Devon Days

I have come to realize that I may be a bit indiscriminate in traveling:  I tend to love every place that we visit!  Right now I’m loving Devon.  We’ve just spent 10 days there, back at North Harton Blueberry Farm with Robin and Wei-Wei and the woofers.  While there, we took day trips to a variety of Devon destinations:  Bideford on the northwest Atlantic coast; Castle Drogo, in Dartmoor National Park;  Paignton, on the English Riviera; Totnes, a riverside town near Paignton;  Bovey-Tracey and Widecombe, towns in eastern Dartmoor Park; and finally, Lustleigh, the village near to the farm.  Most of these had been suggestions by Robin because they are charming and interesting.

Bruce and I had wanted to visit Bideford, because we knew that there was a historical shipbuilding connection between Bideford, England, and Bideford, Prince Edward Island, near to where my mom grew up.  In addition, our son Sam has been living in Biddeford, Maine.  Surely there must be a connection between those two cities, as well.  So off we went to see what Bideford, England, feels like now.  We found a bustling, pretty, un-touristy city, going about its business on a sunny summer day.  Located on a tidal river, it’s close to Bideford Bay and the Atlantic Ocean.  On this day, a huge ship was being loaded with massive logs on the waterfront.  Bruce conjectured that the wood was bound for the Scandinavian pulp & paper industry.  Along narrow, pedestrian streets, housewives were buying meat at the butcher shops.  On the edge of town, we stopped to watch a lawn bowling game with older gentlemen clad in white, rolling black balls on a closely cropped green.  We had a feed of fish ‘n chips in a very, very old inn – it seemed only right.

                                                                 Bideford building 

Castle Drogo is reported to be the last castle built in England.  It’s really an ornate mansion and situated on 900 acres of rolling Devon countryside.   Completed in 1930, it was constructed to fulfill the romantic fantasies of a wealthy businessman, Mr. Drewe.  It was fun to see the lifestyle of folks who could afford live-in servants.  During World War II, the mansion served as an orphanage, the children being cared for by the dowagers of the family.  It’s now owned by the British National Trust, which must be weighed down with gifts of estates, no longer affordable to their heirs.  This one needs a 12 million pound roof repair!  

                                                                       Castle Drogo

Paignton is a beach town, located along the stretch of English Channel coastline known as the English Riviera.  With shades of Old Orchard Beach, shops were selling tacky stuff, and rides for kids lined the beachfront.  Behind them, bright white Victorian hotels and B&B’s vied for customers, with signs advertising very competitive prices.  Tiny white peaked beach buildings, with colorful doors, lined the waterfront.  Owners store their beach equipment and grills and chairs there – and then sprawl out right in front of the little beach houses, never mind going down onto the sand! 

                                                   Old hotel along the sea in Paignton

                                   Tiny beach houses in Paignton on the English Riviera

                                                      The beach & stone wall at Paignton

The lovely old town of Totnes is located on the River Dart.  It has a bit of a hippy reputation, with lots of creative, cute shops in pastel-colored buildings, and a commitment to becoming an ecologically green town.  We sat on the riverside and watched kayakers and rowers paddling by and sailboats motoring up to the boat club mooring.  Sheep on the grassy banks opposite us clustered in the cool shade of trees.  We had tea and scones in a funky tea room garden, where the unexpected ear-piercing shrieks of a giant parrot lifted us out of our seats! 

                                                   Main street of the lovely town of Totnes

                                               Rowers on the River Dart in Totnes

Bovey-Tracy is not too far from North Harton.  Since both Bruce and I were suffering from colds and lagging energy, we didn’t want to drive too far on the narrow roads, lined with tall hedge rows, that stress and exhaust drivers who are unaccustomed to them.   So we settled on visiting the Parke Estate for a walk on their peaceful paths along the Bovey River.   This was another old property that had been given to the National Trust.  As we entered the estate grounds, sheep (again) were relaxing in the meadow - can't get enough of them!  Within the estate's walled garden, vegetables, fruits, and flowers were thriving – very inspirational.  In another area, wild Dartmoor ponies were being trained so that troubled children could work with them.   For lunch, we drove on down the road to Widecombe, a tiny village with an unusually beautiful,  light and airy 15^th century stone church.

                                                Wild Dartmoor ponies at the Parke Estate  

                                                                    Peaceful river walk

     Wooden likeness in the church of Tom Cobley & friends,  subjects of a folk song at "the Widecombe Fair".

