Magic gardens

The story of our travels begins here.

There are gardens behind the cathedral.

 Magic gardens 

Behind the cathedral, we have been told, are gardens. And they are worth seeing, we have also been told. But they are difficult to access. “I am not sure myself,” Tural, our hotel clerk, says.

     “Have you never been?” Roz asks.

     “Only once," he admits,“when I was child.”

     “How did you get in then?”

     He was not sure. “My uncle take me,” he says. He thinks he, his uncle, must have known the gardener. Certainly not the priest. His uncle would not have known the priest.

     They are very beautiful, though, the cathedral gardens, many pink flowers, smelling like ripe plums, iridescent birds and butterflies with transparent wings. We should go.

Roz assures him we will.

     “I don't see how,” I tell her back in our room.

     “You will talk to the priest,” she says.“I understand he speaks French. You speak French.”

     “Not very well,” I say.“And what makes you think he speaks French?”

     She doesn't know for sure, but she's reasonably he does.“All priests speak French, don't they?" she says.“It's worth a try, at least" she says.“For iridescent birds and butterflies with transparent wings?"

07.28.18