Our House is Not in Paris Read Online Free Page B

intervened and I learned that, when you are invited to dîner , it is customary not to take an everyday choice but rather an exquisite selection. So the fruit tarts, glossy in their glaze, and powder-puff choux pastries were carefully chosen, placed in a shiny white box and tied with a gold ribbon.
    Then it was off to our first French soirée . We were ushered in by Philippe, accompanied by Melanie, to his courtyard, which looked like a stage set. There were flickering candles placed everywhere, including in all the wall niches. The table was beautifully decorated and a procession of delicious dishes was served. Escargot dripping with butter and garlic, a salmon wrapped in foil that was delicately apportioned at the table, and a medley of summer vegetables. Over digestifs to finish our wonderful evening, Melanie provided our entertainment with a hilarious display of belly dancing.
    The night is one of those special occasions that linger for a long time in your memory. A combination of an exceptionally late night and a copious amount of wine was not, however, a very auspicious start to the following morning, when we set off early for the Pyrenees.

The Perfect Gîte
    So many of the wonderful things that unfold in life hinge on sheer chance. And so it was in finding the perfect gîte . It all stemmed from the serendipity of finding a car park.
    After our few days in the Pyrenees, we were heading for Figeac, a town Stuart had fallen in love with, when we had to collect Liz’s car. She had broken down there on the night she was driving to stay with us in Rignac. (Liz Campbell is another friend we have gathered on our travels. While she lives in Wales, we also met her when we were on our trip to India.) The drive back through the Pyrenees had been spectacular but it had also been a long, hot day. We had stopped for lunch in Albi and thought we may stay there a night, but the blistering heat deterred us from searching for very long. We decided to press on. By five we were weary and, as we were driving through a town I spotted a single car space next to the river. Even more fortuitously, it was next to a restaurant. Café at last. Sipping our café I then noticed an Office du Tourisme just across the Aveyron river.
    We walked over the bridge and I asked about the availability of accommodation in the area. I listed all my requirements: a small gîte in a nearby village in a quiet rural setting, preferably with a pool. They laughed. By now it was the middle of summer and the height of the tourist season; there was simply no accommodation available at all. Surely we knew that everyone in France was on vacances ?
    Despondent, we headed back to the car. It was just what we had been told at the Albi Office du Tourisme . And then we saw it — a small sign at the end of the bridge with an arrow pointing along the narrow path next to the river: Chambre d’hôte . By now we were enchanted just by what little we had seen of the plane-tree-lined boulevards of Villefranche-de-Rouergue. The ducks floating past us on the Aveyron as we approached the chambre d’hôte with high hopes reinforced the charm of the town. La Closerie was hidden behind solid stone walls. We tentatively opened the wooden gate to discover an enchanting jardin with roses lining the path leading to a splendid two-storey stone building. We later discovered that it used to be a bathhouse at which travellers would stop and rest. I also found out later from Erick and Brigitte Hurault de Vibraye that la closerie literally means ‘pleasure garden’. It was now six o’clock. It was peak season. It was unlikely there would be a room but, voilà , there was! At last we could stop for the evening and resume our search the next day for somewhere to stay for our last fortnight in France.
    Over croissants and café the following morning, I whimsically asked Erick if he also had a gîte in the country we could rent. Voilà! It turned out