My Kind of Middle-earth

I awoke to a world of Tolkien wonder. Melting snow rose into mystical fog that continued throughout our day trip to the southeast. With my trusty guide. Guerit, in our little white Fiat, I felt like a cross between Don Quixote and Sancho and two knights from the round table on an epic search of some sort or other. Ours was simple enough. Yesterday morning as I brought my breakfast dishes downstairs to the kitchen, Geurit exclaimed with childlike glee that I had to put down my tray before he could tell me the fortune ahead. Indeed, today was the biggest flea market of the region where treasures could be had for pennies, if not euros. The concern would be the weather.

But by morning the roads looked clear, so off we went in search of our holy grail, which I must say, proved not to disappoint. I’d ask you to guess what I found, but as much as I love you all, I realize from the lack of response to my first riddle about my French facelift, not to hope for a reply. Perhaps someone might be bold enough, though, to tell me what they hope I found for them!

In any case, it’s my last day in the Auvergne, and as much as I felt like Alice in Wonderland upon arrival, I’m not keen on leaving. After today, I realize I’ve barely begun to scratch the surface of the bucolic treasures around every turn in the lane. And the innocent kindness of strangers never ceases to humble me. But for now, I must pack my treasures and prepare for a trip westward, to old friends in the Limousin, where I can paint the lake from my bedroom if it’s cold and scout more French Brocantes, regardless. It’s not to late to place your orders!



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