Living in a temperate climate tends to erase excuses to get out and exercise because of bad weather. Since moving to Nice I’ve tried to take advantage of the pleasant climate to do more aerobic walking—my “power walks,” as I sometimes say when heading out the door. The best route I’ve found for that is to ascend the Colline du Château (Castle Hill) from Nice Port, then descend from the opposite side, emerging at the base of La Tour Bellanda, an old defensive tower that is now a favourite tourist site, offering from its apex splendid views of the city, the port and the bay.

I’ve made this walk many times, often pausing in the park atop the Colline for some water or even a coffee before descending. From late Spring through Autumn my route homeward generally takes me from the Tour Bellanda through the Vieille Ville (Old City) along the rue Droite, crossing the Promenade du Paillon (a parkland built over the covered Paillon River), heading to our home in the Carabacel neighbourhood.

This route avoids the often congested Cours Saleya, an area built around the old Nice flower market whose numerous food stalls, shops, cafés and restaurants attract vast crowds of tourists during much of the year. On one sunny late Spring morning, however, I noted that there were relatively few people around—it must have been quite early—and I walked through the market area, the pavement ahead of me clear and the sun at my back.

It was then that my shadow spoke to me.

I glanced down in front of me and noticed, distractedly, the movement of a shadow, someone walking with a gait I did not recognise. As I observed I slowly realised that it was me, it was my own shadow—and yet it seemed a stranger, apart and distinct, unfamiliar. I did not recognise it even after I realised it was my own shadowy reflection. It was the dark silhouette of an older man whose gait betrayed pain or injury, or perhaps simply the natural toll of ageing. I stopped and thought for a moment, as if trying to accept that my observations were real, then continued on, unable to look anywhere other than at the shadow that preceded me. Its awkwardness persisted, even when I tried to change it.

There are ways to explain it, I suppose—injuries to a hip from a bicycle accident, the ordinary corporeal wear and tear that comes from surpassing seven decades of life. But the initial lack of recognition, then the awareness that came when my shadow spoke to me, was discomfiting. The feeling has lingered since.

I do not know what is more uncomfortable, the self-awareness that came to me in a whisper on that sunny morning, or that it was a shadow that bore greater knowledge than I.