~ By the old railtrack, where we sometimes walk, is a yard, once perhaps a siding for the railway, now a place of light industry. There is a a scruffy concrete and corrugated workshop full of tools and machinery, which I rather like, at one end, and a little garden at the other, bright and flowery and well-tended, terraced up the slope. Two elderly women, both in print skirts, striped and floral, t-shirts and cardigans in greys and pinks, stand talking animatedly, beyond my hearing over a courgette plant, two large fruits of which one is carrying under her arm. They gesticulate and wag fingers, then suddenly bob towards each other and kiss on both cheeks symmetrically, whether in belated greeting or premature goodbye is not clear, as they go on talking afterwards without apparently any intention of parting.
~ I park right up by the church, which is shady and quiet, though a heavy haul back up afterwards with a full basket. The smells of the market drift up the hill, paella and cheese and roasting chicken and charcuterie and frying pancakes. I buy Cornish pasties (yes really, I know I know, but they're a charming anglo-French couple who sell them and the pasties really are good ones, please don't tell the I'm-more-French-than-the-French-and-what-did-you-want-to-come-to France-for-anyway brigade...) for lunch for us today, olives and red onions and feta cheese and fresh figs for friends for dinner tomorrow, and, from a beguilingly louche and gaudily cheap stall I've not seen here before, gold nail varnish for my toenails for who knows when.
Mineral, filtered, clear.
Light coming into the kitchen. Nothing arranged, or I might not have chosen a plastic water bottle - fizzy, another moral compromise; I don't buy the still stuff but use the filter jug behind. I liked its refractions anyway.