We met the old farmer on his way back from the cemetery. He goes there every day at noon to sit by his wifes grave and talk . 'Measuring up for his next move' as he puts it. He invited us in for a drink. While Wilf settled under the table our string vested neighbour produced a bottle of his home brewed eau de vie. Tooth jarringly sweet, gritty and with the kick of a mule.
Fuelled by this potent brew the old farmer soon started to recount his experiences in the resistance. I asked him if there was much hunger ( faim ) here during the war. He,however, thought I'd asked if there were many women ( femmes ). The response to my, misunderstood, question was akin to him sticking his pipe into the electrical socket while smoking it. " Women monsieur ! " he said sitting bolt upright in his rocking chair. " So many men were Prisoners of War. What was I to do ? Women have always loved me. I have a special gift ". Thankfully 'the font' came to collect Wilf for lunch before we were told what the special gift was.