A very merry christmas

Christmas morning sun shone brightly on the recently washed streets, drying them and thus removing all the slippery spots on the now very familiar road that takes us from our lowly placed hotel up to all the action on the parapet. As we neared the Notre Dame the bells were calling out across the town - drawing the faithful to their common house of worship. The melody reduced to a toll and faded away just as we joined the stream entering though the front door. Inside the pipe organist was giving everything to to a rendition of the The Last Noel. It sounded fantastic.

Soon the service was underway. A procession of the hierarchy slowly entered the main arena bearing signicant symbolism with due pomp and ceremony. Lots of speeches (in French of course) interspersed with much standing, sitting, male choirs (sounding like Enigma) and the organist obviously having a ball with his instrument. We had swinging smoking pots being waved around, biscuits being broken and water being thrown over willing participants. We followed along as best as we could - showing respect as one does when visiting another's house. Not being able to understand one spoken word the mind did tend to wander - couldn't help wondering if the holy one on top of the extremely impressive alter is standing on a set of breasts or a behind. Given the seriousness of the occasion it was decided that it would be prudent not to ask. Luckily they didn't offer confessions (forgive me Father for I have blogged...). And so we trolled back down the slope in brilliant sunshine, dry roads and decided that white Christmas's are overrated. What really matters is the good will. Thus enlightened we went back to the room, relax and then reload (e.g. pack the picnic) and headed back to the high plains knowns as the Fields of Abraham.

Battles were fought, democracy estsblished, barack's built, battlements constructed, cannons positioned, walkways, pathways, belvederes, roads, benches all put in place so locals can fornicate openly in front of tourists on Christmas day. How very French. After our delightful "triage au cheeses" and crusty bread we wandered around the fields frolicking in the occasional persistant snow drift before heading back through town which was surprisingly full of people. Looks like all the families were out and about walking off their Christmas feasts. Ours was had in the evening. Yet another slog up the hill to get to our fine dining establishment. By the time we leave this place we'll be a able to race mountain goats on their home turf. The event was well worth the effort. Great food (snails, maple syrup etc.), good wine and quality company (i.e. the best). After all, we traveled to the other side of the planet for this meal. And it certainly met expectations.

The town bereft of snow still glows in the ambience of the season (apart from all the rubbish appearing from underneath the grey sludge that once was white and fluffy). Our church looked angelic under the full moon.