Meeting People

After the excitement of last week, it has been a quiet weekend spent mostly at home. We have put in a few hours work on both days on the ongoing eternal skimming of walls. Thankfully, the warm weather means it all dries overnight ready to be worked on again the next day. We sat down after dinner this evening and planned the week's activity and listed the materials that I will need to buy before I go back to London for a couple of days.

Ed went out sightseeing both afternoons, which officially means he has done more sightseeing in one week than the genius has managed in six months - surely there is only so much sitting in your room looking at the internet you can do - but each to their own I suppose.

Yesterday I met some friends for lunch and a glass of wine. It has become something of a ritual to meet at cafe Saillan at 12.00 on a Saturday - it is a popular lunch spot, does an excellent tapas plate for €5 cooked outside on the street by one of a small group of local suppliers who rotate week by week (including my favourite butcher from the market who usually does an excellent charcuterie plate and foie gras). There is often a street band playing which jollies everyone along and the location is ideal to catch the midday sun - so there is always a rush for outside tables and chairs.

What's great is that there will always be someone there - so if you can't make it one week or the next, you will always be welcomed back when you can - good for me travelling back and forward to the UK - and because the group has a large French contingent it has been invaluable for me learning to speak the language more fluently and to understand some of the French psyche. For instance, yesterday, Pierre, who runs a shop called Highlander which sells 'British' furniture, crockery and so on to the French, arrived and declined a glass of wine, announcing that he had made a 'bon resolution' not to drink alcohol today, after which he proceeded to order the first of the three peroquets that he consumed. A peroquet is a pastis and menthe mixture with ice and water which combines into a refreshing smoky green drink - but, the point being, is that pastis is clearly not classed as alcohol in France, just as cava is not classed as alcohol in Catalunya - "It is not dangerous", explained the maitre'd at a hotel we stayed in near to Girona some years ago.

I have met many new acquaintances through this group, including the mayor, who regularly turns up to shake some hands and accept a free glass of wine or six. It is a fact of French life that the mayor is an integral part of anything that happens in any French village, town or city. In England the mayor only ever seems to be seen at official functions or in local council meetings and is usually wearing his mayoral bling. In all the places I have lived in England I have never once met the mayor or seen him around town. Here, I have met the mayor three times, have seen him countless others and his face is in the local paper everyday doing something or other - everything that happens here goes through the mayor's office, yet for all that influence he appears to be the most self-effacing, warm and friendly man and is always very casual in his dress and approach to everyone he meets. This week there is a meeting, hosted by the mayor, where the town's plans for development and improvement of the bastide town, where I live, will be presented. I will probably only understand some of what will be said but it should be interesting to see what is envisaged for the town, assuming I can work it out!