Saints-Eulalie-d’Olt
Opposite Gite de la Calquiere, my home for the last fortnight, lies the metal workshop of Monsieur Rodriguez. Wiry grey hair, bespectacled, in scorched blue overalls, he waves as I walk by.
Buildings of indeterminate age, but clearly centuries old, block early morning sun from flower filled, narrow, winding streets.
Two elderly ladies, students of the pottery school, smile, wish me good day, as they toil over lumps of clay, moulding them into fabulous shapes.
The street slopes down to a burbling brook, that once powered water mills whose ghostly forms are captured in sepia photographs adorning the slowly decaying buildings.
A firework of floral display blazes brightly leading to a corner where an artists shop sits. Three painters on the bridge interpret the scene.
Ancient doors, conceal the secrets of hidden occupants. Crumbling render, pan-tile roofs speak of bygone ages as swifts swoop from the church tower on the square.
Pierre, second hand bookshop seller, gratefully accepts English versions of suntan cream stained paperbacks to add to his collection of French curiosities.
Couples nurture, home grown produce from allotments that stretch like green fingers of a giant hand to the Lot. The watery artery so vital to the existence of this community.
As I take my leave, chimes of bells, crow of cockerels, clang of cow bells on the hill, drift on the breeze. Sainte-Eulalia-d’Olt weaves its magical spell.