Friday was our last day on the farm - and another sunny one.  Just like our visit in late May, we had brought the sun with us, and Robin and the Woofers were exceedingly grateful!  (We liked it, too.)  The blueberries needed some sun to push along their ripening, which was happening nicely by the time that we left.  We didn't want to stray far from the farm on this last day, so decided to walk to Lustleigh, about a 40 minute stroll down through leafy, ancient trails, through meadows with sheep, across a burbling brook on a tiny stone bridge.  We sat in someone's field for awhile, just soaking it all in for one last time, thinking how we'd probably be chased off private property if we tried this at home.  Of course, if someone had objected, we'd have brought out the American accent and professed ignorance.  Travelers "from away" have a certain amount of leeway, it seems. 

In the quiet village, we sat for awhile in the village orchard, reading under a tree and watching a little girl play in the grassy, fenced-in playground while her white-haired grandparents relaxed not far away.  Nearby was the huge stone, topped with a stone chair, where the May queen sits after being crowned each May Day.  Can it get any more quaint?   After lunch in the garden of the Primrose Tea Room, we lingered for awhile before starting our uphill trek back to the farm.

                            The stone chair in Lustleigh where the May queen is crowned

                                                    The Lustleigh village playground 

That night we watched the Opening Ceremonies for the 2012 Olympics on the tellie, surrounded by folks from France, Germany, England, and China.  We loved the bit with the queen "parachuting" out of an airplane with James Bond; the piece with kids bouncing on beds, a la Peter Pan, while National Health Services doctors and nurses cared for them;  silly, hilarious Mr. Bean playing the keyboard; and the sobering, astonishing smokestacks of industrial England rising up and belching smoke.   In my opinion, it got off to a slow start but was brilliant in its entirety.  It's certainly getting great press in the UK!  We couldn't stay up long enough to see the US team march in together - if only the USA came earlier in the alphabet!  

Wei-Wei and Robin sent us off with Dartmoor blueberries and Wei-Wei's homemade cheese for snacking on.

Now we're in rainy Cork, Ireland, where they say it's been raining all summer.  Hard to imagine how they can remain so cheery.  Only one week before we fly home on August 8.  Will this all be a dream so soon?

An English Country Fayre

"This is the real first day of summer, the day of the North Bovey Fair!  And I pronounce the fair OPEN!" With those words the clergyman of the ancient, stone church began the festivities at the annual summer fair on the North Bovey village green.  I can imagine that it has been tradition for hundreds of years for the current minister of the church to open the summer fair.

Bruce and I have returned to the blueberry farm in Devon, England, where we helped out for a couple of weeks in May.  This time we are there as paying guests.  We had happened upon the fair when we decided to go for a walk in the countryside.  Walking is very popular among the Brit's, and there are lots of lovely walking trails, well-marked with signs and encouraged by the publication of detailed maps.

Last Saturday Wei-Wei, our hostess, had sent us off with sandwiches, and we had hiked through the meadows to the area high above the farm, called the cleave.  The cleave is communally owned by the bordering property owners, who have the right to pasture cows and wild Dartmoor ponies there.  In fact, it's encouraged to have animals feeding there, so that the moor grass will be kept short and won't revert to forest or bracken.  Big Belted Galloway cows were grazing contentedly as we emerged over the crest of the cleave.  

It was a beautiful day.  From the top of the cleave, we could see far off over green rolling hills, sectioned into pastures which were bordered by hedgerows.  Our maps indicated that there were walking trails to North Bovey, not too far away, so we set out for that little village, making our way down off the cleave on a rocky trail.  A fellow walker, whom we met on the way, had alerted us to the fact that the village was having its fair that day, a bonus for us.   

                     Looking out over the Devon countryside from the top of the cleave.

The grassy green was bustling with activities when we arrived.  In an open area, a large Maypole had been erected with colorful ribbons attached to the top.  Little girls in patriotic red, white, and blue dresses were dancing around it, while a trio of musicians played a medieval tune on a fiddle, penny whistle, and a guitar.  I wondered if we had been dropped into a scene from a hundred years ago.

                                                           Dancing around the Maypole

In another corner of the green, a dog show was being prepared for.  People with all manner of doggie friends were getting ready to vie for prizes in categories such as "Best Pedigree, Prettiest Bitch, and Dog the judge would most like to take home".

At the cake sale table, lovely looking homemade cakes were being tended by a white haired matron who has probably been doing this very same job for decades.  

