My French Holiday Diary- Day 10

We eat a big loaf of bread. That's about it.


















Day 10- Monday 24^th September

Today was the first day the baker was open after his holidays, so Mum-y and I eagerly scuttled over there in the morning to see what was on sale. No massive Alsatian barked at us when we went near the place this time, so we went inside without flinching. It’s just a little place, no bigger than our shop in Haworth, with two small glass counters (one empty, one filled with weird-looking pizzas) and a couple of shelves against the back wall to prop the bread up in. Oddly, the owner also seems to rent DVDs, as there was a big stack of them in one corner too. He told us he was back from his holidays now and that there would be no more slacking. I watched in silent admiration as he slung an armful of hot bread onto his shelves to restock after his last customer.

Though we bought a couple of baguettes, I couldn’t resist a huge round loaf of bread, called a couronne. The bread that we’ve been eating varies in flavour and quality, depending on where we buy the stuff, but by far my favourite have been baguettes that are harder than average, with a rich, dark bottom crust that seems to be the bread equivalent of caramelised. I think they’ve been stone-baked just a little bit longer than usual or something; either way, they’re my favourite and the couronne had a similar flavour. We cut slices out of it like it was a giant cake, before smothering in butter and jam.

With Mum-y and Dad-y off to the doctor’s in Cajarc in search of antibiotics (Dad-y just ain’t getting better), the rest of us lounged about in bed. As Roger’s a delicate flower, he stayed inside reading while Amy and I sat out in the sun. I tried to read a course book but as usual, found myself getting sleepy after a couple of pages, so abandoned my brave attempt and simply sat in the sun, overheating in my massive jumper and scarf combo. The parents’ search was successful and we settled into another lunch as celebration. French doctors don’t faff about when you’re ill, it seems. Apparently, when they asked for antibiotics, the doctor told Mum-y that she gives babies the doses Daddy’s given back at home. That explains why he never gets better.

I thought in the evening that we’d probably eat the stew, which had made the whole house smell fantastic the evening before but everyone seemed suddenly struck down with various lurgies, so the day ended with Roger, Dad-y and I eating the potato gratin I’d made with fried eggs, pancetta and the last of the leftover sausages. The gratin was nice, but I cooked it too long in the wait to see whether anyone fancied dinner or not, which made it pretty darn chewy. Good with a fried egg though, I must admit. Not so good was the awful programme we watched in the evening about people who can remember stuff really well. I nearly died whilst watching it. I recovered after watching a bit of food network though, and we retired to bed ready for Cahors market in the morning.