Monday Markets
Each Monday we go to visit Mirepoix. The town is a late thirteenth-century bastide built around one of the loveliest surviving arcaded market squares in France. The large central square is surrounded by half-timbered houses supported on wood pillars, creating a magnificent covered arcade, which must be about three meters in depth. Each Monday a colourful and lively market is set up in it’s centre. We go to buy the Sunday Times and wander around the stalls buying fruit and other delicious food which the stall holders have tempted us to try.
“Fromage Madam?, Sauccisse, Monsiur?”, Olives held out on a spoon. Saucers of fruit cut into bite sized pieces to sample.
One week I turned around to see my husband munching a large piece of crusty country bread. “Are you enjoying that?” I asked. “Maybe I’ll buy some it’s really delicious” he replied as we wandered along. After a while we retraced our steps. “Ah! there he is, the man I asked if I could try his bread” I looked hard. A portly gentleman had set out a stall facing the square on which were displayed home grown vegetables behind him was another wooden table on which he had laid out his breakfast which included the remains of a large French loaf off of which he had just cut a chunky piece and was eating with relish. I caught hold of Julian’s arm, "Wait, is that the man” “Yes” “Oh I think you asked him if you could try his bread which was his breakfast it’s not for sale.” “Oh” Julian said “ But he was very generous” “Yes” I chuckled “He probably thought you were really hungry and felt sorry for you. We better look for a bread stall” So we did.
Other articles which might be of interest to you
| < Prev |
|---|