66.                       May 8th.

VE day once more. The rain holds off, the clouds flit across the sky and several of us notice 6 griffon vultures circling very high. A cow dying, monsieur Sarbontier says, or one of us doesn`t know something they do. Madame Jaure sings the Marseillaise valiantly and I tell her that I really am impressed. She is shaky and her great niece holds her elbow firmly. The Maire is shaky too but it is his diabetes not the tipples this time.

We all walk home in the sunshine, relieved that the snow has gone and the spring has taken hold again. A few of us drift into our houses or along the lanes to the hamlets and I slowly trail up the hill to mine, carrying a pot of dandelion honey, traditionally called crameillotte , the woman who sold it to me said. How the bees choose only dandelions is a puzzle but I smiled at her and bought the jar at the tat sale going on in the square.


In the evening  cars and vans come pouring down the hills to the valley, hooting non stop. A wedding tradition. The party will go on all night in the village hall. The last wedding celebration threw out a base drum beat until 5 o’clock in the morning. Happy days.