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Every now and then as you shuffle through your alloted days in life, along comes what we call a golden day. Today as been one.
We set off for the 5 minute walk to town just after the bells had chimed eleven eleventy. The old town is very compact and a bit cobbly, and although it looks every bit as old as Beaulieu, it is much tidier and carefully restored.
Tiny terraces spill out into the pedestrianised streets and shafts of sunlight cast shadows all around. There is a large market/exchange in one square, fourteen columns supporting a timber framed roof. We haven't discovered the town's main product yet, certainly truffles are traded here but apparently that's a rather clandestine business. An archway leads to a small courtyard beside the TI, outside of which are two rows of drop-down slatted seats, originally from Martel's first cinema.
Ali goes into a souvenir shop for postcards. They sell cards, flipflops, hats, balls, fridges and washing machines - strange...
Down the road is the station for the steam railway Geoff told us about in Uzerche. Thankyou Geoff!
We arrive as the train is disembarking passengers, hundreds of them. We wait until the platfom clears then cross over to look at the locos. Now Continental locos have nothing on British ones for style, but they have a certain utilitarian attraction. Number 040 hisses in the sun, all its linkages covered in grease and a wet, oily sheen on its Westinhouse pump which 'Chaa-chaats' irregularly.
We buy our tickets in the main hall. A large copper clad servery sits opposite small tables and chairs and railway memorabilia. Only Trevor Howard and Celia Johnson are missing.
We have a snack and wait in the shade for boarding to commence. Like most Continental railways, there is no raised platform, but we access our carriage via a wheeled ramp. The carriages are open sided with slatted wooden seats. Gradually the ten wagons fill with people and some are left standing as the PA says everyone must remain seated for the journey. The whistles blow and warm coal-smoke drifts through as the train sets off.
The route to St Denis was built in the 1880s and ran for 100 years, linking Massif Central with the wine regions of Bordeaux and Burgundy carrying timber to make barrels, as well as truffles.
There are five tunnels, from 40 to 400 metres long. In each one the passengers call out ghostly whhooo-ooo noises.
From the longest tunnel the train exits dramatically onto the Mirandol Halt. Cut into a ledge the halt is halfway up a 260 metre cliff with sweeping views over the Lot and Dordogne. After the photostop we are bucking our way down the steep tracks towards St Denis.
The return is all uphill with the loco working hard and filling the tunnels with smoke. Back at Martel we wait for the crowds to clear, take another look at the locos then head back to town.
This evening there is a summer fete like the one we went to in Meilhan a year ago, but it's too early yet so we find a shady terrace for a drink.
Early evening we enter the market and check out what's on sale; lamb, strawberries, wine, cheese and all sorts of other regional foodstuff. We get some wine, claim a table and over the next hour and a half sample various dishes. After eating we decide to take a plate of cheese back to finish the wine with. Ali goes to the stall and asks them to decide which cheeses to put on our platter. When the stallholder realise we are English he passes the plate and says 'For you, a present, welcome to our country.' How lovely.
On our way out of the park we stop by the bandtand. Children and adults are dancing to summer favourites like; Roll Out The Barrel, Una Paloma Blanca and Abba. As we leave a couple of 70-somethings are rock and rolling [as do they always] to O Solo Mio.
The aire is chokka when we get back and it's still 27C when we go in for our cheese and wine.
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