four of us from the group had a shuttle—a big black Mercedes van. I drove a few of those when I was the designated driver on our golf trips. They hold a lot of golf clubs as well as luggage.

The trip to CDG—Charles de Gaulle Airport—was pretty fast. I arrived with a few hours to kill.

Once I figured out where and how to check-in, I rolled my big, much-heavier-than-when-I -arrived suitcase to the drop-off counter.

“Can I purchase an upgrade?”

I was just fishing to see how much it would cost to fly lying down.

The agent looked at my “resume.” “20,000 points and $500.”

“I have points?”

I did the math mentally. 500 divided by 8 = $62.50 / per flight hour.

I knew I’d be fast-tracked through security.

Access to the lounge.

Priority check-in at the gate.

Priority luggage delivery at luggage…

I was a bit broken and didn’t want to face being an anchovy yet again.

So, here I am in the lounge sipping (real) champagne I’m permitted to pour myself.

Unsupervised.

Two hours til noon… why not?

Now I’m looking at the planes and runways through fuzzy eyes.

Oh, well, take the blows.

Ride the successes.

Merry 4/24/26 Over France
Rough and tumble
Two dozen pounds of muscle
Hard but tenderhearted
A smiler
A dancer
A fetcher
“Beautiful boy!”
Tears drop for your fall
When will memory stop cutting?
I will miss you
Cuddling in the dark
I will miss you
Looking expectantly
For the morning meal
I will miss you
Mon petit prince\Lord of the forest
15 years of joy
A lifetime of missing you
And memories in color
Every day

Merry 4/23/26 Amboise
So full of life
A master athlete
A warm friend each night
He would dance for joy
To make me smile with joy
A lover of all
Save vermin
Which he dispatched ruthlessly
He roamed the mountain
In his youth
Gone for hours
In rain, ice
Night and snow
No more will I be leapt upon
When I call his name
“Beautiful boy!”
Smile down at me again
As you smiled when here
My friend, companion
Mon petit prince
My big-hearted hero

The flight was very comfortable in my little bed.

I was able to get a lot of work done.

We landed in Dulles around 2 p.m.

I got to Frederick just in time to get Giles from the kennel. It cost a fortune.

Merry and Pip were brought to me. Merry wrapped in towels in a box.

It was raining too hard on Saturday to bury Merry. That morning, I’d taken the truck to the nearby landfill to get a load of compost. The ground on the mountain is too rocky to dig very deep. To prevent his grave from being disturbed, I decided to build a mound over it.

What an ancient American idea.

The giant loader scooped up the rich black-brown compost and dumped it in the bed of my pickup.

I’d brought a rake to smooth the load. A tarp to cover it. Four logs to hold it down.

Three quarters of a ton for just over $12. The best deal in this very expensive county. (Maryland was just named the most expensive state to raise a child.)

Then I went back to the warehouse to see how far behind I was because of my jaunt through northwestern France.

For the first time in years, there was only one Jack Russell terrier with me. Pippin, blind and ailing. I really thought he would be the first to go. Giles was in the dockyard with him. He’d gotten a shave at the boarding kennel. He looks so tiny and skinny without his winter coat.

In the afternoon, the rains came and continued into the night.

Sunday, I awoke before dawn. My body still feels 6 hours later than US time. I waited til there was enough light to go out and dig. I picked a spot on the edge of the forest, not far from the barn. That area was a favorite of his when I let him out in the morning to do his business.

I struck the ground over and over and over with the heavy adze. It cut through tree’s roots. When it struck, a stone the impact would come through the wooden handle and jar my hands, arms and shoulders. When it was as deep as I thought possible, I set him in the hole. He was wrapped in towels and in a box. I’d found a 50-pound slab of concrete at the warehouse. That was set atop the box. Then the truck was backed as close as possible. The space between two trees was just wide enough. Then I began shoveling the soil on top of my old friend.

Then, onto the warehouse. Another day of books.

There were some nice finds.

Tolkien.

An inscribed John Crowe Ransom.

My teacher at Connecticut College, William Meredith, taught me to love some 20th-century American poets. The Fugitives are among those.

I looked inside this Robert Frost.

I always look inside his books. He signed a lot. Did he have someone to sell his books at readings? Or were they brought by attendees in the hope that the great man would sign at the end of his gig?

There were a lot of other exciting finds.

I was tired by late afternoon. Grave digging, jet lag and book lifting had worn me out.

When I got home, I was too tired to start cutting up the tree that had fallen against the house while I was gone.

I think it was struck by lightning. Its trunk appears to have exploded about 20 feet above the ground.

