LEAVING SARLAT VERY MUCH TO ITS OWN DEVICES after a rain filled night, we slunk off before the break of day on my new variation of route, which bypassed Montignac. Mme Melling was having none of it and instructed the helmsman to steer a course for the centre of town.
Her instincts were proved to be correct once more. A good café was easily located where croissants of singular quality and aesthetic beauty were presented, with almost acceptable grand crémes. We deduced that these buttery delights almost certainly originated in the boulangerie across the road, so that is where we made enquiry as to what sandwiches might be obtained thereat. We were crisply introduced to the full range of options, partially in perfect English by the charming female operative, from which Adam and self selected the smoked magret-de-canard, cheese, fresh walnuts & salad option, in delicately seeded and perfectly baked baguettes. Mme Melling had something else, she was operating a bit under par due to the influence of a cold virus. These baguettes were simply the best in show, this trip. We ate them roadside some hours later and, dear reader, I can tell you, no sandwich is likely to surpass that culinary experience: until we can contrive to pass that way again and call in at Montignac, for another.
Oh yes, I should mention that Montignac is close by the Lascaux caves and has a museum dedicated to the findings there and the lads who found the cave paintings. Those lads were not gauchos by the way, as the contemporary snap on the public information board might suggest (see topmost montage). Hence the Montignac-Lascaux pairing in the place name now commonly used (there are a few Montignacs in Fr: you wouldn't want to fetch up in the wrong one when trying to buy a duck sandwich, now would you?).
Notwithstanding the excellent provender obtained, our ongoing journey was soon very much a wet one. It also entailed some highly speculative and inappropriate deviations into the walnut groves which took us nowhere really – although illuminating as to just how many hectares the locals dedicate to walnut growing in these parts. We seemingly saw most of it and at length. We also stopped off in some town or other (Le Dorat I think it was) that Adam identified as being the site of a particular WW1 memorial sculpture he wanted to visit. We parked in front of said edifice in heavy rain, so I snapped it through the windscreen: I wasn't about to go out there… impressive work though n'est ce pas? Reminds me a bit of a Soyuz rocket, if you discount the figure of Victory. Adam has the details… we could have eaten our baguettes here but no, we had to get on… Much later, on empty main roads, the rain was teeming down, but not to the exclusion of sharp eyed and ever alert Mme Melling espying a picnic spot, signed off down a woodland track. I executed a three pointer after driving past, and brought the motor to rest in a soggy patch adjacent to a forest glade with roofed over picnic tables (trois) and a single composting loo. There was a car (a Volvo from Paris) already in said patch and three figures could be discerned eating their frugal repast at one of the aforementioned picnic benches. The point-and-shoot herewith is Mme Melling's snappy phone in action!How that small family kept dry escapes my comprehension – it was raining sideways as well as straight down. The roof was insubstantial. We stayed in the car: the drumming of the rain on the roof and windscreen almost drowned out normal speech.
Not that I had much time for idle chat: I was principally committed to addressing my baguette. So was the S&H. I did it justice. So did he. When it was gone I followed it with a hard boiled egg. As one does.
We pondered what the rationale for this almost hidden and well appointed picnic site could be: it was kilometres away from any apparent commune responsibility… we'll never know… as if I cared … Oh! It was called Fôret Communale de Tersannes, I am informed —you'll want to make a note of that …
We broke off the drive for liquid refreshment at Loches where it had just stopped raining but would begin again soon. The cobbles were slippery during our brief mooch, but we stayed upright. Not long now before Amboise…And then? Routes Barrées. Yes! Again. This time we almost got into visual contact of where we know we can slip into the town. But no way. Like many others we turned right round and (can you believe it) had to go all the way to Chenonceau (on Cher) before we could access a road that would take us in Amboise (on Loire). Triple merde!!! However, in gathering gloom we finally arrived right into the square in Amb. where the hotel we were patronising is situated. It even had a parking spot right outside the door!
The day ended in lurid skies. We rested up in our roof top accommodation… we beetled out to our chosen eatery. Full. We went next door. A crêperie. We ate. Drank cidre bouché. We went back to the hotel. We watched England win the bronze medal in the RU World Cup. We slept. The rain pounded on the roof above us. Sunset is one word apparently.
end of part two]
