Continued from Part 2

It always strikes me, when I hop a continent or two, how so many things are truly different – in a good way and in a way that makes us think less about all that is wrong or could go wrong in a world we may have left behind 6 or 24 hours ago. Our priorities change. We seem to focus of getting to the bakery for that fresh baguette, or making it to the country market,  or re-visiting the garden for the hundredth time and taking another moment to admire the house thinking that you actually have found a unique view, a different perspective; you run to get your camera. It never fails to happen each time I’m there. The house stays put, the flowers come again each year, the fig tree will inch up and out once more and dropping its figs in the fall; it will be lovely and warm in the summer, beautiful in the fall and cold in the winter. All that does not  change but what does change is our perspective and age that make us think somehow the house looks different.  

This morning, on hearing the sound of cowbells, I threw off my blankets which weighed a ton or so it seemed and threw open the shutters in time to see the farmer proudly leading his herd of cows towards the neighboring field. I took a few seconds to deeply breath-in the air because it is 100% pure, fresh and powerful -like no other I know. Going to Brittany for the fresh air and its  curative properties is completely understandable in France.    

I decided to stroll down to the bakery, pay my respects to Madame and pick-up a baguette and something that was not on my list of healthy foods, an enlarged pain-au-chocolat which I would save for later in the afternoon. Right now I was content with a couple of the remaining croissants. Things move fast and Madame has it figured out almost to the last baguette and croissant. They are an efficient operation. One of these days I want to see “the baker” who I know shows up around 3 or 4 in the morning does his work and the bakery is open for business by 7 AM if not sooner.  
Strolling back to the house munching a croissant (I could not wait) I nearly get clipped by a local on a motorbike, beret on tightly and the remains of a cigarette glued to his lips. He disappears over the hill. Over breakfast of croissants and strong black coffee, I listen to the French news and commentary on the radio. I always have to chuckle because per usual somebody seems to be having major angst over some socio-political issue that may never be resolved. It may have been over the price of milk or affordable education. Grabbing a sweater – even in May – I decide to drive over to the next town for a weekly event, Market Day. 
This is a colorful, fun adventure and one I rarely miss. By the time I park my little Peugeot on the sidewalk, the market is already in full gear. The first stall has crates of chickens and little chicks for sale; though cute and reminds of a hundred years ago -it seems we bought one as my “pet” until he reached the age of dinner time. Moving past a crowd of locals, merchants, a few tourists with cameras, a occasional lost dog, I stop at the stand belonging to the “cheese lady” – a term of art to describe a lady selling cheese. I marvel a the gigantic cheese wheel in front of me and ask a few polite questions and I am given the history of French cheese which concluded with a taste, of course, and my promise to return on the way home. 
I finally spy what I’m really looking for. It wasn’t really that hard because you could smell the country sausages cooking. What I wanted was une Galette-Saucisse Bretonne also known as a Breton Buckwheat Galette with Sausage. It’s rich, heavy, delicious and a must have. On some thing’s I can be very traditional and that’s one of them. Galette in hand I check-out what’s good or new in the market. In addition to the fresh vegetables, seafood, the horse meat stand, cheeses and charcuterie, flowers and a variety of cut meats all on display everything is fresher than tomorrow. I’ve noticed there seems to be more people selling what they believe are clothes and cheap trinkets and shoes that seem to have a high plastic content to them. The only exception to this 1960’s Sears catalogue of clothes are the Breton sweaters – ah ouis Monsieur pure leine. All wool sweaters and they itch, one year all three brothers were officially dressed in the same sweaters I couldn’t sit still because mine made me itch so much I finally took it off, but not until the box camera appeared and the photo was snapped.  
Leaving the plastic shoes, the berets and African statues I gently meander back stopping once more at the vegetable stand choosing  something fresh for the big dinner along with a roaster chicken; I return via the cheese stand and buy a nice wedge of the cheese that Madame spent so much time telling all about. Lastly, I pick up a small Far Breton, really the quintessential Flan from Brittany. The best ones are dense, smooth and studded with rich Armagnac soaked prunes. I was going to make it but decided a real Breton or Bretonne should do the honors.