Legends from our own lunchtimes

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Chez Bryony - Pont d'Ouche

The morning mist had well and truly cleared by the time Dave and Ria left, let alone by the time we were ready to strike out for the market at Bligny eight or nine kilometres away.

It always takes longer than one thinks to say goodbye, and get a few loads of washing on the line, and order a roast chicken because Bryony's subliminal sales technique with the scent of the things slowly revolving on her rotisserie wafting ever so gently into our psyche is impossible to refuse.  

Actually the morning mist had been gone for so long by the time we arrived, that it was precisely four and one half minutes past the time the market closes and since everyone seemed very focussed on getting everything packed away before it was time to eat, we decided to cut our losses and strike out for the supermarket about ten minutes away at a brisk cycling pace.

Even those of us without any extrasensory abilities whatsoever could probably have guessed that were we to arrive at any given location, say a supermarket, at any given time, say fourteen and a half minutes past the hour of twelve, providing that it was not one of the "except" days on the sign which proudly proclaimed it to be open seven days, then we were certain to arrive just after it had closed for business for lunch.   This little supermarket did not disappoint.  

Arriving exactly thirty seconds before the scheduled twelve-fifteen closing time, we were of course invited to return after "fourteen forty-five", an invitation which we chose to ignore, although so as not to return completely empty handed we did manage to convince the tardy fruit guy at the market who had not quite completed his packing, to part with a few pieces.

We returned to a busy little harbour.  Bryony was being run off her feet by a throng of cyclists intent on eating her out of next week's supplies, the other residents were variously painting, provisioning, or as were we, preparing for imminent departure, with growing disillusionment.   Those from colder climates than we (One French, four Brits and two Swedes) unanimously decided that it was far too hot to continue and who were we to argue?

So we all downed tools and sat together in the shade, doing what hungry, thirsty, sunburnt people do after a day of modestly intense endeavour, until the sky went dark and the mist returned once again to cloak the waterway.


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