Mo and John departed this morning for their rented house in Bourlens which we visited yesterday. It has been a most convivial stay and I shall miss them. However, Judith has warned me against squatters rights in France, so they had to go.
This being All Souls Day, and therefore a holiday, there was a brief flurry of activity until Carrefour closed at midday. After this, all was tranquil as I found a new walk this afternoon. Birds sang; there was a short-lived distant whirring of a solitary scooter; otherwise it was just me, one cow, and a few horses.
At the bottom of the steep slope of rue St Jacques I turned left at a no through road sign pointing to Le Gironnet. Trusting that there may be a footpath at the end, I was not disappointed. 
This took me to the lower level of a sharply inclined road leading, on the left, to Chateau Cluzeau, whose vines lined the slopes. 
Alongside this building there was a round towered modern one styled Le Petit Cluzeau. As I had hoped, the road led me to Le Cluzeau College at the very summit of the other steep climb of rue St Jacques. 
From there I could look down on the Chateau which was itself in an elevated position.
In a field there were horses wearing eye-masks which I presumed must be protection against the irritating flies. One rolled on the grass, seemingly attempting to dislodge other pests. Rather like me scratching my back in the middle of the night against the corner of the bathroom wall.
The day, which had been rather 
dull at the outset, had brightened by the time I returned to No 6. Passing the war memorial, I noticed fresh pots of flowers.
For the last couple of days a marquee outside the florists had been doing a roaring trade in potted crysanthemums. 
These are placed 
before the graves in the cemetery which is a truly glorious sight. The French do honour their dead.
Walking around the splendid display, I noticed just one broken stem which I picked up and placed in a convenient bowl of water.
Mo has left me with enough food to see me through to Monday. I began today with her spicy pumpkin soup followed by her delicious chicken dish and a creme caramel.
As drops spattered on the canopy above my head outside Le Code Bar, which was, like everywhere else today, closed, a passing small child watching me at my blog, informed me that it was raining.
I thanked her graciously.
Earlier, a man had asked me where, in Sigoules, he could find a shop where kouskous was made on the premises. Not understanding his question I told him the bar would be open at 7.30. We had to start again, and I didn’t know anyway, so I wasn’t really much help. He didn’t fancy waiting until the morning for Carrefour’s produce, nor did he wish to avail himself of my offer of some from my fridge. Maybe because I said it had come from Carrefour.
