The parking spot was tiny, but my friend Zia*, an experienced jockey of French country roads, handily wedged her car into the spot. We grabbed our baskets (reed, made by women in Africa) from the boot of the car (sheltered spot in the hatchback), waited as a camion (a motor truck similar to a Ford Transit Connect) sped through the intersection before crossing the street.
The farmers’ market in Fajoles is small, about a dozen vendors, but is appropriate for a hamlet of its size. Despite the size, it draws a large crowd and is a favorite meeting place of local farmers and ex-pats. As a result the small courtyard was packed. White crushed stone crunched under our feet as we made our way to the first stop on the Zia’s shopping list – the honey man. Zia introduced me (she has spent summers there for over twenty years and has become part of the community) and she began educating me on the different honeys and the wonders of propolis. We were quickly interrupted by one of her friends, the wife of a retired general officer who had served in the French Air Force. They chatted for a short time, and honey now in hand, moved on to the local vintner.
And so it went: introduction, conversation with the vendor or another friend, moving on; from the vintner to the veg man, then the fruit lady. Under the trees by the church we ran in to the General, who turned out to have been a fighter pilot, and spoke well of his deployments to the U.S. Our last stop was to visit a friend showing her watercolors of the local area. After a bit of cheerful conversation we were on our way. Bounty in hand (honey! wine! haricots verts! peaches! pattypan squash! pate!), we headed back to the car, and zipped back to the house.
In the French countryside, the big meal is in the early afternoon. Today, the plan was to have our big Sunday meal at the local café. Zia had some chores to do before we headed out, which gave me a chance to explore. After a quick check of my laundry (put out before marché, still slightly damp) and nearby flower, tomato and herb beds, I hiked across a large field to the low farm structures at the back of the property. It was here I got my first peek of the little one who would soon be my favorite neighbor of the trip.
The structures were animal pens that had come with the property. Over the years they had lain fallow, but had recently been renovated by and were now used by the back neighbor to house rabbits, chickens, a pig and sheep. It was nearing the hottest part of the day and the animals, wiser than the human approaching them, were hunkered down in the shade of their open-sided tin-roofed shed. But sheep are curious, or perhaps associate people with food, so one by one the more adventurous of the flock came out for a look. Two even came to the fence and accepted clover from my hand (in this case it was greener on my side of the fence) which encouraged others. And then, who was that, peering out from behind that shy (or more likely protective) ewe? A little lamb, soon to be known in the house as Lambie.
But all I would get was a peek. Something spooked the sheep; the ones past me scattered in the field, and Lambie and her mom bolted back to the safety of the shed. I took the cue and headed back to the house, eager for the next adventure of the day.
*Name changed to protect the innocent.