Eight short Januaries ago, protected by real wool and wool-like synthetics, I shoved my hands into pockets, and walked backwards towards the sea. I was hoping to shield my body from the soul-numbing winds of the Channel as I made my way to the castle on the mount. Destination of the day, and more importantly, shelter from the gusts, a medieval abbey-fortress rising magically from a naturally moated island.
It was a dream come true. I never expected to return to France, let alone Mont Saint Michel, and those first days spent traveling back to childhood haunts, seemed "pinch me 'wake" surreal. Jet lag has a way of muddling the mind, but so does an abruptly filed memory. That memory never stays put, and piggybacks onto songs and sorrows that fool it into thinking that today is yesterday, and tomorrow is many yesterdays passed.
This is Mont Saint Michel, and you may read about its history, here. My history, well, it's tucked away until it snows again in Florida.