Yesterday afternoon Saufiene visited with an electrician to repair disintegrated wiring to the landing lamp.
In the evening Roger collected me and drove me to the Munns’ idyllic home on a hill above Eymet. From the main road, across the valley, the white new rendering of the tall house with its red-brown tower shone in the evening sunshine. Pink-tinged clouds strolled across the calm skies. When the forthcoming Tour de France takes place, my friends will be able, from their verandah, to watch the cyclists speeding along this very thoroughfare.
Judith, looking trim, her garments covered by a full-length apron, was putting the finishing touches to a superb Sunday dinner. Keith joined us and we sat down to tender slow-roasted pork with prunes; crisp vegetables; perfect roast potatoes and parsnips. I slowed the proceedings a little by devouring a secon helping. Judith’s apple pie was to die for. Supplementing their own apples were cinnamon, cloves, mincemeat, and sultanas in an attractive pastry casing. None of us had room for cheese. We all drank red wine and enjoyed a wide-ranging conversation after which Keith kindly drove me home.
This morning I walked the loop around what I still call the donkey’s field on the D17, returning via the fishing lake. Sun shone in the cloudless blue sky, although it was still rather cool. In the clear light I took a number of photographs which I hope to add when I return to my iMac.
Church bells rang the hour, a cock crew, geese cackled, a magpie rattled, and dogs barked.
The eyes of a small black cat, crouched in the grass of the field that was once home to the donkey and goats, beamed like a car’s headlamps, returning the sun’s gleam. 
Further along, a camel-coloured relative had not made it across the road. The field now contains a couple of ewes with muddy backsides.
High on its hill, beyond a waterlogged field, Chateau Cluzeau was still visible through a row of as yet leafless trees. Later, I was to look down on its silhouette.
A tractor and a small car negotiated their passing on the narrow lane where I turn left for my return journey. This was reminiscent of trips through the New Forest.
The dogs that normally herald my passing along the top of the high track were unusually silently watchful. The alsatian’s gate was open so I was rather relieved at its unaccustomed lack of interest.
The house I have watched being built over the last couple of years now looks complete.
Paths around the lake were more than a little muddy, reminding me of how slippery my MBTs can be. I didn’t fall over.
As I approached the steps leading down to where the bottle banks used to be, I exchanged greetings with three gentlemen whose voices had floated towards me; and with a young man with a long shovel mixing heavy cement in a wheelbarrow as he prepared to repair the steps.
A superb onion soup in Le Code Bar today came with croutons and slices of garlic, the delicious fumes of which rose from the bowl. Surprisingly flavoursome calamari was then served with a rich tomato dip. The main course was a succulent steak with lashings of glistening tornellini. The meal was completed by Paris-Brest, a small cake containing coffee cream. I drank a coffee as I wrote this post.
Tag: MBTs
Shoes
Last night I watched ‘Saints & Soldiers, an excellent film by Ryan Little depicting an heroic ‘journey through the hellish landscape of war-ravaged Europe’ during World War Two, undertaken by a small group of escaped American soldiers and one English airman. It deservedly won 13 international awards. I was familiar with none of the superb cast.
On a much brighter morning I walked up the Cuneges road turning left at the sign for La Bricotey. M. Pazero’s dogs began their usual greeting when I was still 100 yards from his house. The now grey muzzled sandy haired one wheezed between rather hoarse barks. The black one, like a car driver hurling insults from a safe distance, was silent until I’d passed his corner.
On the hill slopes a couple of people were tending vines in the distance. Their voices surfed towards me on the stiff breeze.
I hope to be able to post their photographs when I have resolved the continuing problem with transfer from the camera. (Done)
Today my shoes were MBTs (Masai Barefoot Trainers), apparently designed to produce the deportment of the inhabitants of Kenya and northern Tanzania. I had bought these, one pair for England, and one for France, in 2009, believing they may help my hip problem. In the event, they seemed counter-productive. I ditched the English ones, but fortunately left a pair in Sigoules.
During the snowy weather of December 2010, soon after my replacement operation, the tier of steps outside the Ridgway house in Wimbledon Village was so icy that I slipped on them. I identified the reason for my precarious descent to be the curve of the soles of the MBTs. It was as if my feet were encased in boats with only the centres of the smooth soles meeting the slippery surfaces beneath them. Jackie and I went straight to Clarks shoeshop in Wimbledon and bought a pair of their footwear with flat, ridged, soles. They gave me much more purchase, and it was those I wore yesterday. Today, still saturated from Yesterday’s downpour, they are hanging in the garden in the hope that they may drip dry.
Yesterday’s soup, repeated at the Le Code Bar lunch today was followed by ham and egg salad; succulent steak, chips, and green beans, and a flavoursome pear flan. I drank Perrier with this and a coffee afterwards.