It was Friday, market day, in this 13th century French medieval village. The place was bustling. French sounds everywhere. The sounds I had only heard on a French movie. Gears rapidly changing, engines revving, a peugot, a motorbike, their sounds echoing between the buildings as they sped down the narrow cobbled street. The soft creamy colours of the buildings, the pastel coloured shutters, particularly the weathered blue ones were satisfying, calming. Passing the church where the door is always open. Upon the market my sight is filled with a magnificent variety of colourful fresh vegetables and fruit. Beautiful fresh cut flowers for sale. A stall with sacks of spices of every kind. A constant feed of French voices. Hearing a young child say “ Papa” was a warming beautiful sound. I felt like I was on a movie set. Cheese stands were intimidating. So many kinds. Certainly no ordinary orange cheddar. A man selling cooked chicken, watching over rows of them slowly turning on the rotisserie while underneath is a huge pan of potatoes, perfectly golden, having been basted by the juices dripping slowly from above. A couple of stands selling paella- looked and smelled delicious simmering away in large shallow pans. This is the French fast food I am told!
Tables with fresh quail, goose, duck. So many choices of meats and fish. Stalls of oysters; shucked and in the shell. Many types of eggs, artisan breads, olives, local wines which of course I had to sample…… I had no idea that duck was such a big part of the diet here. It is everywhere! Even in the cat food at my housesit! Here at the market, I see stall after stall selling jars of duck confit – wings, legs, fillet, any part really, all cooked and preserved in it’s own fat. Jars of duck fat for sale. Jars of gizzard confit catches my eye. That wouldn’t be for me. So many tables selling duck and goose foie gras. I was told the farming families in the area each have their own unique way of producing foie gras. Their confit recipes handed down from generation to generation.

I had arranged to meet Moira, a good friend of the homeowner that I am housesitting for. We were to meet at the olive oil stall at 10.30am giving us both a chance to wander through the market first before heading to the café just off the market square. Walking through the market with her, a wicker basket on her arm – leafy greens and a baguette poking out of the top – was a real pinch me moment. Beside the café was a small patisserie. A seductive sweet buttery aroma wafted out of the door beckoning us inside. Choosing a freshly baked almond croissant to take into the café to have with our coffees was a new concept to me- this was the French way. Moira had a unique presence about her as we entered the cafe. Bonjour! Bonjour! as she gracefully waltzed through, navigating the groups of people as she made her way to the only vacant table over by the wall. I scurried along behind her, with a slight nervousness, trying not to look bewildered. Offering a shy smile and bonjure to the few faces that met mine. This was winter time, just locals, no tourists around, so there was a curiosity about this redhead that had appeared in their local café. I guess red hair with pale skin sort of stuck out amongst the darker hair and sun kissed faces. The atmosphere was lively, cheery, a pleasing hum from the packed room full of energizing chatter. A warm natural light shone in. Right behind me were two round tables pushed together. Every inch of table taken up. Chairs crammed tightly together. Elderly men, raised voices, intensity, excitement. They were playing cards and board games, their coffee cups dotted all around with a shot glass of brandy beside them, all within an easy reach. An old standing lamp was pulled up right to the edge of the table throwing a yellow glow onto their game. Apparently the men sit in the café while their wives are shopping at the market. They do the same routine for Sunday mass. This amused me. Other tables were full of family/friends of all different ages..small children on grandparents’ laps. Such a strong feel of family and community. Men of all ages, body types, standing together by the bar; chatting away aided by their hands, laughing freely, some drinking espresso, others beer, wine, some greeting each other with kisses on the cheeks. I had never seen this before, how expressive and comfortable the men are with each other. Along comes our waiter. Moira’s crisp english accent flips to a lovely french accent, “ Bonjour Monsieur. Deux grand cremes s’il vous plait.” Now sipping on the dark strong coffee through a froth of white and burnt caramel colour, tearing off pieces of the freshly baked almond croissant, mixed with chatting, some laughing, was a surreal feeling. How did I get here? As we talked it was obvious that we clicked. We were virtually strangers but yet there was an ease between us. Almost a familiarity. A similar outlook. We discovered that both of us were from British and Irish families. Months later, we joked about the possibility of being related since the gene pool was relatively small in Ireland back then. After all, my grandfather was from Belfast which is where Moira’s family was from. But most profound was that she had an adult child that had recently gone through neurosurgery to remove a brain tumour. I was relieved to know that all went well. There was an unspoken connection and understanding just from that. We left the café to go for a walk along the village’s protective wall, the original ramparts. Standing by the wall, placing my hand on it, a wall built by people 750 yrs ago, was such a privilege. This area is steeped in history, something I am not used to, being from Canada. A path also winds down the hill to the river where there are numerous walking trails. I must come back to walk the dogs here. From up on the hill the views are far reaching, taking my eyes across the river, down through the valley, and up onto the far hills. Moira asks me if I can see a monastery high up on the farthest hill. With more description, I locate it. She says that is called Plum Village…a buddhist monastery..people come from all over the world for retreats with a famous buddhist monk who lives there. This is amazing I thought gazing over at it.

Before I had left Canada I had bought a small book written by a buddhist monk called Thich Nhat Hanh and I had carried it with me to Ireland, and now France. This book is special to me. Several months after Jason had died, in a spinning state of despair, I walked into my local library in Canada hoping to find a book that could help me. Staring at the small spiritual section, flipping through various daunting heavy books, placing them back on the shelf, my eye caught sight of a small yellow book barely visible on the shelf. It was titled, ‘You Are Here’. From the very first page it spoke to me. I had never read anything like this before. It was simply written, concise, practical. Standing there fighting the tears, reading his words of how to be in the present moment using breath awareness, I could feel a sense of grounding, an ease in my rigid suffering right there and then. It was profound. This book had made such an impact on me that I later bought myself a copy. The one I have brought with me.

Unbeknowst to me at the time, while standing there with my new friend looking over at this monastery, was that the revered monk, the one my friend was telling me about, was the very same monk that wrote my book.