A couple of sheep in a cage participated agreeably in the festivities as passersby tried to guess their names.  A fairground organ, housed in a truck decked out in Union Jack flags, played camp tunes while a toy orangutan waved his hairy arms in time to the music.  In the middle of all of this, "Uncle Bobby" was tying balloons into funny shapes for kids.  

Along the edge of the green, cream tea was being served at tables.  Cream tea, we have learned, is a Devonshire specialty consisting of tea served with a scone and clotted cream and strawberry jam.  So very British!

More typical church fair-type offerings included a table of flea market items and one filled with garden plants. Around the corner, the church was overflowing with books and local art for sale.  It was a bit torturous to see all those good books and realize that I have no room in my bulging suitcase.  

The whole fair had a very innocent, timeless, quintessential English feel.  We walked around, ate our sandwiches on a bench, watching it all, and then had some "award-winning" local ice cream before beginning our trek back to the farm, feeling lucky to have experienced such a classic summertime British event.   

We are in the last couple of weeks of our year-long adventure and are looking forward to returning home to family and friends.  It's been an incredible experience, to say the least.  It's also been a LOT of work, and we are pretty tired and full of new sights and friendships. As my friend Deb Smith, noted, we are yearning now for familiar places and relationships with deep roots.  Having said that, we are in a special place - with a couple of more special areas yet to go - and we want to savor and enjoy them, too.  

Bordeaux

Bordeaux is a beautiful city with a long, interesting history, dating back to the days when the Romans laid out its streets and main square - and even before.  Its majestic buildings, constructed of honey-colored stone, exude a warm charm.  Apparently, there has been a friendly rivalry between Bordeaux and Paris in the "grandeur" category, and the huge ornate buildings stretching along the Garonne River are evidence.  Fountains and gardens and grand gates that open into the old city at various points hint at a history of wealthy patrons.  There is evidence, too, like so many cities, of a more recent past of seediness along the waterfront.   But the city has obviously poured money into refurbishing that area, so that now it bustles with folks walking, biking, roller-blading, jogging along the wide, wide promenade that borders the river, as well as eating at trendy little cafes and restaurants, many outdoors.  This part of the city has an airiness and sense of freedom which was pleasant after the gorges and shuttered houses of the southwest.  Looking out on the river, just across the street from our apartment, was a huge skateboard park.  I am impressed that the city would devote this prime real estate to a group of young athletes who so often struggle for recognition of their sport.  Their energy and talent were attractive, and we were not the only passersby stopping to watch. 

                                          The city reflected in the Garonne River.

                                One of Bordeaux's majestic buildings and fountains.

The water mirror, a tiny amount of water that reflects the sky in front of these grand buildings (The Bourse), spurt a fine mist every few minutes.  It was very fun.   

                                             Promenading along the Garonne River.

I was surprised to encounter, scattered around the city, public acknowledgment of links with America, and I found them fascinating and heart-warming.  The first thing that I noticed, a few doors away from the apartment, was a plaque honoring  President Thomas Jefferson, who had been influenced by the time that he had spent in France. Farther along the waterfront was a street named after Martin Luther King, with the caption: “Defender of Human Rights”.   In our neighborhood, in a tiny park, was a reduced size replica of the Statue of Liberty, erected in recognition of the attack on America on 9-11.  And, closer to home, a street and cafe in Bordeaux were named after Jean Louis de Cheverus, the same fellow for whom Cheverus High School is named.  A French native, he ministered to the Penobscot Indians in Maine, became the first Roman Catholic bishop for the Diocese of Boston, and died in Bordeaux.   

Needless to say, we indulged ourselves with great French food, which is so easy to come by.  However, one of our favorite meals was our first ever Tibetan repast - incredibly fresh and delicious.   More traditional were the crepes and omelets, found at a cute little Breton resto, and delicious classic dishes, like my sauteed whole fish and Bruce's carpaggio, the first time he's eaten raw beef!  Other meals were more creative, such as Bruce's fish tagine, featuring unexpected cinnamon and clove flavors.

We were lucky to be staying in a conveniently located small apartment.  It was a cute little place, sort of like a nest, made out of a corner of one of the old wine warehouses along the riverfront.  It was efficiently designed, making great use of limited space and, although the windows were placed along only one wall, which looked out onto an inner courtyard, the light was lovely.  We were able to make breakfasts, and one night we ate supper there.

