10 mins at Café du Nord.
It’s 10 to 4 in St Andres de Valborgne. Thrum of bikers heading down the road, leftovers from the rally, maybe. Children’s chattering and clattering, the well-bred murmur of French conversation nearby. Ah oui… merci.. un petit peu… there’s something delightfully prim about French voices. Here come the bikers again. Metallic promenade. Flip-flop of waiter’s footsteps as he brings and collects glasses. Sudden laughter. The missing element – the clack of boules - introduced now to this village symphony.
It’s the sounds that define this place. More than the porridge-stone church, the slim pale buildings or long river wall with its daubs of gaudy geraniums, more even than the leafy pollarded plane trees or wooded mountain backdrop crowding close at every turn, I’ll remember the noisiness of rural French life. The river and the wind never stop rustling, the village goes about its business with the volume turned up.
Church bell chimes 4 times.

crysse morrison