'Birds flying high, you know how I feel.'

Already I can’t recall everything we did yesterday during the day... hours here seem to morph into one long period of time. Days morph into just space. Another dimension. Feeling trekky - must be tired...

Roddy headed off for a bike ride with the Sunday morning club ride guys from Charroux, so I, being a film buff, compiled myself a greedy selection of nibbles in multicoloured miniature pic-nic bowls, grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge and put my feet up, slumped alongside the Iggy’s leisurely zoned out on the sofa. Movie time. Roddy and I both needed to chill a little today, in our own ways after the journey down on Friday following the other journey back from Wales to Somerset on Thursday after Roddy’s mum’s funeral.

So this weird movie I watched was a sort of modern day ghost story called Personal Shopper starring Kristen Stewart - like I said, weird. Was she the ghost in the end? Or was it her brother all along? You will just have to watch it yourself if you come and stay – see what you make of it. So it seems fitting then to mention that we have a bit of a blu-ray collection going on here now after years of collecting DVD’s. You see, though I love movies, Roddy does not. However now he has rigged up our nice big flat screen to connect with some decent quality accompanying sound - J M Focal Lab Colbalt 816S floor standing speakers no less and made in france of course – he will actually sit and watch the occasional movie with me.

As the weird film ended in the most strangest way, Roddy appeared on cue saying he’d had a great ride and felt good.

Cycling equals mental stimulation, gaining mental clarity and it’s like therapy sometimes for him. It’s good for clearing his head. The further he goes, the more he pushes his physical limitations, the more therapy embraces him wrapping it’s arms around him soothing his soul.

He’d nobly held it together at his mum’s funeral and when he got up in church he spoke slowly and clearly, starting with the lines from a verse of one of his mother’s favourite Nina Simone song’s. He did his mum proud. The church was packed, people spilled outside. At least 200 paid their respects to a great, strong woman. Then the burial. The rain held off. I guess it just rained in his heart. Her passing. It was just all so quick. Pancreatic Cancer.

Shortly after we arrive here in the Summer months, we often to head off to the tourist information centre in Ruffec town and grab a few leaflets – see what events are happening in the area. Advertised today was a car boot extravaganza in the village of Villefagnan just the other side of town. I love french style car boots, they sell far more interesting crap than the British ones.

It was blisteringly hot in the afternoon, about 38 degrees in the shade. But we ventured out anyway. Between noon and 2pm you’ll still see many French honouring the lunchtime tradition of the two hour ‘work stop slot’, be it sitting at their fold away camp style tables with plates full of fresh crusty baguettes and Chabichou cheese, their wine glasses topped to the brim with ruby rich Pinot Noir.

It often surprises me how beautifully laid out some of the ‘stuff’ for sale is. There is a pitch, a table full of toy tractors all lined up in rows, and I mean just look at this vast sea of soft toys!

What paradise for a young child’s roaming eye! It’s like I’m on stage here faced with a stadium full of wide eyed fluffiness, cuddly characters of all shapes and bright colours with huge gazing eyes. How on earth is the seller able to keep them all neatly grouped I wonder, does she have to constantly tidy them once toddlers have rummaged through playing with them? Do you think she has to repeatedly re-position Mickey next to Noddy or Pooh with Kermit? Or perhaps little one's here in france are far more well behaved than english toddlers and maybe just stand back and stare like me. There are tons of Tigger’s, and plenty of Pluto’s and Pinocchio’s but can’t I spot my little favourite love sick skunk Pepé le Pew anywhere...

Roddy however, does spot a gem of a stove on another pitch further along.

It’s a stunning little ornate Godin crying out to be placed in the corner of our gîte but, sadly, it had already been ‘vendu’d’! A mere snip at the bargin price of 250€. Blast, missed that one.

As we wander on further down the winding street the Iggy’s are continually getting spoilt, being stopped and stroked, cuddled by many of the French. People always notice them, often staring and ask “Are they puppy Whippets?” or “What breed are they?” I’m not sure how to translate my answer in French so I just reply “Galgo Italiano.” Instead.

One elderly couple in particular seemed to absolutely fall for them, poor Huxley looked a bit taken aback!

The sun eventually got the better of us and though Italian Greyhounds adore the heat, the pavement was getting increasingly hot for their paw pads so we cooled off at a little bar grabbing the last available seats in the shade. Armed with ice cold drinks and cool water for the dogs we sank into big comfy wicker garden chairs away from the heat.

The mid afternoon warm air whispered through the shaded passage gently brushing my face as it breezed beneath the archway marrying the premises of the bar to a small women’s boutique selling clothes, bags and jewellery.

I wasn’t really interested in browsing inside but Roddy suggested “Why not? go and have a look, treat yourself.” I am quite partial to Linen and caught glimpses of the fabric in soft muted tones as my eyes peeked past the gap in the doorway.

Inside, clothes hung neatly on non-slip faux velvet paper-thin hangers, the garments clinging to them were mostly designed and made in Italy. After a struggling debate with myself, coming to the conclusion that – damn it, I can’t make my mind up and decide on which one - I pop outside holding them up, asking Roddy to choose one he likes. A very stylish middle-aged woman about to enter the shop says “that one.” pointing to the grey and Roddy gives an agreeing nod. Oh, but I really think I prefer the other one. Undecidedly, I leave the boutique with the larger size pale cream paper bag adorning the boutique’s pretty logo containing the two dresses of which I managed to haggle down the price with the owner. It’s not like me at all... I’m really not a dress sort of girl. However, we are in for a bigger treat as I have booked two nights on the west coast at the end of the week courtesy of Sainsbury’s credit card, in a decent hotel with an infinity pool and dreamy room overlooking the sea. We’ll be spoiling ourselves by dining out and well, just for once in my life I want to vaguely attempt the look of feminine.

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