13) The search continues

A magical little chateau we spied just outside the village where we were staying near Orleans

On our way south we stayed in a chambre d'hote we hadn't been to before, at Clery St Andre, just SW of Orleans.  After our last experience, when we arrived only to find the one near Chartes all locked up and completely deserted, we were a bit apprehensive.  This time, though, our hosts were there to greet us and all went well.  We had a meal with them, which got us back into the swing with our French and, apart from the fact I developed a stomach upset which lasted several days (I think it may have been the local sausage speciality, which Georgi and I decided must be an acquired taste), it turned out to be a really good stopover place.  We have re-booked for our return in March, but we are going to skip the meal.

Looking down on Cahors, with the three towers of the old bridge showing in the top left corner

The first area we wanted to check out on this part of the trip was Cahors, with its spectacular fairytale bridge, nestling in a loop of the river Lot.  The gite we had booked, again turned out to be fine, and the surrounding area was stunning.

View of the setting sun from the balcony of our gite

We saw lots and lots of houses whilst we were staying near Cahors, partly due to the fact that our (very nice) landlady turned out to be an ............estate agent.  She was really sweet, just as chaotic as all the others, and a terrible driver, but a great help and we are going back there again (more of les agents immobiliers later).  Quite quickly, we also came across another (French) estate agent who more or less adopted us.  He was great (also a terrible driver) and we may well end up buying a house from him.  So two very good contacts in Cahors, quickly made, and what better way to check the place out than a trip to the Saturday market.

Saturday market in Cahors

It turned out to be a really good market, but our romantic naivety almost cost us dear.  At this time of year there are not a great many tourists, and G and I do our best to try and blend in with the locals (chatting to each other in French, saying Bonjour! to everyone we walk past, keeping the camera and town maps out of sight, and constantly making derogatory comments about Parisians.  Most of the time it works well, but every now and again we are clocked.  You generally know when this has happened, because someone starts talking to you in English before you have even opened your mouth.  We had just entered the square, and I think our mistake may have been to pause, stare in rapture at the wonderful array before us, and take a photo.  Immediately we are engaged in conversation by a fellow who looks just like the black market spiv, Joe, in "Dad's Army".  He is selling ewe's milk cheese (brebie), and gives us a slice to try.  Then he offers us a sliver of another type and then another.  Breakfast was not that long ago, so we make our apologies and escape without buying anything.

Freshly made crepes, Cahors market

Soon we find a woman making crepes.  Georgi orders one in spy-grade French, and I have a waffle.  All responses are in the local patois, so we wish her a bon journee, and continue our wanderings as we slip deeper and deeper into a delicious sunny morning torpor.  We start to feel guilty about eating so much of Joe's cheese and decide to go back and buy some (it was, after all, very good).  He seems delighted to see us.  As we notice he has no other customers, we begin to feel rather sorry for him and are even more pleased we decided to return.  We say (in our best French) we would like une petite tranche of his fromage.  His knife hovers over a slice big enough to feed the entire dining room of the Tour d'Argent, and weighing several kilos.   Ever so gently we indicate we would like somewhat less, and after several adjustments, he finally slices a small portion just big enough for a little soupcon.  On to the scales, and out pops a bill for almost ten quid.  Completely nonplussed, our patois at this point starts to unravel as we splutter incoherent cries of astonishment.  With a rather annoying nonchalance, Joe points to the notice with the prices on, 49.99 euros a kilo.  We may be English (despite hiding it fairly well), but we know that even a very very expensive cheese is never more than 25 euros a kilo (average prices range from about 8 to 15).  Joe has clearly been on the lookout for suckers, and we have been caught hook line and sinker.  Time to use our Englishness to our advantage.  We look innocently at him, throw in a few words such as desole, domage, moins chere, n'ai plus de fric, give an inane smile, a Gallic shrug and walk calmly away without looking back.

We soon merged back into the crowd