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The lovely thing about staying in a Trappist monastery is that no matter how early you leave, the monks are usually awake to see you off, and the double lovely thing about Trappists is that the Grand Silence of the morning is totally sacred, so there are no Midwestern Goodbyes. Just fond handshakes and hugs and several bottles of beer for the road, and then Brother Luc is driving us to the train station at Cavaillon, where we’ll begin our patchwork trip to London, and then on to Dublin, where we’ll drive a rented car to the west coast and St. Columba’s.
The breaking dawn is cheerful and sweet-smelling, but I’m too preoccupied with Father Jordan’s words to enjoy my last glimpses of the hills and the valley carpeted with freshly shorn lavender. It’s only once we’re out of the valley t
