The Rue Du Cul-De-Sac and so on

“Hello Charolais me!”

The white cow process crosses the back of the blond hill opposite. I want to change my view from the 500 -year -old Maison de Constance. I want to change the name Treetops because it reminds me of Kenya’s highlands.

Because, from the end of this medieval path, I looked out outside the new peach and crop trees, down through the Poplar branches, to the wild and free river promises, hidden for now.

Someone is calling. A child’s voice.

“Alla, Alla,” “

I call “Allo” in return.

In an instant, in front of my door, a small boy with Wellington boots. I tried my good French, but I lost his main when he tried to tell me something about his dog.

“I don’t understand,” and he has Mime A Chien To play for me.

“Ah yes, I understand.”

This is where the father from the next door carrying a pile of pictures of pictures. That must be a holiday. My neighbor introduced himself as Pierre. He praised me to my French, offering help and invited me to drink coffee anytime and his wife Elisabet.

“At any time,” Pierre said. He was cold, and I was cool with that.

Today at La Rue Du Cul-De-Sac is all the Mairie tower bells who attack the clock (twice!), Hirondelles (Swallows) Twitter in Morse Code, Red Tulips, Rosemary bushes flowers in blue groups, and bay tree bushes. Maison is beautiful, with cherry red windows, antique bells, and old stone beams that are neatly placed to form a chair in the sun, or for other reasons.

I turn left, glancing at the parking garden of my neighbor who was walled from the delicacy of surrealis. Solid white globe floats on metal pole. On the road, the delivery of new wood is waiting to be stored in the basement. Benoit counts Charolais From the terrace of the roof, and we waved across the alley with greetings. I went on a round stone. I can hear the melody, fainted but strong and full of body.

“Don’t always leave, that you don’t know what you have until you are gone,” said Joni Mitchell.

Being left again, stopped to contemplate the copper statue of Anne de Beauty, carved from a piece of Yew. He was the Royal Regent who came here 500 years ago to escape from the Politicking of the French court. A reasonable woman, my French friend, Helene, will say.

In the past Abbaye Saint Vincent with the roof of his witch hat, passing through the left behind MoulinAll stones that are destroyed and ivy.

On the metal bridge, I stopped to ask questions in photos on the visitor information board. I saw an old wooden bridge and my family wearing belem clothes hanging their feet on water.

The canyon was revealed, full of spring rain fell from the Massive Central Mountains.

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