Mildred hadn’t liked Paris. The French, I’d asked? No response. But she was an avid Anglophile, a frequent visitor to Manchester from where I originally hailed. And loved Eire. Donegal. Ashamedly admitting I’d always meant to visit but hadn’t quite managed it.
We’d met in a cafe in Bon Wier. The only one. Almost three and I was ravenous. Sixty miles covered on an apple, a small bar of chocolate and the occasional sip of coffee. Meant to stop for lunch in Kirbyville twenty miles back but didn’t like the look of the place. There’d been another cafe shown on my map a little further on. But it was closed.
Most of the day had been spent slogging along the same stretch of busy four-lane highway. Tough headwinds. And quite a few dead dogs. One every few miles. No sympathy. Chased by far too many in recent days. Reliant on vitriolic abuse to fend them off. Spirits sustained by the odd passing truck filled with wood shavings. Delicious smell of fresh sap.
I’d gone for the pancake stack with a side order of bacon. Had to wait a while, but worth it. And close on thirty more miles to cover before dark, so I’d decided to opt for the addition of ’one egg and toast’. How did I want my egg, asked my server? Poached. Was that in water? Mildred overheard. She was one of the cooks here. Knew how to do it. And would I like some tea? No, I replied. Coffee was good and scrambled would be fine instead. Time to text my parents. "Louisiana. Two miles".
