We had a good night in our impeccable quarters and Madame Gevans was very charming over breakfast. Nice jams. A little shopping in town and then we were on our way. A brief chat with the Swiss group. Because of their dogs they had only been able to get accommodation in a caravan and they were not at their perky best.
Liz is suffering from both neck and toe. Fortunately it was a lovely flat walking day,
although very hot in the afternoon, as we followed a variety of straight even paths with a great variety of surfaces including gritty stretches of a former Roman road. Most of the day we were again going through the "Causse" - the straggly oak forest with stunted growth. But it was beautiful for walking, often shaded and direct to our destination; a prime example of the vast silence of rural France. Whole fields of pastel wild flowers and teaming insect life made it another world.We stopped for coffee in Voraire
on the upstairs balcony of a small gite. We chatted briefly with two Belgians one of whom had already done the Spanish section, twice. We were told that it is beautiful in Spring and that it is "dry with lots of fruit" in Autumn. We watched an old man teaching children to fish in the fine old lavoir. Voraire had involved a little detour so we had to find our way back onto the route with some effort. We passed through nice wooded countryside with a number of good houses in course of restoration.Lunch was in a shaded walled copse included a particularly flavorsome pate bought in the butchers at Limogne. We lay back in the grass and listened to the sounds:
the birds took the top line with a basso continuo from the insects. When a human voice intrudes it is as disturbing as a shout in a cathedral. And then some solid route marching in the heat, fast and direct, got us to Lalbanque by 3.45. A one-street town in the sunshine. We found our Lion d'Or hotel, a bar/restaurant with rooms, on the shady side and enjoyed a cold beer to confirm our arrival. Lalbanque is known chiefly for the street market for truffles, gathered from the surrounding oak forests from December to March and for which restauranteurs apparantly come from far and wide. Attached postcard courtesy of Photo Doisneau/Rapho.While the girls rested Des and I looked around. We visited the church: hideous - no depths of taste left unplumbed
with a dreadful mishmash of decoration covering all vintages, eras and influences. We duly inspected the panel with photographs of two centuries of Parish priests ranging from the very severe (or sick) to the fat 'n happy.For research purposes I tried and enjoyed a glass of Fenelon a local drink based on Cahors wine, Creme de Cassis, and walnut liqueur. Our waitress was obviously proud of her tattooed shoulder and her adventuresome use of red hairdye but supper in the bar was dreadful with little choice, skill or interest. The corporate maxim seemed to be 'we know you have no other choice'. Which is a pity for a town whose claim to fame is based on a gourmet delicacy.
