They say there are 250 steps to the top of the donjon at Château de La Roche-Guyon. That’s true… if you don’t count all the steps it takes just to get to the beginning of those steps.

My friend Erika and I have been wandering through France without planning every detail. When we came upon Château de La Roche-Guyon, we hadn’t intended to climb anything. We thought we’d stroll through the château and gardens, admire the views, and continue on our way.

But then we read Donjon.

The donjon has stood watch over the Seine Valley for centuries. It was carved directly into the chalk cliff itself. Imagine that—workers chiseling their way through solid chalk more than eight hundred years ago, creating a passage through the living rock. The donjon’s steps have been worn smooth (duh), most of the nearly knee-high steps are uneven and slightly slippery.

Had I known what was ahead, I would have dressed differently. Instead, I was wearing low-heeled shoes with absolutely no grip and a long, full pant/skirt that I had to gather up in one hand just so I could see where I was going. Not exactly the outfit one chooses for climbing a medieval donjon carved into a cliff.

Whenever I climb more than fifty steps, I have a little tradition. I say the name of those I love and care about. Sometimes I add a prayer. Sometimes simply speaking their name is enough. If there are more steps than names, I start again.

By the time I had gone through everyone’s names more than once, I reached what felt like step one thousand, I decided it was time to pray for my shoes to hold on.

When I finally reached the top, the Seine Valley stretched out below me— the view was spectacular. The climb was forgotten…

Almost.

Because then came the walk back down.

And there I was, descending a medieval staircase carved into a cliff I wondered if people coming up were questioning my attire, “…look at white haired lady is in a ridiculous get-up for climbing.”

Again, duh.

But then I thought—maybe I gave them a laugh.

And that made me laugh too.

Donjon in English is Dungeon

               

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Being at Hambye Abbey, a place built in the 12th century, looking at the carved stone, I find myself overwhelmed by the immense challenge of creating such a place.

Everything speaks in silence. The arches. The trees surrounding it. The clouds drifting overhead. The leaves changing with the seasons. Everything seems to exist with a certainty that has nothing to prove.

What is my life amongst all of this?

I think about the people who lived before me—the stonemasons who carved these walls, the hands that shaped each block. Did they ever question their own lives the way we do? Did they wonder if what they were doing mattered? Or were they simply part of something larger than themselves, practising their craft to earn a living, to feed their families, to create a life?

Perhaps that is what moves me most. They belonged to a work that would outlive them. Many of them never saw the abbey completed. They carved stone knowing someone else would place the next stone, someone else would continue, someone else would finish.

Their reward was not the final result. It was the contribution itself—the knowing that they were part of something worth building.

Today we often measure our days by what we finish, what we achieve, what we can immediately see. Yet these walls remind me that some of the most meaningful work is built slowly, one careful stone at a time.

Did they ever imagine that, centuries later, someone like me would stand here and wonder about them? Probably not. And yet here I am, grateful for a gift they never knew they were giving.

 I have inherited so much from people I will never know, whose names have disappeared but whose work remains.

What, in return, am I leaving behind?

Perhaps I don’t need to discover one grand purpose. Perhaps I simply need to carve today’s stone well, trusting that I am part of something larger than I can yet see.

                

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You know how people always say you need a vacation from your vacation? Apparently, I do. We’ve been out exploring all day for the last couple of days, and every time I get home thinking, “Now I’ll finally write,” my brain says, “Yeah, no- sleep.”

The adventures have been worth it… but my word count is currently losing to my eyelids. Hopefully, I will have more time somehow to share.

                

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Our destination? A carefree wander toward Normandy.

Sometimes you simply follow the breeze.

There are rooftops, streets that invite wandering, and views worth every step.

The air carries hints of salt, stone, and history. Hum, and butter in many forms.

We found places that feel both familiar and wonderfully unexpected.

It isn’t about checking off landmarks; it’s about soaking in the moment and creating shared memories.

A few days in France with my longtime friend, Erika.

Are you a traveler with a carefully planned itinerary, or do you prefer to follow serendipity? Erika loves having every detail mapped out, while I enjoy stepping out and letting the moment lead the way. This week, we decided to blend the best of both styles—and set off together to see where the wind would take us.

                

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We took the train from Marseille to Paris- on the TGV (bullet train).

Golden countryside from the continuous heatwave – we feel like baked apples.

Villages drift past like forgotten postcards.

From one end of France to the other, the train speeds through a living tapestry.

Mist lifts from valleys, villages appear then vanish, vineyards surrender to forests, rivers flash like silver threads.

Every window frames another fleeting story, inviting wonder and leaving you chasing the horizon beyond the next bend.

Have you traveled on the TGV?

                

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What to do with French linen?

Other than wrapping it around my body while walking in the garden under a full moon, singing a happy tune about how much I love linen? (While my neighbors sigh in disbelief.)

Other than using antique linen for what it was meant to be used for—collecting grain, drying dishes, covering a mattress or a bread bowl, or even wrapping up a dead pig?

I decided to stack mine and store it under a dome.

First, I washed the old linen with a tad of mild soap in cold water over and over again, until the water is clear. Then lay it out to dry. Washing in a machine, and drying in a dryer breaks the natural thread.

                

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