The man who sells garlic

I didn't want to miss the turning on the road between Chalabre and Puivert and the early morning drizzle didn't help.  

We swung an abrupt left and there we were, on a road I'd never been on before, rising and twisting towards Esperaza and it's infamous market. 

'Everyone is barefoot' they said, 'you can buy weed and puppies on every corner' they said.  

The soixantehuitards had come here back in the late 60's and I understood why. In those rising hills and deep valleys you're as far from Paris as you could ever hope to be. 

Yes there were stalls selling chakra stones, sage sticks and incense, but no puppies, no weed and no un-shod feet.

The bells rang for mass but the church was empty.  Mu's explanation was that everyone was a Hare Krishna.  But I didn't get that feeling.

We sat in a café and watched an old man tie bunches of garlic with blue twine. His hands were arthritic and it took him time.  I gave him 6 euros for 4 heads.  he told me they were untreated, bio, organic.  I knew they were.  he shouldn't have had to say.