We walked down the hill to the town of Laruns this morning. Chris bought bread for lunch. There were posters for an exhibition at the Tourist Office, of miniature cars, Formula One racing cars, where one could also see copies of the signatures of the big-name drivers. It was just on mid-day as we arrived. Closed for two hours, 12 to 2. We passed on. I have had difficulty containing my disappointment at missing it.
As we walked along a narrow old street, window shopping, an old lady hailed us from an open upstairs window. Were we out for a walk? And where did we come from? She told us her story. Her real home was in the North of France, she said. After her first husband died, she married again, a man from Laruns. Eventually, he too died and she was left a widow. How much she cried, how many tears. We are desolated, we say, what a shame. Have you friends here, we say, hopefully. No, she has no friends. Here in Laruns, it is every man for himself. Perhaps, we say, you may return to your old home in the North? Non, she is too old. She is well into her eighties. She wishes us a good day. Bon journee, Madame et Monsieur.
Shortly after, we pass a cemetery, full of colourful flowers, pot plants and neatly kept shrubs adorning the graves. Well looked after, we thought, possibly unlike the old lady in the upstairs room.
It has been a restful change to spend the day in cool, fresh conditions, and we have been drinking hot tea and coffee instead of bottles of water from the fridge and cold beer. We sat out under the awning with our books. I have 'Notes from an Exhibition' by Patrick Gale, Chris has short stories, science fiction.
Chris is cooking Fajitas from SuperU. The instructions are in French, but he says he can manage.
Jack and Noah might like a French tractor.
Immie's favourite flower
Escargot
Refreshed by raindrops.
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