The motorway out of Toulouse did not last long and soon became a "route nationale" lined with plane trees. A pretty road but not very rapid if you found yourself behind a lorry or worse a tractor, especially if it was towing some complicated and extremely wide agricultural apparatus. Beyond Castres, the "route nationale" became a "route départmentale" which was even narrower and banished all ideas of overtaking anything wider than a bicycle. At one point Peter came to a junction which indicated Lacastanière to the right and Lacastanière to the left with no information on distances. He decided to take the road on the left for no particular reason. After a few kilometres he passed a sign announcing Lacastanière. A few metres further on a pale green panel indicated that mass was celebrated in the local church on the 2^nd and 4^th Sunday of the month at 08:30 and 11:00. Just beyond there was a faded sign painted on wood, half overgrown, announcing "A 500 m l'Hotel de Paris, eau courant et électricité dans chaque chambre" (in 500 metres, Hotel de Paris, running water and electricity in every room). Obviously things such as running water and electricity were not to be taken for granted in deepest France.

Suddenly a few houses appeared and almost without realising it Peter found himself in the town square, unimaginatively named "Place de la République". The square was surrounded by magnificent tall plane trees which must have been well over a hundred years old. The upper parts of their trunks had large gnarled masses where they had been repeatedly pruned to avoid them blocking the road. This geographic centre of the town used to be a place to stroll with the family with baby in a pram under a parasol, but now it was sacrificed to parked cars, except on Tuesday and Saturday mornings when the local market was held. At least this was what was indicated by the sign under which Peter parked the Land Cruiser. He got out of the car and looked around. This was what he liked about France. This was typical "Deepest France". On one side of the square was the rather unattractive roman style church. On the opposite side, there was the Mairie with the traditional "Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité" carved over the main door. The same building obviously served as a school since on the left wing there was an entrance marked "Entrée des filles" while on the right wing there was an entrance marked "Entrée des garcons". Presumably they met in the middle in front of Monsieur le Maire who pronounced them man and wife, Peter mused. Between the symbols of the church and the state were the symbols of local capitalism. The Crédit Agricole Bank, with its green illuminated sign on an otherwise attractive 19^th century building, was the largest building on the west side. Next to it was a Bébé Fourmi (little ant) supermarket. These little shops are like Ali Baba's caves, full of all sort of treasures. Peter had fond memories of wandering round inside these minute shops with his mother. They were stocked from floor to ceiling with all manner of essentials of modern life and numerous other items that Peter could only guess at their possible use.

Then came the estate agents. The faded photos in the window and the house descriptions still showing prices in French Francs more than three years after the adoption of the euro suggested that the agency was not particularly active. This side of the square was completed by a type of shop that has all but disappeared in Britain. Peter could remember one from his childhood where he used to go with his grandfather. The ironmonger's shop in rural France sells grain, fertiliser, bottled gas, dog food, material for electric fences, a special grease to treat horses hoofs, seeds, feed for chickens, protective clothing and so on. In fact, if you can't find it at the Bébé Fourmi then you can certainly find it here. On the other side of the square were the representatives of the tourist trade. At one end was the Presse-Tabac with its display of newspapers outside and cigarettes inside. The newspapers were all at least a day old except for the local paper, La Depeche du Midi. The proof that Peter was not the first tourist to visit Lacastanière was the collection of postcards of the area. The subjects were a few chateaux, the dam which held back the Agout river to make a reservoir a bit further up the valley, various views of the square and one or two photos of a large bearded gentleman who Peter learnt from the back of the card was Jean Jaurès, a local boy made good. "Jean Jaurès was born in Castres and was a leading socialist in the late 19^th and early 20^th century. He was member of parliament for the mining district in the north of the Tarn and influential in the development of the French socialist party. He was assassinated in a Paris café by an anarchist in 1914." Amazing what you can learn from a postcard, thought Peter as he put it back on the rack. He decided to buy the Depeche du Midi to read with his lunch.

Next to the Press-Tabac was the "Boulangerie Jeanette" with its stacks of fresh crispy baguettes piled upright in baskets behind the counter. Everyone that he could see in the town square seemed to be holding a baguette with a small square of paper to keep the bread clean from sweaty fingers. Many bread buyers were taking surreptitious nibbles from the end of the loaf. In fact one chap he passed had already eaten about a third of the loaf within the first 20 metres from the shop. Peter was sure he would be back for a second one since the nibbled loaf would never survive until lunchtime. The bustling activity of the "Boulangerie" contrasted with the appearance of long inactivity of its neighbour, "A la Mode de Paris". The dusty models of dresses in the window seemed very unlikely to have been "à la Mode" anywhere, least of all in Paris. The Café des Sports was a magnificent 19^th century building with wrought iron pillars supporting a first floor balcony. The terrace spread possessively on both sides of the road round the square, spilling into the square itself. About half of the 20 or so wrought iron tables were occupied. Peter took the last one in the sun. It was late Spring and the sun was still in favour. In a few weeks it would be the tables in the shade that would be occupied first and those in the sun only acceptable when protected by a large parasol announcing Orangina or Fanta.

Peter asked the waiter for a "croque madame et un demi". He liked ordering "croque madame" since not many foreigners knew what it was. In fact, it is simply a "croque monsieur", a toasted cheese and ham sandwich, with a fried egg on top. "Curious that the woman is on top. Trust the French!" he thought idly. Asking for a demi rather that a beer was also showing off. Strange that the "demi" was roughly half a pint when the standard French measure was the litre. Logically un demi should mean half a litre or about a pint. Proof, if proof was needed, that this decimal business was not natural.

Within minutes the waiter was back with a small basket filled with chunks of baguette. At the same time he placed a knife and fork rolled up in a paper napkin and a beer mat on the table in anticipation of his snack. The food arrived just as quickly. The croque madame was delicious, the beer refreshing, the temperature just right and the square had just enough bustle to make it interesting without being tiring. Peter was starting to feel relaxed and his employment problems were completely forgotten. A couple of teenage girls sitting at a nearby table were watching him closely. Obviously his accent had not gone unnoticed. Peter smiled at them and they dissolved into giggles and blushes and turned away. "Not the desired effect," he thought. To finish off his snack he ordered an "express" coffee and pulled out the instructions for finding Jean's house. They were in French, clearly typed probably by Jean's assistant. From the town the instructions were quite detailed "Take the road south out of the town and follow it for about 15 kilometres. Turn right at the bridge and follow the road for another 10 kilometres, at a hairpin bend there is a track on the left. Follow the track for another 10 kilometres. Coucaril is at the end." Coucaril, Peter assumed, was the name of Jean's house.

.........