Inside, I noticed Barbara’s cactus was in bloom.

“Thank you.”

Monday morning as I was hurrying off to work, I heard a bird thump against the bay window. That’s not unusual. Then I heard more thumps. Occasionally, birds will attack their reflection in windows. This bird was inside! Another weird occurrence. I can’t remember another. It was a wren. One of my favorite neighbors. They like to be around houses. Their nests look like a little pile of leaves. The song is beautiful and powerful for such a tiny creature. I closed doors so it couldn’t move around the house. I opened the bay windows. Many windows here don’t have screens. It improves the view. It soon found its way out. The question is, how did it get in?

Curiouser and curiouser.

Now it is Tuesday morning. Giles is sleeping close to my shoulder. I think he senses something. He’s been extra affectionate and needy since I got back. I was able to pick him up Friday night, just before the kennel closed. He danced with joy upon seeing me. Smiling, biting the air, snorting and snuffling…

Ok. Tuesday. I’m driving down to Gaithersburg with Bryan. Joey is coming in another van. I was there Monday pulling another mega order with Ernest. They still have a LOT of empty bookcases. We need to dedicate them to categories so no one will be tempted to create “temporary storage.”

Wednesday. Another chilly gray day. It is supposed to rain this afternoon and evening. It is 7 a.m. I did some journaling. Fed Pip and Giles. Gave Pip his 3 meds in a dollop of liverwurst. Texted my new friend in France. Emailed 5 of the bulk buyers with updates and pitches.

I’m going outside to plant two dogwoods by Merry’s grave. I bought three at Walmart about 6 a.m. Saturday. I had a list of things I needed to buy. One was mothballs to use as a deterrent in Merry’s grave and to conceal in small metal tanks in hopes of keeping the deer at bay. They did so much damage last year.

Odd, I’d been thinking about dogwoods, and when I pulled into the lot in the dark, I happened to park right next to them.

It is Thursday. The last day of April. Spring is fleeing far too fast.

Cold and wet and dark at 5 a.m. It rained most of the night.

After a grueling day in the warehouse, I headed home with plans to continue cutting back the shattered maple tree which had greeted me when I got home last Friday night. Out of my car and walking to the back door that night, something caught my eye. Something out of place. A big maple’s trunk had splintered about twenty feet up. The top half of the tree fell toward the house. The canopy was covering two big heat exchangers and much of the wall up to the gutter. I couldn’t see if there was damage because everything was covered in leaves and branches.

During the week, I cut away at it when I had time and daylight. I got most of the canopy cut back to the walled garden above the Delaware River stone patio.

Too bad about that garden. It has always been problematic. But late last year, the landscaper pulled out all the honeysuckle and mulched the whole area heavily. It was looking like something nice until the tree fell on it.

Now I have to figure out how to take out the fallen trunk and big branches. The problems are that the fallen trunk is still attached by splintered wood too high off the ground for me to cut. And the fallen trunk is propped off the ground by numerous large branches acting as “legs.” I can’t just go in and cut the legs willy-nilly. Some could have a lot of weight on them and cause trouble if they are cut into.

I think I can figure it out. I’ll leave the remaining trunk standing as a “totem.”

Even though it was raining, I dragged the branches I had cut to the edge of the slope below the upper driveway.

I’ll pull those down and make a pile. It will serve as a shelter and habitat for small birds and other animals. The two I’ve made on the other side of the house are successful. I see songbirds flitting in and out of it constantly and assume there are nests in there. The plague of deer has destroyed the forest’s understory. There’s not much shelter between the forest floor and its high canopy.

I got wetter putting mothballs in the old turkey feeders left by the previous owner and builder of the house.

He was an avid hunter, sportsman and conservationist.

I’m hoping the mothball smell will deter the deer from eating the gardens like they did last year. Deer weren’t a problem near my house before. The dogs’ presence kept them a good distance from the house. I’m also convinced the maniacal building projects turning farmland into townhouse wastelands have pushed valley deer toward the forest. And the aging dogs aren’t as active as they once were.

Thursday morning. Giles is acting squirrelly. I wonder if there’s a bear in the area?

Always something—good or weird and occasionally bad.

I’ve got to get to work. Big things brewing. Larry dropped off 600 boxes last night. Some got wet. I need to see how wet.

What to do with the time remaining?

I’ve barely looked at the gardens. They are lush and fresh and so many shades of green.

May 1st.

A chilly bright morning.

Another month…

Last evening, I planted a third dogwood around Merry’s Mound. The two seemed to lack aesthetic symmetry.