France, here we come: Sunday in the French Countryside...

Heading north east from Balma along narrow country roads, we stumble across the extensive fields of verdant yellow sunflowers that Bev and Mike had told us about. They are all facing east but are still very young and many have not yet opened. This field will be ablaze with yellow heads in about 3 or 4 weeks and the display will be amazing. We pass tiny hamlets or villages still shuttered down from Saturday night's celebrations after the Tour de France passed along this route; the red, white and blue flags, balloons, posters and ribbons still adorn the gate posts and the fences along the way. We pass along a tree lined avenue, spectacularly filtering the rays of the sun. No one is up and about yet.

Under the bridge, a view of Rabastens

At 10 am we reach Rabastens, a cute village on the Tarn river which has been listed a UNESCO heritage site. The major street of the village is tree lined and we discover the oldest independent cafe, Café Sports, and decide to have a coffee. We actually need a toilet but on inspecting the facilities which are euphemistically called "starting blocks", I decide my start had better be delayed. Jeans on a female and these quaint footprints cast in porcelain on either side of a hole, just don't go.

This will give you an idea of what I faced.

The owner/proprietor is serving the locals wine and a syrup mix and they are convivially playing cards in groups of 4 with nuts and pretzels beside them. He has a big cellar just beside our table and he lifts the lid and starts a perilous vertical climb down with empty bottles in his hand as he goes. I hand him a wayward bottle and glance down into this cavernous hole which obviously houses full bottles as well as empties: these are steep steps for a man who looks to be in his mid eighties. A newcomer enters the shop, dapper in a beret and looks around. he sees the open cellar and yells something that probably means, " is there any service around here?" and we hear the clumping of steps as our intrepid proprietor climbs back to view. With a scowl he looks around to see who has been so rude and then breaks into a huge smile as he recognises a friend. All is well.

We walk through the little village, over the span of the bridge and find ourselves in the neighbouring village of Coufouleaux where there is a huge Flea Market happening. We wander among each aisle of bric a brac, thoroughly enjoying the atmosphere. French and English music is being piped through loudspeakers and everyone is humming along. Food, beer and wine is being served so we indulge, we enjoy and then we wander back to Rabastens to explore under the bridge and wander along the ally ways between houses. Flowers are everywhere - in all sorts of nooks and crannies- all brightly coloured and hanging from window sills, spilling over large pots in doorways or lining the steps down to the bridge.

Photo of the bridge over the Tarn river at Rabastens

But while my attention is drawn to the colour of the plants and the picturesque nature of the old buildings separated by their narrow alleys,

spire of the old church framed by a wee street.

Russ' eyes hone in on things like fire hydrants, condom dispensers affixed to alley ways, water metres and cantilevered timber supports for the 2 storey homes in the area. He drags me to inspect the very small hydro scheme with its two turbines working feverishly on the side of the Tarn. The weir that powers this scheme is merely 2 metres in height we guess, yet the turbine is turning well with a maximum output, we read, of 216 cubic metres per second (or something like that!)

council landscaping