Verlor'ne Müh

Off we went to the market town this morning in search of matt acrylic varnish, only to find that the bookshop that did a limited range of artists' materials is no longer there.  The market was there, but Gaschard had sold out of eggs, so we'd to buy from someone to whose poultry we haven't been introduced.  Enfin bon.  I dropped into Fortnum's on the way back to the car to get some boiled ham for a sandwich, and found that they are stocking Berner Rösti.  Forget the sandwich: lunch was said Rösti with fried eggs: effective, as we always say, only as part of a calorie-controlled diet.

Pierre and Ludo

Pierre appeared yesterday, and has slapped on a bit more render on the end wall.  There's another layer to put on, and then he has to align it with the older render above, and then find a sand that will approximate in colour to the wash above the chopped out bit.   Poignant that he and Ludo, his bro-in-law (in that they married two sisters) were here painting it together less than a year ago.  We learned early this year from the travel blog of the parents of said two sisters that Ludo had suffered a severe stroke, from which he did not recover.  Aged 43.  Carpe diem.

The vehicle is puzzling.  There appear to be no opening windows aft of the front doors, which reinforces its credentials as a delivery van.  The suspension is so bouncy as to be nauseating: not a good combination with an airless interior, eh?  This is no voiture de tourisme, and I shall remember its model designation (NV200) so as to be able to turn it down if we're ever offered one again.  The compound A-post presents a blind spot that conceals pedestrians - thank goodness Martyn was watching as we pulled out of Fortnum's car park.  The maddening thing is that the engine is really good.  Throttle response is instant and vigorous, and it pulls from low revs without turbo lag.  After some pretty lacklustre diesels in the past (and a certain diesel Mégane comes readily to mind) Renault is now producing some very good motors again.  Shame their Nissan subsidiary puts them in such a shite chassis.

As we often say, France is world famous for its taste and style.  So why, pray, is the market full of rubbish like lime green sparkly net curtains, puce bras and visible clothes that would make a tart blush?  On the other hand, the displays of fresh produce are a delight to the eye, and the various traiteurs' offerings were as mouth-watering as ever.  The Vietnamese chicken roasters were doing their usual cheerful trade, and others' paëlla and encornets farcis looked pretty appetising as well.  The town itself is pretty scabby, however, and definitely hostile to pedestrians.  The footpath along the main drag from where we parked is on three levels, and the only one wide enough to walk on à deux is interrupted with tree planting holes.  Perhaps it ought to twin with the notoriously motorist-unfriendly Brighton in the hope that they might work out a happy medium.  To make things worse, the town is currently beset with road works that make our normal approach very slow.  We returned home yesterday south-about through the vines, and today took the NW approach via the ex-N113, from which there were quite good views of the snowy Pyrenees.  So I guess it's going to rain...