I find that Sundays are much the same wherever you are. From November onwards they can take on a particular feeling, a potential for gloominess and boredom and once the rain starts...In Riberac and I suspect most small towns in France, the town takes on a sense of tranquility, very little moves, an occasional person scurrying across the road, the odd car passing through to that peculiar hissing sound of wet rubber on even wetter tarmac. We had woken to the rain first thing and I thought that's it for today.
After cleaning the guests' rooms and getting the laundry underway a breakfast of coffee and croissants was taken. By lunchtime as we hauled out the sheets and towels from the washing machine the sun was trying very hard to break through so it was decided a turn around the town was in order. There was now evidence of life, people emerging from the torpor of a Sunday lunch with the family. It is about this time that our local hospital comes alive. People arrive with bunches of flowers and the like for their loved ones. As the weather was now very pleasant wheelchairs were being pushed around the carpark and debates entered into in the way only the French know how.
The light bringing out the detail in enamel, stone and paint
The light was now the type that artists die for. That lucid metally light which throws everything into sharp focus. I think this light is only produced in areas that have largely remained free of heavy industry and pollution, and that certainly describes most of the Dordogne.
After stretching our legs we returned home. By this time dusk was beginning to gather; the 'crepiscule' so all the shutters were secured and a fire assembled in the grate. It wasn't long before a fire had established itself and a meal got underway. Last but not least I selected a decent bottle of red, a Chateau de Francs 2003 from the cage au vin. Suddenly, Sundays didn't seem so bad after all.
Recommended on a Sunday
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