the day revealed

When the fog lifted, a bright, warm day was revealed.

We took our new bikes onto a familiar path, by the Lot, towards Fongrave, past the stately Chateau Caillac, past some stone ruins part-buried by blackberry, past the dream-house whose manicured grounds slope down to the shimmering river, past a fruit and vegetable farm, through a glade where tall, mature trees shade a manor house, an oasis in the vast, open cropland.

In the village of Fongrave, there is a tiny, 18th century church. 1749 can be seen on the lintel.

There are ancient half-timbered houses.

In a chair by the river's edge, a patient man sits with a long fishing pole.

He looks up as we pass and upon  my greeting of "Bonjour" he asks if we are training for the Tour de France.