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to sounding utterly heavenly and mightily relieved to hear that there was no need to mount
the slopes for a second viewing) and Harry who had perked up a bit.
We finally arrived at our destination at around 7:30pm, a little road-weary but other-
wise unscathed. The car had performed marvellously and despite my fate-tempting, noth-
ing had dropped off so we had a great deal to be thankful for.
The auberge was located a short distance from the main road off a quiet lane and
looked extremely promising. It faced a small valley and was set in its own woodland. The
building itself was an ancient converted farmhouse and absolutely charming. The front
stone terrace, which bordered the entrance, was furnished for exterior dining and festooned
with crimson geraniums that flowed gently from heavy hanging baskets and lofty terracotta
pots.
It was getting darker now and the patio had been illuminated with a line of coloured
fairy lights and candles on each of the tables which twinkled in the dusk of the evening.
“Oh darling, isn't this lovely,” I exclaimed, “just look at the dining area, it's so ro-
mantic.”
“Yes darling, I can see it thank you. It's a candle, very nice but can we get on with it
please? I'm dying of thirst, starving hungry and the dogs need a leak,” he replied.
Ever the pragmatist, my husband, I mused, as he shattered my delighted reverie. We
drove to the rear of the building, parked in a leafy spot and gave the dogs five minutes to
stretch their legs before checking-in.
In the auberge we were met by a young man who looked like a suitcase carrier, and a
pretty girl at reception who gave us a double take. She looked quizzically at the reservation
book and then signed us in. As we turned to follow our suitcases we came face-to-face with
an extremely bad tempered looking lady.
There was a hushed silence as she strode up to us and I swear the young staff members
were petrified. She was a rather square-shaped person of indeterminate age, but probably
mid-seventies to offer a charitable estimate, and for anyone familiar with the Daily Tele-
graph Giles cartoons, she was the very image of the grandmother. It was clear that she was
extremely unhappy with us but we had absolutely no idea why.
She marched up to Jack and nose to chin (we've found that many of the Southern
French people are on the short side) and with an admirable level of belligerence using ex-
cellent stilted English, spoke.
“You are late. I am worried about you.”
Jack looked a bit non-plussed so I rushed to his aid.
“Oh yes, we're so sorry. Our arrival time was 6:30pm and we're now, oh gosh look,
yes, a full hour late, I should have called to warn you. Many apologies, er, désolé .”
“No! You should have been here the night before. I thought you were in a crashing
car.”
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