Gaddabouts

Yesterday Max and I bunked off to Limoux, where we ate at the weirdly wonderful La Ciboulette (excellent nosh, heartily recommended) and visited the Musee Petiet to pay tribute to the sole woman artist of these parts. As she is mostly out on loan - only one gallery now dedicated to her - we had a look through the war paintings and the engraved medals... here's a photo of one, where the bare-breasted ladies pay tribute to a scientist.

https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mus%C3%A9e_Petiet

Here's the inside of la Ciboulette, part home, part brocante, part restro... 

and below, this morning by the recycling point, saw this wheelchair. A miracle cure?? Lets hope so.

 Completely forgot to take photos - indeed, totally forgot camera - on Tuesday night when our neighbours gave us an apero. So, Toby and Leo, me and Bob and Vincent were lured into the house of the Patriarch, Msr Louis, now 90 years old. Treated to the sort of feast that the French just do as a matter of course, all home made and devastatingly delicious. Sort of onion tart with herbs, then much meat, followed by crumble (because we are English) pronounced Krom'bell and bearing no relation at all to the british dish - this was apple, pear and peach mixed with a little flour, praline (made with Tobys hazelnuts) vanilla and other stuff I forget. Drank methode ancestral blanquette which was a relief - often been given pure alcohol with a hint of orange before (their own oranges though).

These neighbours come here on holiday and actually live on the cote d'azure.Chief among the conversations was the desire of the children of the patriarch to stop him driving. He is an excellent driver, all are agreed, but was if he were to fall ill while at the wheel? Given that the stats indicate most mortal crashes are occasioned by the young, seems quite unreasonable to me. He won't stop, anyway.