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Bon weekend from a bread van in France…

Baguettes in the back of a van in France


Hope you had a great week.

Here, I am thinking of building an arc. The rain has been almost non-stop and my animals are not impressed. Since the baby chickens were born almost three months ago they’ve pretty much enjoyed constant sunshine. Now they are huddled under the terrace avoiding the wet stuff, as they refuse to stay in the pen and are still just about small enough to squeeze through the fence. They look mournfully through the kitchen door at me. I’m soft, but not that soft – they’re not coming in!

We have a new bread man in the village. No he’s not made of bread – he delivers the bread. In these rural parts, instead of making everyone drive to the nearest village some 10 miles away, they bring the shops to us. The fish man comes on Tuesday, the meat man comes on Wednesday, the spices and bottles man comes on Friday. The bread man comes three times a week dropping off fresh baguettes and country farmhouse loaves, tooting the horn as he arrives. I normally hang a bag out on the gate and the old bread man would pop the bread in, but the new bread man likes to chat.

“Is that your doggy?” he asked on Tuesday, after he tooted the horn so much I gave up and went out there. “Yes he is very friendly” I said, looking down at Churchill the excitable German pinscher who loves to meet people and was chasing his own tail, running round and round in circles like a complete maniac.

He’s learning English apparently, the bread man, not Churchill the dog. His daughter is having English lessons at school and he’s helping her with her homework and wants to practice on me, the only Brit in the village.

I think the bread man might have swotted up for Thursday’s delivery. “The rain is very falling” he said. “It like a river”, he tapped the side of his nose as if he had made this personal discovery as he drove around in his little white van full of delicious smelling bread. He wasn’t wrong, the river of rain was cascading down the hill on which I live, I think it might have been possible to surf it though I wasn’t tempted to try.

Friday’s English language lesson with the bread man: “Where is your doggy? The rain has carried him?” he laughed at his own wit. “The dog refuses to leave the pigsty” I said “he doesn’t like the rain. “What is pigsty?” Erm… I have no idea what the word is in French. “The house where the pigs live” I said. “You have pigs living in your house?” he was incredulous. “No. We have a small building in the garden where the pigs used to live. Now it is where I write”. “You write with the pigs?” It was painful.

In the end he drove off because Madame Bernadette was waving from the bottom of the hill for her bread, he was late by now.

I am pretty sure he will spread the word that the crazy Brit in the village has pigs in her house and they help with her writing. I’m not sure if that’s worse than being known as Madame Merde after my septic tank exploded. Never a dull moment here I can tell you!

Best wishes, bon weekend and bisous from France…

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