Not a lot

Sometimes we have days that don’t quite work.  We were going to take a drive, stop for lunch somewhere and then walk the dog.  As we were both busy on our computers during the morning we weren’t ready to go till 11.30.  Anyone not living in France may not know this, but the restaurants only serve lunch from 12.00 to 2.00.  There may be a bit more leeway in Paris but here, in the Dordogne, if you’re not in and seated by, say, 1.30 at the latest, you don’t have much chance of eating.  And some places refuse you at 1.30.  I was happy to go driving for an hour and stop at around 12.30 but Mike was more cautious and suggested we eat at our local restaurant, then come back for the dog and set out on our drive.

The main restaurant in our village, Franca, is brilliant.  For the equivalent of a tenner you get soup, starter, main course, cheese and pudding, and you can buy your wine by the pichet in whatever quantities take your fancy.  The cooking is great, too.  Lots of people think it’s brilliant and it’s a favourite spot for workers’ lunches with plenty of vans and trucks in the car park.  When we went there yesterday they were heaving at the sides and we were turned away.

We went to the Hostellerie du Fin Chapon in Excideuil.  Mike had a strange experience there years ago when he was house hunting.  He booked to stay there when he was searching the area and arrived to find that, though the door was unlocked, there was nobody around at all and the hallway was full of dead leaves.  He was about to leave when he noticed a numbered key on a side table with a piece of paper bearing the words, “Mr Blower”.  The key opened the door of a bedroom which had been made up so he went to bed, hoping that they had actually got his booking and that Mr Blower didn’t arrive in the middle of the night.  In the morning he went down looking for breakfast and found the place was still deserted.  So he left a night’s money on the table and a note saying he couldn’t stay and booked into the Campanile near Perigueux instead.  Fortunately it’s under new management now. 

We think that one of the local catering colleges is sending students there to practise.  We had a decent  meal and were waited on by a bevy of young people.  I forgot the camera so there aren't any pictures.    And when we drove home after lunch to collect the dog, it was pouring with rain so the car trip was cancelled.  I sorted some accounts out and we watched some television.

Poor Dolly got a very brief walk round the fields behind the house.  By the evening she was so bored she was trying to gnaw gently on my wrist to amuse herself.  I felt a bit the same. 

My friend, Mrs K Wood, has written from near Glandon to point out that in yesterday’s blog I described tulips as daffodils.  She is perfectly correct.  I can only plead age, rather than ignorance.