Saturday, June 16, 2012
A forty five minute drive into the county town. Time to renew the car insurance. Summer has well and truly arrived. The temperatures nudging into the 90's and , if the local newspaper weather forecast is to believed , set to stay there for the next three months.
In the central square, the Place de la Revolution, a small army of restaurant and cafe owners busy setting up tables and chairs. Umbrellas sprouting wherever you look. On a side street Angus finds an Indian restaurant. A culinary rarity here in deepest France Profonde. Exotic beyond belief for provincial Tarn-et-Garonne . Brief dreams of a chicken biryani, poppadoms and a bottle or two of cold Kingfisher beer.
' The font ' has other ideas . ' Surely you didn't come all the way to France to eat in an Indian restaurant ? Anyway it's a beautiful day ' . Angus points out , unsuccessfully, that the restaurant owners have come from much further away than we have in order to cook for us. This logic is ignored. We eat outside, under an umbrella. At least the restaurants under the umbrellas do steak. One rather ancient white poodle wanders out of the door of the nearest kitchen , tours the tables, and finally drapes itself proprietorially across ' the fonts ' left foot. It then falls asleep. It stays this way , secure in the knowledge it's found a dog person . Residual eau de Wilf on the shoes ?
The hectic pace of French summer life .