Biking to the Market. . . Somewhere near Bordeaux. . .

First, a possible suggestion for those of you unable to post comments here and on other Blogger blogs:  Fellow blogger Mardel deleted Blogger (ha! tongue-twisting repetition, sorry) from her Google account, and then re-installed it — et voilà, she’s now leaving helpful comments here and elsewhere, and perhaps you might be able to as well. Worth a try, right?

This week so far in the Slow Travel department. . .

Monday, catch-up day: laundry, blogging, emails, a bit of writing, a bit of knitting, writing and mailing some cards, and then some shopping in the afternoon, dinner with French Netflix.

Tuesday, yoga at a studio ’round the corner, stretching body and mind (trying to concentrate on the French is an added challenge as is trying to watch Isabelle –from whatever position I’m twisted into — for cues when I haven’t understood/heard the French.) Lunch en terrasse at a little spot we like near Place Camille Julien. Then before dinner, we picked up bikes for Wednesday’s excursion.

Wednesday, as you may have seen from my Instagram account, we rode our rented bikes to the market at Créon, along the beautiful Roger Lapébie Trail.

 From “our place” to Créon is about 27 kilometres, so the round-trip makes for well over twice as much distance as the longest bike ride I’ve done this year. The last 8 or so kilometres are a very slight but steady uphill, with a definite incline in the last kilometre, but most of it is comfortable, easy cycling.

Of course, I had excuses to stop for the occasional photograph, always on blogger duty. . . . This tall fellow, not too far from Bordeaux. . . .of course this giraffe called to mind Helen Dernley’s sculpture, “Dreaming Spires,” which I saw in Edinburgh last fall.

 And then Pater volunteered to take a photo of me with said Giraffe (note my recently purchased Uniqlo sweatshirt — thanks for the inspiration, Sue)

A few kilometres later, at Latresne, we stopped for coffee at the very cute bar/café/brocante. The building was once La Gare (the station) on the old train route that’s been converted to the Lapébie bike path.

The tables and chairs have a charmingly funky brocante appeal, and the service is always friendly, the coffee good. . .

and it even arrives with a little love. . .

While we waited for our coffee, I got out my little sketchbook and tried to draw that table and a chair or two. . .

Tried a few times, as you can see, and I think I finally got close to expressing the perspective (left margin, centre, was my best effort — after several frustrating tries. Presumably, this might become more intuitive if I practice enough. For now, it makes my brain hurt!!

But we still had another 12 kilometres to go, so back on the bikes. . . .and I managed about 1.5 kilometres before I had to stop for an astonishing abundance of yellow irises. Apologies if you’ve already seen these photos on Instagram. . .

After that interlude, we didn’t stop pedalling until we were almost at Créon and Paul had got way ahead of me on the hill. What a good spot he chose to wait,  holding out the very welcome water bottle right in front of this field. . .

There are only two horses in the photograph, but there were five altogether, and of course sketching them gave me a chance to prolong the inevitable last push. . .

They moved frequently, and I know I need to spend more time figuring out their heads (the one in the box, lower right, doesn’t belong to the horse next to it, by the way. I just grabbed that space to make one last effort to get the head shape — I think it’s the best head on the page. . . .

The Créon market might be my favourite — because it’s open and because it’s in a large square surrounded by big old buildings, most of which are fronted by a portico. It’s always a lively market and every time we’ve been there, we’ve seen live chickens (there were laying hens for sale this time, and many, many chicks as well). Artisan olives Paul couldn’t resist and linen dresses and tunics that tempted me and beautiful cheeses and fragrant Moroccan food to take home for dinner and artichokes and sweet small strawberries and hand-worked leather bags and bargain-basement loafers and sneakers and socks and underwear and bunches of thick white asparagus and a plethora of straw hats and a great display of fish on ice which I couldn’t resist trying to draw in my little book. . . .

 trying to be as discreet as possible, but I still caught the attention of that stall’s vendors, one of whom excused herself when she passed between me and my google-eyed subjects. “Est-ce que je vous dérange?” I asked her (Am I bothering you?). “Non, non,” she answered. “C’est juste que nous sommes curieux.”

So I showed her, a bit defensively advising that I’m still very much an amateur. She nodded an acknowledgement, a tentative approval, but mostly I sensed a bemusement that anyone might use their free time to hang around markets sketching fish heads on ice. Fair enough. . . .

Time, then, to stop the sketching and once again enjoy the crêpes at the little place on the corner.  Ah, but yesterday — May 1st! — that required much patience. We’ve never seen the crêperie this busy, although we’ve visited on market day several times. Our “serveuse” finally managed to take our order about fifteen minutes after we’d sat down; it was half an hour after that before our food arrived, and the same was obviously happening at all the tables. But whether it was the warm sunshine or the holiday’s festive mood, no one seemed to be fussing much. We did joke a bit with the couple at the adjoining table that they must still be growing the wheat for the flour, but generally, folks just seemed to settle into their conversations and enjoy the prolongation of their lunch. We marvelled especially at two nearby tables, each filled by a family of four, the two children at each table perhaps 6 to 8, waiting contentedly while they sipped a drink and anticipated their favourite crêpe filling.

So I settled into my waiting as well. . . one more quick sketch. . .

And then the crêpes arrived, and were eaten, and our long ride home, easier because downhill, tougher because my left knee decided enough was enough. . .

Today’s been another story, and I thought I was going to tell you about my frustration with the watercolour I’d hoped to sketch, about my punishing self-talk because I’m struggling with perspective (sight-lines and horizon lines and converging lines and vanishing points, UGH!).  But instead, I’m going to pat myself on the back for writing a blogpost, and I’m going to remind myself of the pleasure I took in the simple ink sketches in my teeny portable sketchbook at the market.

And tomorrow, I think I’m going to try again. . .

For now? I’m tired and I believe it’s bed-and-a-book time.

BonBonne nuit, from Bordeaux. . .