Geographically, inland Pays Basque is very similar to Béarn, with foothills, valleys and mountains. The Pays Basque, however is particularly famous for the Basque Coast (Côte Basque) with the popular costal resorts of Biarritz and Saint Jean-de-Luz being the most popular holiday destinations. One of the best ways to see the Pyrenees is to walk. The French take their walking almost as seriously as their cycling, which means that the Pyrenees, probably the finest walking area in Europe, are well endowed with paths, trails and various well-marked and mapped Grande Randonnees. Indeed, this has been an area famous for its walkers since the Middle Ages: not far from Lantabat is the town of St Jean-Pied-de-Port which has always been a resting place for French pilgrims on their way to Santiago de Compostela. And it is here, in a little French monastery where a certain Spanish priest took me I find myself spending my days in solace and partial peace.

I dug into the black soil lining the eastern edge of the monastery garden. The seven rows of tillage I had been designated to cultivate, my work in the soil acting as a penitence to justify my stay with the order, one of several I was assigned. Sweeping the floors and then mopping them along with daily scrubbing the area of the altar where the services were performed and the confessionals added to my sense of commonality with those who surrounded me. The tomato plants were coming along nicely, the red fruit halfway to maturity in the hot sun. Another few weeks and they would grace the monks dinner table in several spectacular salads coated with the monastery's own special olive oil.

Men of God, asking no more than to serve him and his children, to live in the teachings of the savior and carry on the work of the Church. They never approached me to reconfirm my religious beliefs, the Holy Father in charge asking me if I was Catholic upon my arrival and when I answered him I was not, walking away without another word.

Father Vincent del Rambio visited me on occasion, crossing the French/Spanish border to bring fresh vegetables and meat from his Spanish church in Barcelona. He crossed back with the fruits of the French garden and fresh shellfish from the Atlantic coast, brought daily by a fisherman of the waters in appreciation of the monk's works in saving his cousin from drug addiction. We met and talked quietly in a small garden in back of the church. A small fountain spewed bright spouts of cool water into the air, their passage back to the pooling water sparkled by a rainbow of bright colors.

"How are you doing my friend, feeling any better?" he asked as we sat down. He took off a wide brimmed straw hat he preferred in the hot weather and mopped his brown brow with a sparkling white handkerchief.

I lit a cigarette, smoking the third of the day leaving only seven in my daily allotment of ten. Month after month I had been reducing my addiction to both nicotine and alcohol. The alcohol withdrawal had gone a lot better than the nicotine. I had been dry for seventy-two days, the most I had ever gone without a drink.

"I'm still alive, that much I've figured out. I have an appetite and if I didn't jog my six miles a day I'd have a spare tire like Brother Francis." Father Vincent laughed at the thought of the roly-poly friar who was as broad as he was tall but was always of a good nature, quick with the jokes.

"You have fit in well with the brothers but I still fear for your mind and soul. I think you have not crossed that personal Rubicon of yours that will unburden your sense of guilt."

I didn't answer, flicking the ashes off my cigarette and picking up my glass of iced tea, a beverage I had re-found a liking to. I took a deep sip, the fragrant brew with the hint of mint moistening my mouth and throat before I tried to speak, my mind fumbling for the right choice of words.

"Look Vincent, I've been running over my personal inventory for the last three months, making amends where I could, walking my own steps. I don't need a shrink, a priest or anyone to sort me out and put my mind in order. Telling me I'm still not well is like telling the ocean it doesn't have waves. Forces beyond both you and I are at work here, neither God nor the Church will heal the hurts nor will my mind resolve them either."

"Maybe that is the first step on a long path Brother Palladin," Vincent said slowly. He knew I hated the Brother attachment to my single name and did it just to try and draw a rise out of me but I didn't jump at the bait, girding myself for the clincher. "Realizing the mind cannot heal what the heart has felt, that is the true secret of healing. Sus corazon is a powerful tool consisting of more than a mere vessel that pumps blood and brings life giving oxygen to your body. Without either you cannot exist but even with both, the spirit and soul must also be healed. Comprende?"

"Comprende Father, I will try not to think through it. Did you bring the information I wanted?" ......(cont)