France, the Soul of a Journey by R J ODonnell

Author:R J ODonnell
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781783065813
Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd

CHAPTER 11

The grass had been cut in the low-lying meadows along by the Vendéen coast on the morning we left Brétignolles for Fontevraud Abbey. Rounds of harvested hay were enjoying the freedom of the fields in a carefree interlude between mowed meadow and winter feeding. As you passed by you could fancy feeling the blades of sharp stubble beneath your feet and smelling the pungent withered grass. Inland, towards Cholet, the landscape began to rise out of its flatness. Small fields reaching into high ground looked playful, like children gripping the crest of a hill with their hands, to have a peep at what was on the far side. Further in from the coast, land levels got more daring still. A great viaduct showed off its immense traversing power across a deep valley.

We drove on to the D960, a road that twists and meanders. Most sharp turns were taken care of by a roundabout. Part of this road is a three-lane nightmare. I think roads like these should be banned. If you overtake and the driver coming towards you decides to do the same, you have a single lane between the two of you and that can carry all the consequences your imagination has at its disposal. Steve was driving and he wanted to overtake, but we talked him out of it even though his patience was a little tried by the slow driver in front.

“It’s more dangerous staying behind someone who’s driving this slowly than overtaking,” he said.

And we agreed that maybe so, but still we urged him not to.

It was a few minutes past ten o’clock as we approached the exit for the village of Vihiers, a little too early for morning coffee, but we figured that by the time we reached the next suitable town it might be too late, so we turned off.

Vihiers was a pleasant surprise of a place. We spotted a nice-looking tearoom, part of a boulangerie-pâtisserie. Clients waiting in the queue for service greeted us as if we were locals, bringing us into a close-knit world of village friendliness. The door to the tearoom at the back of the shop was blocked by a large cardboard box, a sign that few clients stopped there for tea. The slender woman came outside the counter to remove it and let us in. As we seated ourselves, Treasa wondered how she kept herself so slim with so many temptations around her. She concluded that there must be truth in the claim that French women never get fat in spite of their great love of food. It has been the subject of a book, French Women Don’t Get Fat. So now women of other nationalities can read it and they too can defy the weighty law of logic. The author, Mireille Guiliano, has a cookbook to go with it, which, she says, is organised around her three favourite pastimes: breakfast, lunch and dinner.

The tearoom wouldn’t really have accommodated many more than the four of us. The woman

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