Romantic Pub in the Mountains

I am pinching myself a lot lately to remind myself I am not in a dream, but in a magical part of France that I am surprised still exists. Last night we ate and slept in an ancient pub lit by glowing firelight and inhabited by scores of locals cozying around the bar for Friday night drinks.

The men came in one by one, many of them bringing along their dogs so that as the evening progressed the place was heated by dogs and men. We wonder where the wives are in these villages...are they home watching tv or are they engaged in tapestry weaving or lacemaking!

Our hostess Muriel made the food and there was evidence of her tarts and pies near the hearth. She carefully explained the menu while apologizing for her French. The first course, the entree, was either a tomato tart, a duck gizzard tart, or pigs feet. Second was pasta, gratin, and salad with either steak or duck hearts. Third was banana chocolate tart or berry tart.

Of course we were entertained on and off by the town drunk, who had some skill in English and repeatedly said, "what the fuck" and then grabbed either Laura or me for confirmation. The owners repeatedly called him away so that we could eat in peace. The meal was wonderful, our best so far of the three or four restaurant meals we've had thus far.

The next day we were treated to the villages apple pressing. There was a cart ful of apples, plus a few carloads full and much apparatus fo washing, pressing, and sterilizing the fresh juice. All of the men involved in this activity were worry andgrisley in a very pleasing way. I somehow felt the Middle Ages although they were using modem equipment.

Sadly, we had to leave this magical place in the mountains for our next destination...we creep closer and closer to Lourdes.