The small living room, just perfect for us for 4 days, with the ladder-type stairs leading to the bedroom and bath above.  

We had looked forward to spending French Independence Day in Bordeaux.  It turned out to be a more low-key celebration than we had expected, unless we missed something.   The big event during the day seemed to be  the BMX Bike Riding Competition, to sort out competitors who will represent France in London (not at the Olympics, I'm sure).  That evening, when we strolled along the quai before dinner, we came upon ceremonies that are more typical, with a few high-ranking military men and women and lots of branches of the military represented.  The Marseillaise, the French national anthem, was played, and I hummed along.  Red, white, and blue tri-couleur flags were flying everywhere.  Later, as we entered the narrow streets of the old city, looking for a place for dinner, restaurants were overflowing with happy revelers.  None of the places that we had scouted out earlier had a seat available.  We walked and walked and looked and looked.  Finally, we happened upon the Tibetan resto.  It was very tiny and kinda funky and had several empty tables.   The owners were sweet, and the food was delicious.  Nice experience.  Bruce has a talent for picking good places to eat. 

              I don't know who he was, but his uniform reminded me of Charles De Gaulle's.  

The fireworks weren't scheduled to begin until 10:45, rather late for old folks!  But after our Tibetan dinner, we made it to the wharf just in time to get a spot among the crowd, close to where the explosives would be shot off a boat in the middle of the river.  Bordeaux is a city of over a million residents, and a large percentage of them were there to watch the pyrotechnics!  The colorful, sparkly arrays, bursting in quick succession, happened right over our heads.  They were fantastic, the best fireworks that we've ever seen!  Vive la France!

Wandering through the Pyrenees

We left our village of Montlaur last Saturday and have been exploring the Pyrenees mountains for the past week.  They form the southern border with Spain, and one day we even ventured over the top and into Spain for a quick peek from the peak.  Bruce found our accommodations for Saturday night on-line before we departed Montlaur.  It was a B&B in the small town of Axat, in the foothills.  It seems to be a phenomenon that we pick a name on the map as a convenient place to stop – and then discover that it is a very interesting destination where we could easily stay and explore for days.  Of course, the enthusiasm of our B&B hosts for their area intensifies this phenomenon. 

Au Quatre Saisons B&B in Axat, France.  Note the Cathar cross on the wall.

Our hosts on our first night out were Brits, Paul and Val, probably in their 40's, who have been running the Au Quatre Saisons B&B for five years.  When we arrived late Saturday afternoon, they put us up in the suite in the re-constructed attic.  It was a pleasant space with leather sofas for lounging and a wonderful view of high mountains, as well as looking down on Paul’s lime green Deux Cheval car.  Bruce and I have always loved these funky, quintessential symbols of France.  Paul thrilled us by offering to take us for a spin.  He rolled back the canvas top and off we went,  touring the small village, being introduced to the hardware store owner as “my American friends”,  seeing the resto where Paul had waited tables one season, and pausing while he greeted an elderly friend.  We heard about the pressures to keep a B&B full during the high season - like Maine in the summer.  Val has kept her job in the UK and returns there every other week, working from Axat in the intervening weeks.  Paul’s suggestions about all the places that we “must” see convinced us that perhaps a second day in Axat was in order. 

                          The Deux Cheval car that we toured Axat in with our B&B host.

Alors, the next day we drove to the Gorges de Galamus, an impressively deep gorge carved by a small river out of the limestone mountains.  The road was narrow and required traffic directors to get the cars safely through.  We walked down to an ancient hermitage, built into the side of the mountain, where there was a small chapel.  Like so many of the constructions in this area, it’s hard to imagine how they could have been completed at these impossible heights, especially hundreds of years ago.  I just googled the hermitage in the gorges de galamus, btw, and a you-tube video popped up of a drive through the gorge, with music!   

                                       The hermitage in the Gorges de Galamus

We didn't linger, as Paul had also suggested a tourist train ride through the mountains for a couple of hours in  open cars.  Our window at the B&B looked out on the tall viaduct that carried the train over the valley where Axat is located.  As we rode along that day, the clouds hung low in the mountain valleys, and it was cool there but brightened up once we got out into the vineyard-clogged plain.

