The little market town a hive of activity . By the town hall a policeman is directing the traffic. Badly . A large group of German motorcyclists have stopped , en masse , for breakfast . The beer and absinthe crowd at the cafe looking decidedly unhappy as this phalanx of leather clad bikers occupy the tables and sprawl across the pavement . Nowhere for us to sit , so Wilf lies in the back of the car with the tailgate up while I fetch a bowl of water and a cup of coffee . I rejoin him with the shocking news that the cafe has sold out of croissants .
The bakers little boy and girl are just heading off to school when we arrive . The seven year old son , satchel on his back , leading his five year old sister by the wrist . The little girl spots Wilf , pushes her brothers hand away, runs back into the shop and then reappears with a third of a croissant au beurre . Wilf positively beams as she splits it into two and feeds him . She giggles, pats him on the head and then skips off to catch up with her irritated brother . Early morning laughter . There is something innocent and reassuring about the rhythms of life in France.
What flavour is the cake decorated with lilac macaroons , I ask . " Strawberry mascarpone , tequila and lychees " comes the reply . We buy a strawberry gateau .