Yves

Yves drops by most days. He usually times his visits to coincide with l'heure de l'apero. Today he was early though. Bored by a day of being stuck indoors out of the rain, he came for a coffee and some louche talk.
He was once the King of Ricard and Malboros, but the doctors put an end to that. Nowadays it is rose wine, and a persistant smoker's cough, which explodes from him as he laughs at his own double-entendres.
Yves year is planned out for him - the autumn and winter spent looking for mushrooms and hunting sanglier in the Corbieres, In the spring he scavenges for wild asparagus and on summer mornings he is up early fishing in the Hers, or in the mountain lakes. He takes us out on some of these expeditions, driving erratically in convoy, trying to keep up with him as he leads us to hidden riversides and along treacherous mountain roads. The prize is always in the destination - beautiful places we wouldn't have found ourselves -and in the feast that follows - wild mushroom and asparagus omelettes cooked on wood fires, lavish picnics, sanglier pate, duck fouets, freshly caught trout which he guts with a flick of his thumb.