We left Axat on Monday and headed west, farther into the mountains.  Along the way, we visited Montsegur, the ruins of a castle perched on top of sheer cliffs, way up in the hills.  It was the place where the Cathars had made their last stand against the pope and the French king in the 13th century.  Much of southern France is Cathar country, with lots of places where this beleaguered religious sect was besieged.  Not surprisingly, it always ended badly for the Cathars, usually with their being overcome and choosing to jump into a burning pyre rather than renouncing their beliefs.  Over 200 martyrs died at Montsegur, after holding out for 10 months.  I believe that it's the only Christian group against which a crusade was waged.   Pretty brutal times, but so were the times before and after.  Now it's a peaceful place, high in the sky, the trail leading up to it surrounded by the most amazing array of wild flowers.  

                                 We burned off a few croissants climbing to the top of Montsegur.  

That night we stayed in Fos, only about 6 km from the Spanish border, an area where FOUR languages are spoken: French, Spanish, Occitan, and Aranese.  It looked quite different from the Montlaur area.  The orange-tiled roofs were replaced with gray slate, including small spikes to slow the sliding of snow.  The weather was gray and cool.  Twisty, narrow streets led up to the spot where the Au Repos de Moine B&B clung to the side of a hill, nestled among other village houses.  Again, our hostess was a British woman.  Like Paul and Val the night before, Christine and her husband, Bert, had also turned an old, old house into a comfortable B&B.  They both supplement their incomes by teaching English on-line to individual students.  Bert was away sailing on the Spanish coast, but we had a lovely chat with Christine.  She shared their story of coming to France, the fulfillment of a dream.  But, after a serious health crisis, they are missing their British friends and family - and cozy, amiable British pubs - and may buy a canal boat in England and spend part of their year there and part running their B&B in France.

                    Looking down on the town of Fos and its river running through the valley.  

Christine was just as knowledgeable and enthused about her corner of the world as Paul had been.  On her advice, we ended up crossing over the mountains into the Spanish Val d'Aran, which Andrea had also encouraged us to see.  It's a beautiful valley and the town of Vielha seemed prosperous and cheery, with lots of skiing condos spreading up the steep mountainsides and the swift-flowing River Garonne, in its infancy, swooshing down the middle.  The King of Spain comes to ski in a town not far away.  After lunch in Spain, on a sunny plaza next to a centuries-old church, we threaded our way back through the mountains to the French side, descending to a town that was preparing to welcome the Tour de France next week.  Those riders will have their work cut out for them in this challenging area!  We have been tuning in to the race on tv at the end of each day, watching the exciting last few minutes as these amazing athletes vie to cross the line and earn the yellow shirt.

For the first time in our whole year away, we didn't have a place reserved for Tuesday night.  Luckily, many French towns have tourist offices with publications listing area accommodations.  And, to our delight, B's cell phone worked!  So, we made a few phone calls and ended up in the spa town of Capvern-les-Bains.  We hadn't realized it before, but this region has many spa towns where, one hundred years ago, wealthy folks came to bathe in the hot sulfur waters that burble up out of the ground.  Our accommodation was an old hotel, fairly spartan actually, but adequate.  The next day was chilly and drizzly.  Alas, I couldn't convince Bruce to "take the waters" at the spa down the road.  Instead, we continued on our way.   

                    The misty castle that our room in the spa town of Capvern looked out on.

Our destination, which we never got to, was a tiny hamlet far to the west.  A few years ago I had given Bruce a book describing the work of a Belgian surgeon during WWII.  He had set up a phony lumber business there in order to cover his real work of getting people, who were in danger of the Nazis, over the mountains and out of France.  After the war he had emigrated to the USA and settled in Boston, where he became a renowned researcher at Mass Eye and Ear.  Alas, these twisty mountain roads slowed us down and put the kibosh on that idea.  We finally decided to stay put in the pretty town of Oloron-Ste-Marie for 2 nights.  It was located at the confluence of two rivers - and also the confluence of two trails on the pilgrimage route leading to the Cathedral of Santiago de Campostela in northwestern Spain. The town boasts its own historic Cathedral of St. Mary, on the UNESCO Heritage list.  And we found a wonderful little creperie that we visited both nights we were there.  

