SOUTH OF FRANCE: TYPICAL DAY IN THE LIFE

The autumn morning broke crisp and clean as new money. The very air had shifted, from summer heavy to light and fresh with the promise of better days ahead. The afternoon sun would heat us up, perhaps uncomfortably so. But the slight morning breeze predicted that a particularly hot summer was breathing its last.

A group of us meet three times a week at the fountain in the church square. It's been a while since the town has run water through that fountain, in part because of a persistent drought, in part because kids can't seem to resist throwing stuff into it, clogging up the works. But it remains a convenient place to meet. Everybody knows how to find the church. That's important because not everyone who joins our walks lives in the village full time. Owners of vacation homes or folks just casually visiting our village who have learned of our walking group can easily find their way to the church.

Where we walk depends on who is walking. There are folks who like a full-on hike, 10k or more. Up hill and down. Serious exercise. And there are folks, mostly older, sometimes frailer, often wiser, who prefer a brisk hour on level ground and a leisurely coffee at the finish. I generally decide the route because I'm the one who sends out the weekly email with times and places. On this particular Wednesday, I chose the path leading to the donkeys. Some new folks were with us, folks with kids, folks who hadn't yet had their picture taken with the donkeys. It's a thing. Walk through the village and down a hilly path. Turn a corner. And there live a family of donkeys, coming to the fence when they hear us talking. Coming to the fence because they expect the carrots that we always bring. We're evenhanded. Carrots are cut into pieces and each donkey gets a chunk in their turn. We show the kids how to place the carrots in the palms of their hands so that the donkeys can slurp them up. Walkers take pictures to show back home. It's a thing.

We continue down the hill. Past the donkeys and the turnoff to a rugged camp in the woods guarded by gnarly-sounding dogs. We don't explore that turnoff. The well-used path deteriorates. It's still a path, but more an animal trail, twisting around shrubs, climbing up short rocky washouts. We stop to view a cluster of buildings across the Quarante River, just a good-sized creek where I come from, but it's a river here and it bears our village's name. A stone bridge, washed out for decades, used to connect Domaine Peche Laurier to the village. Formerly a wine domaine, the vines have been sold off, a party room and apartments have been added, and the domaine has been converted to a destination wedding venue. An alley of plane trees leads to a statue of Mary beside the Quarante in front of which vows are exchanged. A far cry from the living room of my Uncle Jack, the town's JP who married us in New Jersey.

Eventually, we loop around to the paved road leading back up the hill to town. The sun is full up and the sky has turned that particular shade of blue that I find hard to describe. Just blue. BLUE. You'll know it when you see it. And because it's so clean and clear, we can see the Pyrenees, a tad over a 100km away. When the morning mist clears in late fall or winter or early spring, you can see snow on the mountains from here.

It's a bit of a slog up the hill for us old folks. One foot in front of the other. We reach the outskirts of the village again, mostly newer homes in lotissements, the French term for a set of contiguous building lots - developments. ('Newer' is a relative term. In a village over 1,000 years old, a 1950 build is new.) Dogs warn us that they are on guard, sounding vicious. But they're well fenced and just doing their job. Then it's down hill to the Bar le Quarante, just Bar 40 to us. 

For some folks, the fellowship around the table at the bar is the most important item on the agenda. New owners have taken over Bar 40 recently, two young couples anxious to make a go of it. Johanna generally takes our order, cheerful and working hard on her English because there are a surprising number of English speakers in such a small rural village. (The table may include French, German, Italian, Swedish, Dutch, and/or Colombian walkers in addition to the Brits, Americans, Aussies and Kiwis. English is the common language.) The most popular drink is a café crème, an espresso bulked up with foamed milk. A few regulars prefer an allongé, an espresso with double the water. Tea, Perrier, and even a decaf crème might be ordered. And finally, one beel is tagged onto the order. (A beel is our name for a simple espresso. It's what Bill orders. Every time.)

So, we sit and we chat. Maybe half an hour, maybe more. New walkers introduce themselves. Folks with holiday homes keep us up to date. Someone notices that a house has come on the market. Does anyone know the backstory? Political discussions are allowed, political arguments are not. Casual polling indicates that the average expat leans left politically, but certainly not all of us do. So we keep politics mostly on the down low. 

Eventually, someone puts coins on the table for their share of the tab. Creative accounting ensues. Occasionally, someone announces that they are paying for the table, usually the result of the unwritten rule that the party on vacation who is leaving for home treats the rest of us on their last day. Since that leaves us regulars off the hook, we will sometimes pick up the tab ourselves.

When I get home, there's enough time before lunch to get a few things done. Clean the kitty box. Take out the trash. Do my daily crossword. Work on my blog. 

Then lunch.

Then a nap. 

Then there might really be serious stuff to do. But the important stuff has already been done. A walk among the vines in the south of France for exercise. A coffee in the local café with friends. I'm not certain that I remember exactly what I expected retirement to be, but I doubt that it could have been as good as this.