We pitched our tent in a flat field bordered by blackberry bushes. From our small green cocoon, I could see the Milky Way tumbled across the sky. In the milky purple dark that passes for night sky in the city, I can never make out much more than the angular scoop of the Big Dipper. But there, in the crisp dark above Auvergne, big fat stars hung together in constellations quivering and glistening in the dark, pluckable as grapes. The thirteen miles we’d walked that day finally caught up with me, and I drifted off with my eyes riveted on a jewel in Orion’s belt. I woke a few hours later to arching pale blue. The stars were gone, as though someone had taken an eraser to the sky.