Saturday June 19th

Day 61

A travelling day. Leaving our house in the hills, our bubble nest of just us two, for a retreat high in the Cevennes. Where we will write and learn with other people who are also writers.

At 5 pm we are sitting outside a cafe under a huge plane tree in the village near where we will be staying. There is a boules court in front of us and the main street is deserted. The man who brings us tea - two small cups of Lipton’s Yellow Label, water tepid, milk hot, 4 Euros - is wearing a cream suit and pointy cream shoes. His shirt is blue and white striped and his hair is wet combed. I think he must be going to a wedding soon.

The wind rustles round our bare ankles and spots of rain fall on the plastic table. All day I’ve felt inexplicably tense and as bleak as the dull grey sky. As sour sweet as the apricot tart I had in the car park of Super U before we left. We watch a young woman walking towards the cafe in a wide brimmed, wavy edged hat the colour of ripe cherries. Her high strappy shoes match her hat. The man in the cream suit is waiting for her. They kiss and seconds later he leaves carrying three rifles slung across his shoulder. I wonder what needs shooting at a wedding.

We hear them before we see them coming round the corner - a cavalcade of cars,horns blaring, led by the bridal car - some decorated with green and white paper flowers and muslin bags flapping from the aerials. And suddenly the street is full of wedding guests following the hooting cars - splashing fairground colour into my washed out day.