A perfect Sunday- La Salvetat-sur-Agout

The insistent clanging of the seven o’clock bell eventually penetrated my sleep and by degrees I began to be aware of other morning sounds. The raucous, boastful crowing of a cockerel. The trilling of a songbird heralding, rather too gaily I thought, another warm, sunny day. Awake now, I could hear the call of a cuckoo in a distant wood. The smell of somebody’s morning coffee mingled with the breeze and drifted in through the window. Through the ceiling hatch of the van I watched the grey mist evaporate to be replaced by an ever intensifying blue. Finally, shafts of sunlight started to work their way through the little gaps between the window blinds and landed in odd shaped splashes on the wall behind my head. I slid open the door of the van and stepped out onto the dewy grass. The air was still cool but, out of the shade, the sun was already hot. I let the warmth soak into me for a few minutes, basking like a lizard charging itself up for the day ahead.

We had promised ourselves breakfast out in the small town of La Salvetat-sur-Agout so we dressed and set off on foot. The walk took us by a pretty stretch of river. A green headed mallard trod water for a moment before allowing himself to be swept downstream, his quack sounding like excited laughter as he sped backwards. We continued up a steep, stone stairway to the hilltop town. Cats were warming themselves on the sunny steps, stretching out and rolling onto their backs, reaching indolently towards the sun as if to pull it closer. As we advanced they shot us reproachful looks and jumped out of our path, watching resentfully until we had passed and they could resume their sunbathing.

The town was already buzzing with life. The café terrace was nearly full so I bagsed a table and Gill went in search of croissants. In this rural community the talk was of hunting and fishing and, even at this early hour, there were as many beers as coffees on the waiter’s tray. Our coffees arrived and we tore our croissants apart plunging the crumbly crusts and elastic centres into the steaming coffee.

Mud streaked pickup trucks and quad bikes kept arriving from the surrounding countryside and there were soon queues outside the baker’s and butcher’s shops. The little market was buzzing as people squeezed and prodded and smelt, testing for quality and ripeness. Jars of locally produced honey glowed gold in the sun and the little white discs of fresh goats cheese beckoned irresistibly. The town vibrated with activity and chatter and laughter, the months of distancing and confinement seemingly forgotten. The only sign that the times were not completely normal, the masks over people’s faces.

With lunch in mind we joined the queue outside the butcher’s shop. The streets were now full: Dads with a baby tucked under one arm and a baguette under the other, elderly women towing shopping trolleys, and old men sitting, watching the world go by.

Our shopping bag full, we headed back to the van. Lunch was simple but delicious, peppers, courgettes, tomatoes and plump local lamb chops. For dessert wild cherry crumble tarts. We eventually roused ourselves from the table, fetched our books and spent the rest of the afternoon reading and dozing by the river.

In Cornwall, far from here, political leaders were wrangling over the future of the post pandemic world, were threatening trade wars and cold wars. Here by the river, lunches eaten, people came to play, to chat, to snooze, to read. Under a tree a little further downstream someone began to play an accordeon.

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