With only one day left in the Minervois wine region of France, where else can we go? Based on Monsieur’s recommendation, we choose Lagrasse. First, we putz around in the morning, drinking coffee, reading our Kindles, blowing our noses, waiting for Monsieur to come and return our damage deposit. (We haven’t done any damage). Then, Jim tries to recycle the bottles, only to be apprehended by a local who lets him know he can’t POSSIBLY put them there. So, she walks him to the right place, which is actually great and very helpful.

Before we leave, Mike has to crawl into our car from the passenger side due to the strictures of local parking. Fun to watch the big Norwegian inch and worm his way over the shift knob.
 

The drive to Lagrasse is about 40 minutes, and extremely beautiful. Rolling fields of wine grapes, narrow winding roads with no shoulder and deep ditches on either side, white horses, blue sky. We stop when the railroad crossing arms come down and jump out of the car to see the train. A high-speed train screams by. It’s deafening and too speedy for us to get a picture. Along the drive, there is evidence of a recent fire that has charred many, many acres.
 
The village of Lagrasse is famed for its abbey, medieval houses and streets, book and pottery fairs over the summer months, and a 12th century hump-backed bridge. We stroll through the quiet streets and seem to be the only people here. A few shops are open, but we’re not really in the market for anything, so it doesn’t matter that they are few and far between.

 
We check out the hump-backed bridge and the Orbieu River, and then walk to the cemetery. Jim is on a mission to find the oldest possible grave. We skip the abbey because we are all abbey-ed out. After a few failed attempts, we find the Restaurant Le Temps de Courges. Two men lean against the wall outside, smoking. We ask if they are open. “Oui oui”, smokes are out, and they wave us in. Liz wonders why our table is right in the door until Jane points out that we’ve walked in through the window. (At least once a day, we do something stupid, but we are used to ourselves, so no matter).

 
The meal turns out to be the best we’ve had in France.

 

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