Thank you St Thomas

Decided late today not to take the cycling to excess. You can damage yourself permanently and I don't want to become muscle bound. Instead had a late start, did some drawing. Opened the book on drawing trees and tried my hand at it. Wished I had started the oil painting thing, all the way. Got quite pleased with the pencil drawing of a tree filled landscape. Promised myself that I would do it in oil, one day.

Late in ther afternoon we decided to go to St Thomas le Bain, a hot spring bath in the mountains. After paying a four euro's each we waited , "un minuit" while the scramble eased in the small room of changing cubicles. Moments later were were stripped off and in 'our togs", as Gina would say. Heading for the outside door. The winter forest was bare and a chill wind whisteled down from the peaks surrounding. Nonchantly, and with much British pluck we strode forth deleiberately without fuss, reaching for the plume of hot sulferous streams that serve as "les douches". Then we were in the pools for two hours of soaking relaxing joy. There is something ancient, Roman, decadent, about lazing in a hot spring as the sun goes down, watching other people, come and go, splish and splash. The clump, clump, clumpclump, clump of the shivering steps from glass door to the first hot shower. Each clutching ones body parts as if the cool twilight air would rip them from us, given half a chance. With great stoic phlegm, I perused the cold bathroom at my childhood home created much less fuss, yet was twice as cold regularly.

Then were else can you watch young woman smile almost furtively to their boyfriends as they manouvre astride a hot jet of water gushing deep from the magma in the netherworld. And young men make amusing remarks to each other about "pour votre plaisir".

The first hour saw the sun go down and wrinkles appear on every digit. Steam willowed away over the wall and down the valley. Another hour and it would be dark! To sit in hot water, in the cold air yet warm. What luxury. One by one the pool lights flickered into life and new shadows were cast. On my back with the hotest jet pummelling by nagging vertabra 4 and 5, arced by the smooth circular concrete pan wall of the pool. Looking up, fish eyed, at a greying bluish sky. Dark trees overhanging to the left, with sharp jagged rocks. Bare trunks and twigs to teh right. Hills forward reaching upward, covered with scrub above the tree line. A bright pool light burns the water from down deep.

There is soemthing elemental about stanbding in the rush of cold wind defiantly. I can understand the Scandanavians and their rolliong in snow act after a sauna. Well, a bit. For the first time in weeks I have no back pain. My knees are no longer sore. My shoulder does not ache. They have something in these baths. Just ready for a longer ride. Perhaps tomorrow.