‘The only way to have a friend is to be one.’
Ralph Waldo Emerson
I am on my way to see one of the natural wonders of Europe, it’s biggest sand dune, and a jewel in the crown of the Gironde region; Grande Dune du Pilat, sixty million cubic metres of sand, five hundred metres wide, two point seven kilometres long, rising up from the flat coastal plain to stand a hundred metres above sea level.
With more than two million visitors a year, despite the recent fires this year and the August holiday season reaching its end, I am sure I will not be alone on the massive dune. But as I chew up the miles, my mind wanders its own path, unfettered by reality, and I’m beginning to invent a cunning plan to beat the crowds and lay the groundwork for a very personal epiphany. I’m thinking to climb the dune in the evening, as late as regulations permit. I want to sit atop all that sand and watch the sun sink in the west over the ocean, and I want to invite a few friends to join me. I’m used to having a natter with Montaigne as I ride, but I’m now imagining a small group of notables, each of which in their own way has been there for me at critical times in my life when I’ve sought guidance and wisdom.
I am refining my guest list as I ride, but given the location and the short notice, it may be as well that everyone on the list is dead. This also means none are likely to be otherwise engaged and takes the pressure off the catering arrangements, which might well amount to little more than some bread and cheese and a few olives. I’ve had a definite yes from two invitees, three if you count my grandfather who was there for me at the roadside on Day One. Montaigne has no choice, given that he’s come this far and goes where I go. Odysseus, ditto. And given that he – or Homer, or both – love a good rosy-fingered dawn or dusk, I think he’ll find the view spectacular after so long riding the coastal plain at sea level.
There is someone else I would very much like to come, a well known man who lived for many years in a place called Plum Village, that happens to be just down the road from Montaigne’s home. His name is Thích Nhất Hạnh, the most famous Buddhist monk and Zen master in the world. He wrote many books and became a global spiritual leader, a man who lived a simple life surrounded by nature, with his acolytes around him, retaining his precious humility right up until his death, only a short time ago. I shouldn’t be greedy, but I’m tempted to ask Epicurus and Marcus Aurelius if they can make it. I read that in the nineteen-twenties, funeral urns from ancient times were discovered in the sand, and given the dune’s vantage point on the vast ocean and the setting sun, I think the spiritual and mythic qualities of the place will be a draw for each of my guests, all in their own ways.
There is a glaring gender bias in my guest list. But if this little soirée smacks of locker rooms and drinking parties, I can only say there have been very significant women in my life who been there for me in critical times, and in a much more tangible way. Grandmother, mother, sister, my two daughters and those partners who’ve shared time with me, for example. All have provided guidance and wisdom, and above all love, at a very practical level, where my boy’s own club have tended to be there for me on paper only.
I am also open to charges of bias in choosing only dead men. Here, my reasoning fails. The excuse that I am fearful at the prospect of my own death doesn’t altogether hold water, though knowing these guys are making their way from the afterlife to join me in a light repas atop the dune does something to calm my fears.
 
I wonder if some part of my brain didn’t invent my fantasy repas as a distraction to stop me thinking about Phil, because he’s been much in my mind,