Bacharach is buttressed by vineyards. From the steep terraces, I count six of the town’s medieval towers, marking the cardinal points of the old town wall. I climb to the crest of the ridge, where the vineyards are laced up with dandelion ribbons. Like a boardgame banded in green and gold, the vineyards unfold over the hillsides. I play all the way across the board, winning the match at the first mustard field. Like a haze of yellow pollen, mustard flowers dust the pasturelands and make my nose twitch. So I turn, crossing the board back to Bacharach.
The clouds are thin and blue as skim-milk. Buttered sunshine trickles through the clouds, turning my arms golden. Moths bob on the breeze like flocks of dandelion wishes. I don’t know what to wish for. Bacharach is already a wish-village, a fragmented fairytale. If I make my own wish, the whole village might blow away. But perhaps I will come back to Bacharach when my bones are tired of adventures. The village is a perfect happily-ever-after.