Monday, August 29, 2011
The trug , the apron , and the cheeks of it all .
Indian summer weather. 28 degrees, no humidity, and the faintest of breezes. The weather forecast say it's going to stay like this until Thursday . Perfect temperatures for heading off with Wilf through the sunflower fields.
Sunday lunchtime . Completely lost we stop in a small village to get directions to the farm that makes wild flower honey . The hamlet is quite deserted apart from a woman in a straw hat and black apron working away in her garden by the church . We shout out and she wanders over to her gate , trug in one hand trowell in the other , and gives ' the font ' precise instructions on how to get to where we want to go . It's only as she turns and walks back down the path away from us that we see that the hat and apron, and a pair of flip flops, were all she had on . The cheeks of it all !
On our way home we have to stop the car while a girl shepherds a flock of turkeys across the road in front of us . Traffic hold ups Tarn-et-Garonne style . Wilf , wrapped up in a blanket in the back of the car , sleeps soundly through it all .