                                                     Oloron-Ste-Marie 

                                  Carving on the doorway at Cathedral of St. Mary in Oloron-Ste-Marie

So that brings us to Friday, yesterday, the day that we were scheduled to return our trusty leased Peugeot to a dealer in Bordeaux.  We were up early in order to travel up the superhighway and have the car back by noon.  This is our first visit to Bordeaux, and we are already loving the grandeur of the buildings and the lovely warm color of their sandstone, as well as all the cozy little nooks for outdoor cafes, the open and airy feel of this riverside city, and, of course, the wine culture.  Coincidentally, it is located near to where the River Garonne - which we saw far up in the Pyrenees - empties into the Atlantic Ocean.  Today is Quatorze Juillet, France's Independence Day.  No dancing in the streets, as I remember from 43 years ago, the last time I was in France for Bastille Day.  Instead, Bruce and I watched a BMX bike riding competition in the park (preparing for a Tour de France future?).  Fireworks are scheduled for this evening.  The adventure continues!

La Maison Francaise

Ever wonder what a medieval house in a French village is like?  Read on.  The house that we are renting for 3 weeks in Montlaur, France, is a delightful, medieval row house of sorts, located right in the village.  I don't think that "row house" is a term used for these dwellings but they are, in fact, built altogether, attached on every side, except the street side, to another dwelling.  This arrangement saved space and offered protection within the village in the days of warring factions.  New houses in France are usually built on a plot of land with a small lawn - the way that we are familiar with.  But these old, old houses are oozing with charm that the new ones just don't have.  Of course, they come with lots of problems, I'm sure, and require imagination to transform them into comfortable living spaces for modern living.  The most intriguing ones have been modernized without sacrificing the antique ambiance.  It seems that foreigners, perhaps romantic foreigners, are especially drawn to them.  Guess I'm one of them!

"Our" house here in Montlaur has lots of nods to its ancient past, and the New Zealand owners have filled it with antiques and with paintings, etc. that speak of its location here in the Corbiere hills south of Carcassonne.  The walls of the house are amazingly thick, approximately 30 inches.  Each room has a large French window.  The house consists of three stories, each with two rooms and a central corridor between the two.  I can't help but wonder what the original lay-out was.  It can change drastically over the centuries.  

The central corridor.  Straw hats and shopping bag are ready for an outing.  Livingroom is to the left, and kitchen is to the right.

Now, there is a livingroom (salon, en francais) and an eat-in kitchen on the first floor.  Both rooms have fireplaces, and all the rooms have huge, rough hewn black ceiling beams that support the building.  Because the streets are very narrow, when the windows are open and we're sitting at the kitchen table, passersby often feel obliged to say "bonjour" to us.  A couple of days ago, our neighbor passed a freshly picked head of lettuce through the window!  Another neighbor lent us a book through the window.  No need to bother with the formality of ringing the doorbell and coming inside.

Desk in front of the living room window where we like to sit to write or use the computer.

                                    Bruce tucking into his daily croissant next to the kitchen window.    

The old red clay tiles on the stairway leading to the second and third levels are worn smooth from thousands (millions ?) of footsteps. The passageway is narrow and curves its way upward.

The second level is taken up by one large bedroom and a second smaller one, along with the bathroom -  obviously a new addition since the old days.  All of the rooms on these first two levels have reasonably high ceilings, though some of the doorways are lower and require caution for tall folks like Bruce.  Like colonial houses in Maine, there are no closets in the bedrooms.  The large bedroom has a huge armoire as a substitute. It and the large dresser and bed must have been brought in through the window, as it's hard to believe that they could ever have fit up through the stairway.

                                      The smaller bedroom that has great light all day.

                                The big bedroom looking down on the really narrow street.

The stairs continue on up to one low-ceilinged room on the third floor.  It's a cozy spot and has been made more cheerful with the addition of a skylight in the ceiling, as well as the glass door leading to an outdoor terrace.  There had been a second room up there, too, presumably, but the roof and much of the walls of that room have been removed to make the terrace.  It's a sun sink that gets very hot and bright during the day.  Usually, it's very sheltered, as the walls are chest high. Great for growing lavender and drying laundry.  But when the fierce winds blow, they threaten to unleash the laundry and send it whipping through the village.  One evening Bruce and I tried to eat supper there but had to give up when our lettuce kept blowing off the plates!   On a calm, late evening, however, when the sun is down but the sky is still pale and light, it's a lovely place to sit with a glass of wine and listen to the sounds of the town - the church bells, the doves cooing, the occasional human voice echoing off the stone walls of the houses.  

                                                           Rooftop terrace

We have only one more day in this sweet house.  After that, we'll be doing some exploring in the Pyrenees Mountains and then making our way to Bordeaux in time for Quatorze Juillet, French Independence Day.  It's been a wonderful spot to relax and enjoy cooking and reading and feeling settled for a bit.