Village du Livre.

The weather very plausibly tricked us into thinking it was spring. Our journey took us back to the Montagne Noire. We were headed for Sorreze, but the only cloud in the sky was over it, so we changed direction and went east to Saissac instead.

Everywhere was the sound of water; fountains on street corners, lavoirs tucked into alcoves, narrow streets diving down hillsides and others tight-rope walking across ridges. A couple were sleeping on a bench in the sun on one such street. a low stone wall, along the length of which ran a communal washing line, prevented the un-sure footed from falling into the oak-lined valley below, which in turn gave way to the plain and on and on until the land elevated itself into the Pyrenees. A woman came out with a washing basket on her hip, a small boy by her side, a fag tucked into the corner of her mouth and , impervious to the view, hung up her washing.

On to Montolieu, where books are crammed into every available space, where they line staircases between floors of books, where deserted and dillapidated old factories are simply weatherproofed and lined with shelves, which in turn are lined with books. Even the old wine cooperative, where the Cabardes grapes were trampled, has surrendered to books, and now calls itself le Centre d'art et de Litterature.