Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
country jumps for horses. Under normal circumstances the collection would be pleasantly
rustic, but in here it looked rather uninviting. Deep-red tiles in the passageways and black-
ish rugs scattered across the floors didn't add much more in the way of light nor, or course,
did the choice of ornaments.
To cap it off the pictures on the walls had long since lost their definition and the tar-
nished brass hunting ornaments looked more like instruments of torture. Not an ideal am-
bience and certainly unsuitable for anyone with uncorrected myopia.
It was at this point that we were joined by Pierre, who was the owner of the estate
agency in Mirepoix. He had just popped in to see how we were getting on and to say
bonjour
to the owner
.
They were good friends and started rattling away in French about
something that should have been a warning sign.
It transpired that
monsieur
had recently been convicted of a dangerous driving offence
and his car had been confiscated. Pierre was apparently asking if he ever expected it to be
returned. We foolishly let this conversation float over our heads, being so involved in ne-
gotiating our way around the rooms, but joined in with the odd, “oh dear
”
where we felt
appropriate. Less than an hour later, we would understand its full significance.
The kitchen was potentially a joy to behold and that was mainly because we could.
This was due to the natural light that valiantly glimmered through a dusty glass-paned
garden door. So, whilst visibility was vastly improved, it disappointingly revealed a room
that was extremely modest in size. This was a shame because I do like a big kitchen to work
in with lots of places to spread my various home-cooked creations.
However, as we scanned the interior I couldn't help but be impressed by the trestle
table. It dominated most of the floor and, owing to its many score marks and a dip in the
middle, looked distinctly like an enormous butcher's block. I then looked across at the far
wall and spotted the sorriest collection of 'electrical' equipment I have ever clapped eyes
on.
The handle-less fridge was propped up with a log and the freezer, judging by the sev-
eral claggy blackened stains that had drizzled down the sides, was probably used for storing
game. The gas cooker was missing an oven door and three hob-rings and looked ready for
the scrap heap.
This was not a promising start. I began to feel crestfallen and also nervous as to what
we might find next, but there was no turning back. As we approached the staircase in an
attempt to appear interested, I stretched my French to the limit and asked if any of the six
bedrooms had an en suite bathroom.
Monsieur
swung round and puffed out his stripy little
barrel chest.
“Six
madame
?” he replied with great pride. “Oh
no
we have
ten
bedrooms. Six have
en suite bathrooms. This is the
hôtel
for the hunters!”
Good
Lord
, that explained it all! The huge sitting room, canteen kitchen and dead an-
imals everywhere were all intended to attract and service shooting parties. It wasn't their
