Au marché

Saturday morning. For the first time since I had arrived, the heavens opened and it rained. We spent the best part of the morning mooching around the house. 

I was quite prepared for a day of rest from constant supply of new experiences.

Once the rain had subsided, the announcement was made that we were off to the Saturday morning market. The three of us perched high in the front of the little green jeep. Parking was difficult. I should have seen this as a warning. The little township was alive like a beehive. People thronged the streets; baskets swinging from shoulders, shopping baskets on wheels and every Tom, Dick and Jean-Luc were there with bells on. 

The long,main street was lined with stalls of every kind of imaginable food. I followed Marthe and Hervé closely. Apparently, this is their Saturday morning ritual. We paused at the rotisserie stall for Hervé to buy an easy lunch.

The vendor looked curiously at me taking a photo. I could hear Hervé lower his voice and mutter something about me playing with my toy. The two men shared a snorting laugh.

Marthe was in charge of the vegetable and cheese purchases.

I was sucked into buying a beautiful, but expensive cheese after sampling a piece. As a means of exchange, I asked if I could take a photo of his stall.

He probably thought, "Tourist!!!!!!"

After the hubbub of the market place , we sought a spot for coffee. But on the way, I admired these two giraffes guarding the entrance of a home décor shop.

I keep getting two french words mixed up. One is le magasin and the other is la magazine. The first is a shop, the second is a magazine. Jeepers, I must sound foolish when I get my vocabulaire mixed up.

I turned around and took a quick snap of the route from whence we had just come.

And pointed the camera in the direction that we were about to follow.

We stopped many, many times, whilst three cheek kisses were given to all of Marthe and Hervé's friends. This snap is of Hervé talking to a couple of his ex pupils. They were delightful boys. H clearly has a good relationship with his students.

To their adult friends, I was introduced as the New Zealander who is staying with M and H for a while. The friends quickly cottoned on that I was able to understand when I was spoken to in simple french, but maladroit, when it came to oral production.

We plonked ourselves down at a café beautifully positioned in the sun in an open square. Funnily enough, the café is called, le beausoleil, the beautiful sun. We received relatively quick service, unlike on another occasion, when I went there with another english speaker. On that occasion, we received arrogance and non existent service. (Tourists!)

Whilst we sat in the sun, I snapped this endearing picture of a skull on the ashtray. Typically, every table is supplied with ashtrays. 

Butts litter the streets, EVERYWHERE!

I think sometimes people just upturn their ashtrays out of their cars onto the streets. Butts are at shop entrances, and all along the footpath.

I also took the opportunity to try and capture the whole quaint, european village square ambience. I don't think Marthe was too happy with taking the photo. I was gesticulating with my hands how I wanted her to take the photo of me. Consequently my hands are held in an unusual position. She took the photo before I was elegantly poised.