Mountain song

The sky grey above the hills, chill breeze draping itself upon the street, the sound of cocks and dogs calling the morning into being, a soundtrack of birdsong between the sound of engines. And coffee. Always coffee. A black and white puppy approaches, curious but uncertain, sniffs around a couple of metres away and departs. As I sit the others from yesterday appear, rucksacks on their backs as they head up to the crossroads to catch the bus to the border. Brief farewells and I'm left alone to return to the contemplative mood which seems to have gathered around me since arriving in Sam Neua.

Finally gathering some momentum I head up the street to Prakesh's restaurant for a breakfast of puris and potato curry and it's wonderful, stirring more memories, a small place in the alleys of Varanasi. And I wonder if, maybe, this is one of those places that offer a portal into the past, that will call you back, remain with you long after you travel the road out. Or maybe it's infused by the morning mood, the knowledge that the calendar is spinning, that time spills too quickly around you and departure begins to loom, to cast shadows upon the day.

But then the sun breaks through, burns the last of the mists and blue skies carry small clouds across the expansions of hills which surround the town, suddenly hot beneath the unchecked glare. Walking around town I meet jack again, am invited to his house where an hour is spent chatting, learning, laughing; invited to eat I decline still full from the morning, set out wandering up towards the junction, working out geography and distance in the preparation for leaving - although there are two buses a day back down to Sam Neua they're often cancelled, but there's a bus from Hanoi passes around midday - although the thought raises no enthusiasm in me.

This place, quiet and beautiful, friendly and slows enchants me, the kind of place my younger self dreamed off and which, in each journey I still hope to stumble upon.

The afternoon heat lessening we go for a walk, meet another man I'd met yesterday, take his advice and head out of town following a road into the hills and then a narrow path through foliage, higher. Here two teenage girls appear, carrying logs of wood, which must weigh more than they do, tied to frames upon their backs as they descend towards the town. Keeping to the path, eventually a clearing, surrounded by  hills fading towards horizons, the town far below, the views spectacular. 

And then it happens, as it always does, I step on a hidden bamboo shoot, feel it slice through my sandals, a sharp pain as it breaks through flesh and I jump backwards, wondering how deeply it's gone in, what damage it's caused. Time to descend, find a seat and clean it, hope its not too deep, that nothing's broken off inside it. But I get lucky, the skin's punctured but not deeply, no blood, but nothing to clean it with and still a couple of dusty miles back down into town. 

Standing by a lake, night falling, pinkish cloud high high above protruding rocks and their dark reflections; the sounds of competing karaoke beneath the bright, sharp, crescent of the moon rippling in the water. And then it's fully dark, bright light upon the water, clear stars above the lightless street, quiet settling once again.