SO WE COLLECTED TOGETHER OUR EFFECTS, in the sulky grey light of the deluge in Mèze, dropped the door key off at the vacant reception and scuttled up the side road where Octavia had sat out the night. In twenty minutes or so we were in the elected breakfast town, namely Marseillan, hopefully to secure our petit dej in the familiar café near the market. Couldn't park though and ended up further out but within a short sprint of another café.
It was dark and very damp under the trees, the café bright and peopled. Mme Melling was sent off to fetch croissants etc, well she has the language to navigate such transactions, and what is more she secured filled baguettes for lunch as well. Star! What's a few drops of rain? Upon her return, we enjoyed the coming and going of the locals, the greetings and nods, the dog too phased to go out to the lav so crapping at its owners feet, that sort of thing. I like wet mornings once safe ensconced in the café, me. We'll remember this one!
We went down to the port, of course. Had it to ourselves, it was streaming. Noted: yet more character loss on the old industrial Noilly Prat side, yet more glossy holiday flats and apartments, yet more developments announced… Somehow the place holds on to some of its charm for us but I wonder for how much longer. La Pacheline (oft frequented resto) was closed of course, at this time of day. As was Noilly Prat. Marseillan has been a favourite of ours for years and years, we almost bought here even, but Sablet prevailed…
Enough already. We headed for the A75 and the long climb up into the central massif.
Any vague hope of going off the A75, cross country to Rodez was scotched by the inclemency so we stuck out the thankfully very quiet and impressive autoroute until the Rodez northern junction 40. I enjoyed it, especially as it wasn't raining up here. In fact we didn't stop off until Decazeville was achieved. We agreed to go into the centre of the town so that Adam could tick off a particularly singular war memorial, complete with giant miner's lamp motif. I've got no pictures, mon fils, to include here – but perchance mon fils has loaned this image: it was a singular sculptural piece I have to say… Adam seeks these things out and we do our best to slot in the odd monument, and I must say he comes up with some corkers.
A variation I insisted on this time took us past this place: Rocamadour. As it is one of the top honey pots of France I thought 3rd November might be quieter, and as the Tour de France zipped through the place this year I thought it was time to at least to take a route via it. Lovely countryside, limestone crags here and there. Baguettes in the motor (yet more rain) then round and down by the honey pot. Hmmmm. Didn't stop although two of the party walked down the hill. Can live without this national gem.
We get on to Sarlat. After all, Adam needs to have time to take a look at this other pot de miel. Daylight is now in short supply you see. We arrive at 1500 and establish ourselves in our generous and comfortable hotel. A word about the hotels this time: we have done with those cramped 3-up budget bedrooms, now we are into larger three bed accomm. The hotel at Sarlat gets it just about right for us and Škoda gets a room too (well, an underground car park, gratis). Mme Melling's directive: I simply support her instructions which are, of course, on the nail.
Unwisely, we waddle off into the town sans waterproofs as it hasn't rained for an hour or two but that soon reverts to type, and we cower under awnings slurping tea (other beverages may have also been consumed, I don't care to remember) trying to get the time to pass before the restaurant of our dreams opens its doors. MM decides to select somewhere else other than the pizza joint we patronised last time, good though it was.
We've had a bit of a potter, even got into the cathedral so I can take a pew. I am a bit crocked back-wise, and leg-wise… Adam has by now zipped off to score two more monuments he wanted to see…… In fact it is not until 1845 that we get into the eatery Mary has selected. Thank God! Good! Very good, popular, and thankfully the hotel walk back is all slightly downhill, and we get back without further attention from the clouds…… I apologise to family members for the infirmity (or at least I think I did). And I think the son-and-heir got at least some idea of Sarlat which, though quiet, was far from deserted. Pot de miel, after all. We'll be back no doubt… goodnight!
