After a couple of hours of leisurely walking, we approached the town of Cahuzac sur Vère. We turned off the road at the sign “Chambre d’hote” to knock on one of the houses where the light was on. But we couldn’t get an offer on spending the rest of the night in a warm place. The landlady didn’t open the door when we knocked, although the light was on in the house. There was nothing to do but keep walking.
So we reached the center of the town. The sky had already become quite light. Like sun buds, lanterns, antennas and fences began to bloom. In the foggy morning haze, the roofs of houses covered with red tiles were warming up. From the roofs and walls, from cars and shop signs, a light, barely noticeable steam rose. The town was empty and clean, like on the day of the apocalypse. No people, no cars, only the barely audible singing of birds and green bushes among the old houses.
The town was so charmingly cute that we stopped our hike to just walk around and look at this wonderful place. The simple architecture of the cozy two-story houses, the crooked narrow streets and the town itself were so easy to handle that it seemed you could hug this town and squeeze it like a child. The main square looked more like a children’s playground, and the streets were like paths in parks where boys ride their bikes.
Suddenly, a rumble was heard in one of the alleys. Against the background of the general complete silence, it suddenly seemed like a creaking explosion. In fact, it was the door of a glass workshop opening. A glazier came out and started his van.
We approached him and asked him to give us a ride. He was slightly surprised by our appearance, and it was obvious that he was in a hurry. At eight o’clock in the morning, he was in a hurry, and he was hurrying in the opposite direction to us. He explained this to us with gestures. We said goodbye to him and were left alone again.
We stood on the road for another hour, but did not wait for any passing cars or for this town to wake up. Sveta and I moved on. But we did not manage to go far. Already on the outskirts of the town, we were picked up by a truck, which took us to Saint Martin Laguépie itself.
At the entrance to the town, the driver asked in French: “Where should I stop you?” Without waiting for an answer, he gave the closest and most understandable option to him: “Cafe?”
Oui, oui, café! – I quickly understood what he was getting at.
It was already about 9 am, and we were quite hungry.