The croissants were still oven warm when we made it to the bakers. That wonderful, peculiarly French, smell of fresh bread filling the air and wafting out onto the street . Wilf sat patiently at the shop door , nose high, contentedly savouring the scents, while I went inside. This morning the bakers shelves were groaning with all sorts of festive goodies . The choice between the strawberry gateau and the iced apricot sponge proving to be a particularly difficult one to make. While yours truly pondered, the woman at the cash till went to the front door to feed half a warm croissant au beurre to Wilf . First the corner, then two slivers , then the crispy, curved piece from the top. A canine ' Easter doesn't get much better than this ' look on his face. The other customers , all little old ladies with mesh shopping bags, looked on and smiled. The cafe was busy with noisy out of towners, not the best environment for an old blind dog, so we moved quickly onto the newsagents for the morning paper before heading towards the greengrocers for some navel oranges. With Wilf trotting along beside there was just time to pop into the chocolatier for an Easter Egg before heading home. Easter Sunday in France. Still somehow special.