Often during my travels I seek a quiet place, one of reflection, a place where I can find solace from other travelers and the realities of the day. Today I explore an abandoned cathedral, carved into the hillside, with a fresco barely visible upon its walls; I climb a seemingly infinite number of steps inside a stone tunnel, barely enough room for a child, to the top of a tower in the village center, there in the pouring rain; And finally, as the rain ceases, I discover a musee in which to absorb the essence of this place, its history, its people. I venture inside and find tapestries of a royal fox hunt, another of aromatic triste; an old wooden table is set near an open window looking out to the village, where a writer has abandoned his feathered ink pen for an inspirational walk; and a violinist entertains my imagination, softly playing 18th-century Jean-Baptiste Senaille: Sonata in E major and L'Anthologie sonore 74, unbeknownst to the elusive crowd mingling in the room. My escape is brief, an apparition, and the beautiful violin now rests in tribute to a time when music was an enchanting part of every day life.