Today, we had an early and stressful start to the end of the week. I’ll save you the details of the stress and move onto nicer things instead.

I delivered a (used) Christmas tree to friends.  Actually, it’s the 2nd used Christmas tree I’ve delivered this week.  No, it wasn’t a sick joke.    Odd, but true.  I don’t know about you, but I like a real tree at Christmas, not the ever-evergreen plastic variety.  For me its now an affordable luxury.  Living in the Caribbean they were fiercely expensive imports that generally started shedding their needles the minute that they left the refrigerated container in which they were shipped and stored and set in pride of place in 85°F temperatures for several weeks  (that’s 30°C for you modern folks).  My ever-practical – with an eye on the pocket-money allowance – 9-year old (we’re going back a while) suggested to me that we buy a plastic tree.  It served us well for 12 years before being given away when before we left the islands.  Now, I indulge myself with a real tree.  But I can’t be doing with buying a cut tree, it must be living and capable of continuing to so after the festive season is over and done with.  So I choose one in a pot with a root ball and give it to friends who have a garden some time in January (normally the day that our Christmas guests leave when I take the decorations off it).

Having driven along dark roads under clouds that seemed to threaten snow and delivered said tree to Le Grand Bâtard, I decided to see if I could find the Abbaye d’Echourgnac which is well known for a cheese produced by the Sisters.  I pulled out my ever-so helpful SatNav and started to persuade it to give me a route to the abbey.  It refused, not recognising it as a place of worship, or a place of interest.  After a bit of healthy muttering and colourful harrumphing, I decided that I’d just ask it nicely to take me to Echourgnac and find my own way to the abbey.  This, the splat-nav was prepared to assist with, and off we toddled.  I arrived at a T-junction offering me all sorts of options, but none mentioning the abbey or convent.  Logic said head into the village and look for a signpost in the centre.  I drove past a sign that pointed me back in the direction from which I had just come.  3-point turn and there, on a small hill, was the abbey’s spire.

A minute or two later, I was parked in the neat and tidy visitors’ parking area and I walked towards the abbey, looking for their shop.  I was intercepted by a very helpful sister, who kindly arranged for the shop to be opened for me (I was 4 hours too early).  The shop is well stocked with the cheese and preserves made by the abbey’s Cistercian community, and those of several other religious houses in France.  I was tempted by some beeswax furniture polishes, but held off as the labelling made me wonder whether it was compatible with the finish on our furniture.  As neither Graham nor I have a sweet tooth I also resisted the wide and interesting range of jams, preserves, fruit pastes and biscuits that were available, too.  But I did buy a small wheel of the distinctive Trappe Noix, a cow’s milk cheese that is flavoured with walnut liqueur.  We’ve enjoyed it before and it was the perfect size for two of us to enjoy.  I’ll save their brebis (ewes’ milk), and chevre (goats’ milk) to try another day.

I have to confess to feeling guilty at the paucity of my selection, especially when the sisters had opened the shop just for me.  I didn’t need (or want) any of the lovely essential oils and soaps, or teas that were available.  And I’m not of a religious inclination at all, so no books or icons, either.  However, the community has recorded a CD of their plainsong, which I really like, so I assuaged my feelings of guilt by buying one of those too.

Purchases made, I went to the acceuil (visitors’ desk) to see if perhaps I might be able to make an appointment to visit the fromagerie (cheese production area).  My request was very politely declined, although the Sister did offer to contact me when next they have a Portes Ouvert, or open day.  She apologised, but didn’t know when that might be – none is planned, and there wasn’t one during 2016 either.  What could I do but accept, with thanks for her kindness?

And so it was back to the car for the drive home to Sainte-Foy-La-Grande.  Happily, Nancy the SatNav was prepared to guide me home.  She knows where home is.  I pulled the cellophane from the CD, popped it into the player and, under Nancy’s direction, had a lovely drive home along unmade (I kid you not – at one stage I said “you’re kidding me, but OK”) and unnamed roads through the woodland of the Double (pronounced dooobl) while the serene voices of the nuns soothed the stress of the early morning away.