Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) by Marisa Raoul

Author:Marisa Raoul
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: DoctorZed Publishing

CHAPTER 11

A Day in the Life of a Village.

Village life in rural France ebbs and flows in a gentle, time-honoured rhythm, which one becomes easily accustomed to. You awaken daily to the sweet, piercing toll of ancient, church bells and in our case, to the perfumes of warm dough and baked breads, streaming from the neighbouring Boulangerie. Whether occupied with paying guests or not, I wandered sleepy eyed to the bakery on my daily pilgrimage for fresh bread and warm croissants. Little rituals like these are desperately hard to break and with the passing years, become exceedingly addictive.

Twice a week, on Tuesdays and Saturdays, our normally tranquil, little village woke to the boisterous throngs emanating from the market hall and neighbouring square, which by fortune, was situated only twenty paces from our front steps. Such convenience. This magnificent example of 15th century architecture had originally been constructed as La Halle aux Grains or ‘Grain Hall’, where shire farmers would bring their grain harvest for weighing on the official shire scales and public sale.

I watched the to and fro of little Renault trucks, from my dining room window, as they arrived heavily laden with their bountiful fare. Our little sand-coloured Sharpei, ‘Guangzhou’, adored perching on a chair by the window, only to poke his truffle coloured nose through the geranium filled window boxes. He would inspect the passers by from behind his floral camouflage, much to the amusement of the morning shoppers and camera happy tourists.

The variety and abundance of the market stall goods, altered week to week, and according to season. You would always find the freshest of farm produce at the most reasonable prices at your village marketplace.

During the spring and summer months, the timber trestles bulged with a psychedelic multitude of flower and vegetable seedlings, eagerly waiting to be planted. It was one of my favourite times, as the welcoming mass of colour and heady fragrances smothered the entire village square, creating a living, breathing work of art. After months of winter grey, this sudden cornucopia of abundance was a breath of fresh air and brought a smile to every face.

Madame Colette, the timid ‘goat lady’, sat quietly on the market steps; her little stand of freshly made, pale-yellow goat cheeses, my absolute downfall. I adored these delectable little morsels, which she sold in varying states of maturation. The freshest ‘Cabecou’, were perfect for melting over a crisp walnut salad and the harder, more mature samples, were divine as post dinner nibbles with that final glass of Bordeaux wine.

Jean and I adored them all, and never failed to buy a selection each week. My parents became obsessed with them, on their first visit, and my Italian father sulked desperately on his return to Sydney, knowing that he would have to go without. He begged me to mail parcels of the little delights to him, but I explained that they would never get past the strict, Australian customs and their trusty sniffer dogs.

There was also the jolly greengrocer, who

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