Last July, I joined Tom on his mostly-yearly holiday meet-up with university friends, this time near the village of Monflanquin in the Nouvelle-Aquitaine, in a beautiful old manoir surrounded by fields of sunflowers. It was many months ago, and without the dent it made on my bank account or these pictures I would probably think it had all been a fairytale dream.
I hadn't been to France since the very adventurous road trip I took down its western coast back in 2012, and was looking forward to getting reacquainted.
Getting there was quite a journey, first flying to Toulouse, then catching a train to Agen and a bus to Villeneuve-sur-Lot.
From there I had to bravely break out my very rusty French and call all the local cab companies we could find online, as well as the random number the bus driver scribbled on the back of my ticket. When all the numbers that were answered had turned us down, a friend was dispatched with a car to fetch us and we watched the sun start its descent over the river.
The manor house was just right for 8 fully-grown people and 4 mostly jolly small-but-rapidly-growing people, with ample places for community activities and shady nooks outside in which to curl up and read with a view of the village across the sunflowers.
This one didn't get the memo:
The first trip up the hill into the village was to visit the little farmers' market. Music blasting from the medieval town square told of the outdoor Zumba class currently in action, where three generations of women were getting a workout in the morning sun. A delightful scene.
In the afternoons it was too hot to not go swimming, and luckily there happened to be a pool behind the house, for which we only set off the alarm about once a day.
The evenings were even finer, with the sunflowers taking on their own light and the village glowing softly on the hill in the distance. Those with kids would do bath and bedtime while the rest of us cooked in the large kitchen, after which we would eat outside as darkness settled in and the stars did that thing stars do when not blocked by excessive light pollution.
Not to be ignored: the mornings were fine as well -- splendid, even. Like this one, gladly glanced from my 3rd-floor window at a too-early hour that turned out to be right on time.
We tried to go on little excursions most days, getting to know the other villages nearby. One day, to Villeréal for pizza, ice cream, and an excellent ramp on which to run up and down and up and down and up and down outside the old church.
Another day, an excursion to Monpazier, market day in full swing within the old city walls.
My favorite part was the book exchange booth with a view over the countryside.
Alley cat, shadebathing.
The view of Monflanquin from my favorite reading spot.
Glow, glow, glow.
On one of the last evenings, we all walked up the hill into town for Monflanquin's night market, where the square was covered with tables for sitting and food for sale from local restaurants and artisans -- everything from fries fried in duck fat to all the plum-based desserts you could dream of made with pruneaux d'Agen all piled on one plate. A sound system was set up for music and the kids danced long into the evening. It was encouraged to bring your own plates and silverware, not to mention wine, and then literally go to town. Basically a big family party for the whole village.
Walking back down the hill and across the fields to the manoir by moonlight or flashlight, the clouds like a giant blow flower in the sky.
One week of relaxing in this beautiful place. One of the luckiest people on the planet.
Then it was time to trace our steps back to Toulouse, where we had some time to walk around before heading to the airport. I just remember it being hot. Very hot.
And finally, literally, flying off into the sunset.
So grateful for this time and this place and these wonderful people.
Not to mention the croissants.
THE CROISSANTS.
Definitely grateful for the croissants.
