The bells are tolling in Paradis. As I walked around the village yesterday, touching ancient crepi walls, I bid a silent farewell to our home of six years. Nothing much had changed. The swirling waters of the Aveyron were still gurgling over the weir at the Moulin; the charming old men still doffed their hats. So why?
Nothing in life's perfect. Village life's a bit like Trumpton of yesteryear: there the miller, there the firemen, there the grocer. But, can life be lived permanently like this? For those of us who've reached that benchmark of 60 years, it becomes increasingly obvious that more is needed. A car here is a necessity. But, what if eyesight fades so we can't drive any more? What if we can't reach the shops? Idealism is all well and good, but at some point reality kicks in.
So, merci beaucoup Paradis but we're now moving on. La vie francaise must continue but tweaked a little. Like the French Derby winner yesterday, Pour Moi is now tout important.