So as you can imagine, discovering that the French take Sunday very seriously has come as somewhat of a shock. Making my way through the old town at midday in search of some civilization, the streets were deserted, shutters closed and even my footsteps seemed to reverberate and disturb the silence. After landing in this French town toute seule, out of sheer boredom I hate a whole baguette today.
On one hand, I can see how we Brits are losing out. Without anything else to do, families and friends have to spend the day together catching up over delicious food (which they've been organised enough to buy the day before) in the early autumn sunshine. Besides, do we really need to trawl the isles of Tesco seven days a week with glum looking souls plodding away at work on the day of rest? Probably not.
After 8 hours of no human contact, I was forced to introduce myself to the neighbours next door who turned out to be very friendly. I came back armed with a recipe and a kilogram of peaches. A little random but maybe proof that the the day of rest is more fruitful than I realised.
