This old house..

The old building was so sad looking among the pristine ones that make Evian such a charming little village that has nothing to do with bottled water, although there is a museum there about Evian water.

My friend and I were saying that it was probably beyond repair, but what a shame as we speculated about its history. I thought of the old song "This house was once made of laughter..."

Memories get etched into buildings. The arches, the carved slats on the balcony all could be beautiful with some love added.

We’d been meandering around the village, looking at shop windows, remarking on the architecture, the beauty of the lake, what a perfect day weather wise, the joy of just being.

Thirsty, we decided to stop at a crêperie for a coffee or something cold. It was a little after 17h, neither dinner nor lunch time. The two owners, one middle aged, one young and blond, were outside at one of the tables, all of which were empty. The blond greeted my friend’s Irish wolfhound, whose head is bigger than any of my Japanese Chins. She was welcomed with a water dish and a caress, although the cat in the window, was far less pleased. In fact he looked on in horror. The dog never noticed the cat at all, content with her water and affection.

My friend decided she would order a sweet crêpe with coconut. I passed still full from lunch.
However, when it was brought out, there were two plates, two forks and will power fell away like snow in 90° temperature.

The young blond chef was from Brittany and proudly declared himself a Master Crêpe Maker, something we wouldn’t have argued with. He also explained that Grand Marnier and White Rum were included in the batter which is what gave such an exquisite flavour.

He brought out the menu explaining how everything was made from scratch, nothing frozen, only the best ingredients. Although they didn’t make their own ice cream, they bought it from a person who did, again using only fresh ingredients.

Somehow the conversation worked its way around to the sad building across the street. The young man told us it was a centuries old military prison, but it would be restored, because it was part of the French patrimony.

But when it came to his patrimony, he made it clear he was a Breton and when he said good bye, he taught us how to say it in his Breton.

We will go back to see the Master Crêpe Maker, the progress on the renovation, but I have already forgotten how to say good bye in Breton. Maybe not knowing good bye is better because then I don’t have to say it to old buildings or new places to eat.