Early morning in Caromb in September, the sun gives permission for villagers to stir, for bread to be baked, croissants curled and one last sheet fettling rummage with mademoiselle before breakfast, should one be so inclined.
Petit Déjeuner The second floor of the ‘Old Hospital’ is tiled with square red ceramic ‘parquets’, but these sit upon wooden beams underneath. We have a kitchen, bathroom, two bedrooms, a chill out room and the sun terrace. The floors provide the early morning soundtrack of creaking as bare feet pad across into the kitchen to put a kettle on. The kitchen windows are opened to the quiet of a new morning, the night-time yapping dogs are silent. Possibly shot, or have had their testicles fed to the wild boars that roam the nearby hills. Our hosts live on the first floor but we do not hear them. No radio, no TV. No shouting neighbours, no roaring traffic. A martin darts past the window cheeping as it does so. A few buzzing insects investigate the interior but on the whole, this morning, they leave us alone. A slight breeze rustles the fig leaves outside.
There are three boulangeries in Caromb. One is closed, perhaps for the owners to be ‘en vacances’. The other two are quite close to each other and are attempting to vie for trade with the cyclists, who will turn up later in the morning, by installing small bistro sets on the pavement and offering a breakfast of coffee, croissant and orange juice for just over two euros.
There is always a queue at the boulangerie, a steady stream of be-shorted, tanned leathery skinned old men, and few women and a child with a lust for the assorted patisseries on sumptuous display. The classic french moustache is often on display with its fancy waxed
A DAY IN PROVINCE - BENNY GOODMAN
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