Fridays are special, that's when the larger Guingamp market is held and it's always followed, for me, by coffee and a raspberry macaroon at my favourite cafe in the main square
On Wednesdays though, I do my main shopping at Callac market
The formula rarely changes, twelve large organic eggs from the 'chicken lady' who throws in a French lesson for free, a basket full of whichever organic vegetables the gentle lady in the headscarf is selling from her modest table, a loaf of bread and a moist, sugary brioche from the sexy organic baker (are you spotting a trend here?) and then either live langoustines and fresh fish or slabs of marbled meat, depending on my preference on the day. Some days I cope well with the killing process, most days I still find it hard to watch live creatures die in boiling water, even as I know that I should be prepared to do so....
It's a very social event
Much meeting, greeting and kissing as old friends catch up with each other
After two years some of the older Breton ladies recognise me which gives me such pleasure, like an unexpected gift, and I enjoy our rituals a great deal and appreciate the sense of belonging and the feeling that I have become a part of the community
So, wander with me around a typical market in a small Breton farming town...
Like this small girl I wanted to buy baby rabbits to keep as pets. Sadly these bunnies are destined to be reared in small hutches, fed on stale bread and garden greens and then dispatched for the pot. Pourquoi pas?
Likewise these ducklings.
The first time I saw them I was overcome by a strong maternal instinct to buy the whole lot and let them fly free.
Of course I soon realised that I couldn't save every baby duckling in France and even as I am tempted to save at least one cage full, I have hardened myself. I eat duck, therefore I have no right to such hypocrisy
This is the statue of a Breton horse that stands in the carpark near the post office where I arrive, breathless and panicking to post a late essay to my O.U tutor more often than I care to admit...
He is the epitome of the Breton people....
Short and strong
Not handsome like an Arab or fleet as a racehorse but practical, useful, sensible and beloved in this area
I will miss the horse fair in Bulat Pestivien this year which is probably just as well, the temptation to buy a pony is becoming increasingly difficult to resist...
A pile of wooden clogs
Sabot...
The word sabotage derives from the name of this footwear, clogs having been used to sabotage factory machinery at one rebellious time....
Practical people the Bretons, though I prefer flipflops or furry Finnish boots to this kind of footwear
I often stop and smile at this stall. Who amongst the solid, sensible Breton ladies would waste her hard-earned money on a belly-dancing outfit?
Still, I like to imagine a small, modest cottage tucked amongst the rolling hills and its elderly, widowed owner clad in such foolishness and dancing to Arabic music.
In these parts people please themselves and individuality is expected rather than frowned-upon
Onions and garlice, bien sur
It wouldn't be France without such staples, would it?
I see this old man every week. He always wears leather trousers, the same jerkin and hat and he always has the gentlest, most well-behaved Alsation dog on a leash and a pipe in his mouth.
He is typical of the free-thinking, individual folk that live here and everyone recognises him and greets him
Next week The Ragazza and I will enjoy one last trip to Callac market. My life at this time has become a series of One Last's as the date for my departure draws near and I become increasingly aware of all that I will have to sacrifice when I return to England
1 comments:
so the sabots have not been replaced by Croc's which are everywhere here and so comfortable we find ourselves living in them, including the elders.
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