Our first full Sunday in France starts with a visit to the boulangerie. I am a little disappointed that it is not the usual young woman behind the counter and her place is taken by a middle-aged man who perhaps enjoys his own products a little too much.
The shops seems busy or should I say about 4 customers are there. I listen to an English woman struggling with her French a little but she gets by. I guess everyone is there because the place shuts at noon on Sundays.
We have a quick brunch to fuel our Sunday in France as we were late getting up and set off to the brocante in a nearby village. I am hoping these events will meet my need for finding quirky objects or as my younger son would term it “tat!” now I am away from my beloved charity shops. There are maybe 7 stalls so very small by English standards but of course that much more interesting as some of the objects sold are new to us. I see a set of colourful knives and we buy these with me liking the bright colours and my husband liking the idea of having sharp knives in the house. My daughter spots a purple electronic journal affair which we get for a couple of Euros.
We enjoy a concert at the local bar amazed that such things take place on Sunday mornings in tiny villages like this.
On the way back to the car, our car alarm goes off. What with my daughter throwing up in public and the car alarm blaring, I think we will soon be infamous in our newly adopted country. A man babbles something at us and I am just about to answer that I do not understand in French when my husband answers him in English pointing out to me that he had actually spoken to us in English asking if we had found anything useful at the brocante.
We head for the coast visiting Carnac where we find a little bistro having already marvelled at the almost landlocked sea with its many shades of blue and green. Once again, having taken a quick photo of the view, I notice how often I have to move my screen so as not to capture couples in flagrante. It appears the French are much less repressed in terms of physicality.
We order chips to keep things simple and my husband has a beer. We have coke with the owner who is short, olive-skinned and full of fun telling us this is Breton cola not Pepsi or Coca-Cola. We are delighted with it as it reminds both me and my husband of the cola we had as children that was so good at quenching thirst on a hot day like today.
The chips are served in huge bowls along with pots of home-made mayonnaise. The owner apologies for taking about 5 minutes to get our food to us. “I talk a lot” she explains in her perfect English. We check out the menu on the way out on the blackboards and resolve to return to this place again.
We journey back home slowly stopping here and there when the mood takes us. We love the picnic areas where you can take a break which always seem to have good tables and benches and a loo available for weary travellers.
We check out our village bar which is closed again. We have never found it open at a time to suit us yet. We travel a bit further and find the local cybercafé returning to tell the teenager he can make contact with his friends there. As I had already predicted to my husband, he replied moodily that “It’s OK. I will just wait until the Internet is on here”
I enjoy some cider and have an early night leaving my husband to play Monopoly with the kids.
How do you enjoy Sunday in France?