We were away at 6.50 before dawn in the moonlit, starlit sky leaving the yellow lights of Sablet and Gigondas glowing behind us on the hillside. This is the worst bit - once we are up into the Cévennes it is better because they are so ‘other’. From previous bitter experience we know breakfast must be obtained before Alès - we Never manage to spot the required juxtaposition of boulangerie and bar in the mountains. There must be some but it probably means ferreting them out in gloomy looking villages. Caderousse was too early really as I for one am not hungry so early in the day but Alès was fast approaching by the time we’d done a hopeless couple of detours. There on the roadside was a bar/tabac, big pâtisserie and other commerce! In we went and got three croissants which we took to the small bar and ordered the café crèmes. They came in the guise of milky hot water but I have had worse and the croissants were truly wonderful. So good that we went back and bought sandwiches for lunch. 
But the temperatures! Oh dear…the car had already given ominous ding dong warnings that it was down to 4 degrees. And the Cévennes were yet to come… We motored up the winding gorges of the Gardon between hillsides of vivid coloured trees, misty cloud down below in the valley and bright blue sky above. Then over onto the A75 down two junctions to get onto the road across to Sarlat. It started warming up and temperatures were now reading 21! Lunch stop down a country lane that could have been England with stream, meadow, cows. Sandwiches top marks.
Got to Sarlat at 3.30 and after a brief flake out we walked into town. Last year it had been raining so hard that we barely made it across the street, so saw nothing. Today, phew…warm or what.We felt overdressed despite seeing people in boots and coats.
It’s obviously a tourist hot spot but nevertheless full of amazing history and ancient buildings. Shops galore - several devoted entirely to rather nice jumpers, many selling walnuts and derived products, others crammed with duck and goose confections.
Where else would you find a Foie Gras Cooperative! We had a horrendously expensive beer and citron pressé in a square but we expected that.
Sarlat was also the birthplace of Montaigne’s dear friend, the poet Etienne la Boëtie.
Tonight we will schlep over the road again to L’Esprit Sarlat because it was fine last time and it saves looking for somewhere better.This chap is le Badaud - the Spectator - looking down on the activity below.
