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continuous honking of car horns. And now? I listened. Nothing, no thing. Not. A. Thing. Even the faint whirr of the tractor's engine had faded. For a London girl like me, it was quite disconcerting.
    Â Â The road to Rocamour wound up on the opposite side of the valley so, checking both ways, I stepped out into the road. I had, of course, forgotten that in France they drive on the right so my look right, look left and look right again should have been reversed. As I stepped into the road, out of nowhere, a speeding car hove into view, the driver honking wildly when he saw me. Caught by surprise, I leapt backwards straight into the ditch behind me, a ditch which I painfully discovered was full of stinging nettles.
    Â Â 'Ow, bugger, shit!' I shouted, trying to extricate myself without doing any further damage. Scrambling up the bank onto the side of the road, I sat down to rub my itchy legs. Country lore told me that wherever there are stinging nettles, there are dock leaves, but looking around there was nothing but recently mown grass. I sat for a minute, watching as blotchy patches appeared on my bare skin and cursed my luck at falling down two French ditches in one day.
    Â Â Bloody driver didn't even stop, I thought, as I pushed myself off the ground and nipped sharpishly across the road, making sure to look the right way this time, before continuing up the hill towards Rocamour. It was certainly much steeper than I'd thought and within minutes I was breathing heavily, feeling the sweat on my back. Stopping, I bent over, hands on knees, to try and catch my breath. So much for a gentle walk into the village each morning to buy freshly baked croissants! And so much for the expensive gym membership that I'd been forking out for the past two years. I continued on, thinking that I'd never felt more unfit in my life and by the time the final bend was in sight, my thighs were burning and my chest was on fire.
    Â Â I stopped again, pretending to admire the view, as a gaggle of noisy ramblers, most of them older than me by a good twenty years, strode past with no signs of flagging. Surely I should be fitter than this? With a final push, and determined not to be beaten by a bunch of Saga louts, I rounded the bend into the village.

Chapter Four

    A blue and white sign announced that I had finally reached Rocamour. On my left was the church that I had just been able to make out from my garden. It was bigger than I thought it would be, far too big for what seemed like such a small village. The clock appeared not to have moved for many years and was suspended in time at three thirty-five. Next to the church was a small épicerie . I'd check that out later but right now, I had more serious work to attend to.
    Â Â Across the square I saw the village café, its outdoor terrace shaded by scarlet awnings in sharp contrast to the bright green foliage of a huge lime tree. Tables were spread out in the shade, many of them already occupied and it obviously did a good lunchtime trade. Oh yes, this was much more like it. People!
    Â Â Choosing a table in the sun so I could catch a few more rays, I flopped down in a seat, completely exhausted. An elegant, perfectly coiffured waitress appeared at my side and looked me up and down with a slight whiff of distaste. I imagined how I must look; stung legs, beetroot-red face and hair looking like it hadn't had close contact with a grooming implement for some time. I flattened down my dress and tried to smooth my hair in a feeble attempt to make myself more presentable. 'Mademoiselle,' asked the waitress imperiously, 'que désirez-vous?' Désirez ? Desire? She must be asking what I wanted to drink.
    Â Â ' Un beer?' I said hopefully. Alexandre Dumas, when he came to England to learn the language, had said that English is just French badly pronounced so I worked on the premise that 'beer', pronounced with a vaguely French accent, would do the trick. The waitress sniffed and