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The morning light had splintered through the shutters and seeped its way up the length of the bare wall from across my bed. My waking thoughts flickered here and there, until finally they dissolved altogether and I was left staring at this bright blank canvas. It was uncomplicated, even uninhibited in its potential: something about it inspired me and a simple picture of my day began to form.

So I wandered out and allowed myself only three things for the afternoon: a refurbished Motobécane road bike; a warm, half-loaf from the boulangerie, swaddled in brown paper; and a map of local bike routes leading to the countryside, which I had scanned briefly over breakfast.
 
After the first two hours, my memory failed me once the path dissolved into the main road, and before long my Moto collapsed with an exhausted clatter over a deflated tire. I stumbled off stiffly, out of breath and scanning my new surroundings from the roadside as I went for the last bit of comfort I had, still bundled in its bag and slightly smushed.
 
With nowhere to go or anyone to complain to, I accepted my self-inflicted bad luck. A tractor or farm truck would pass and fill the silence, but my peace of mind remained unbroken and my thoughts fell inward like a lead weight.
 
All of France that I had seen so far, all that I had tasted, resurfaced at that moment: the perfume of a single macaron rose, as pristine and enchanting as the shimmering urban starlight in Paris; sweet kougelhopf from Alsace, rustic and fairytale-like, even oddly remindful of some forgotten memory. And now, settled between them both, I was lost in Lorraine. 
 
Looking at the countryside, the view was almost predictable. The landscape was a seamless portrait of low-rolling green hills and blue open sky, peppered with unassuming farmhouses and the occasional weathered watermill against the backdrop of a dying summer.

What had underwhelmed me at first now relentlessly took hold of my eye. This world was pastoral, poetically so, and some understated beauty simmered along the horizon. Sunshine transformed into glitter here and settled like a fine dust over everything, reflecting off the long strings of grass and rippling over the yeasty crests of the meadows, until all was golden under its buttery aura. 
 
The brilliance before me seemed to crackle as loudly as the bread’s crust between my fingers. Taking an unceremonious bite out of my baguette, I baked gratefully in the yellow sun.