Village in the Early Morning

 

16°C Glory Hallelujah!!! 

Rick normally takes Sherlock on his early morning walk alone. Instead of snuggling in bed with my book, I decided to go with them making it a complete pack event much to the dog's delight. 

For the first time since May I put on jeans not light slacks. And socks, SOCKS, SOCKS! 

Blessed cool. The air is fresh. There's the usual smell of bread baking from the boulangeries. There's no roasting chicken smell. That's for the days of the marché, Wednesdays and Saturdays when stands selling everything imaginable line the village streets.

The streets are almost empty. Only one person sits at Cedric's drinking his coffee. I wave to Cedric. We haven't seen his puppy for a while. He's probably grown over the summer. I'll ask next time.

Maureen is putting out the fresh, fresh produce, much of it local. I thank her for the broccoli yesterday. She was out in the morning, but was sure she had it in the afternoon. I added it to the Indian veggie dish I made for supper. It would have been okay without it, but was better with it.  

Her assistant comes on duty and we talk about the word biological in English and French and its meaning. 

Maureen is more than a merchant. We've followed her progress as she studied at the conservatory. She has continued with her music often playing gigs in the area. We were happy when she added an adorable baby boy to her family which now includes her daughter and partner. There's something soul healing in these turbulent times watching happiness in others.

We peek at Bomb which is being converted into an Epicerie Fine by the owners of the soap/perfume two shops. They also have a café selling luxury teas, coffees and fruit juices. They too have a dog, a chihuahua, that doesn't like men, just women. 

The musée devoted to the Retirada will not open for another two hours. It is a reminder of the influx of Spanish refugees fleeing Franco. The village wasn't peaceful in January 1939. Thousands and thousands of Catalans were put in a hastily built concentration camp on the beach despite the freezing weather. 

There's a novel in there somewhere: two points of views, a refugee and a villager. 

Sherlock wants to go through Place Gambetta, which has fountains, chairs and planted areas. It has a trash can that says "thank you" in English when you drop something in it. It's a place for kids to play and is also the site of the Christmas Market, concerts and special outdoor events.

The fake wall is still three-stories high at the end of Place Gambetta. It's left over from the three-day Medieval festival that converted the village to the middle ages with people dressed from that time, games, acts, crafts. Temporary fake walls like those that surrounded the village in the middle ages were erected around the village. 

For the first time I get to see the new building paintings. Every few years artists are invited to decorated building. I love the women knitting. I love the yarn ball rolling on the floor. Maybe it could be one of our Free Write prompts. 

This weekend there will be another fête.The Geants Saint Come and Saint Damien, who had something to do with medicine, will be walking the streets and end up at the XIV century church. Perhaps other giants will come dancing through the village as they have in other years. 

However, this morning the village is still quiet. It is still too early for the flock of school children to head to the primary school, the point that Sherlock decides to turn back. Some times parents are with them. Many walk alone. It's safe.

A group of women friends on bikes call out to us. They are on the way to the beach for their morning swim. brrrrr.

We walk to the boulangerie for fresh baked bread, for chocolatine (local for pain au chocolate). We stop at Mille et Une, a favorite tea room, for tea and hot chocolate. Khira, the owner, is still setting up. We tell her, "Nous ne sommes pas pressés."

While she finishes setting up, we people watch.   

We see Mattieu and Madame Auer walk past. Matt owns l'Hostalet, a hotel up the street. He's carrying a tray of croissants for the petit dej for his guests. His petit dej is anything but petit.

Madame Auer owned the local pressing (dry cleaners) before her retirement. We haven't found a satisfactory replacement. One of the reasons I chose this village is that I could walk to everything, including the movie theater 76 steps from my front door. I wouldn't need a car. I did finally get one.

Over the years they've created an industrial zone outside the village, but it is still possible to go months and months on a single tank of gas. 

As we head home, we pass a few other people out to buy their morning baguettes. Some we know for just a bonjour. 

Once home, we start our writing days. 

It's a good life in a turbulent world.