Legends from our own lunchtimes

Sunday, August 17, 2014

Revisiting yesterday

It seems we woke Ian as we were leaving yesterday, although I suspect given the stealth with which we departed he was probably already awake and sensibly lying in his bunk when he heard our muted and surely almost imperceptible departure rattles.   He was awake enough to leap out of his bunk and take this photo, which I think goes a long way to confirming all that I may have written yesterday, (right down to the fairy eye-shadow, Michel!).

But that was yesterday and for now travelling through a landscape of Constable-esque inspiration is a thing of the past and for the future.  For now we are moored in the tiny boat basin in Vitry-le-François, in a pleasant, leafy suburban street within shouting distance of a shipyard.

It’s Sunday though so there is no shouting.  

Sundays in France follow a distinct pattern.  They start of quietly enough, there is no movement outdoors at all except perhaps for the occasional padding of someone almost apologetically walking a dog.  Somewhere in the morning a church bell rings, then rings again at midday or one, reminding the faithful and everyone else, that it’s lunch time.   

The streets then become truly deserted, and for the next four or five hours true silence descends, just as it did yesterday at our mooring after we had left.

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