The fruits are always at their pinnacle of freshness. The veggies are sold still clinging to the soil that gave them life. From the tiniest radishes to the hulking courgettes, the market is where to come to see what's possible and likely if a farmer cares enough to put her best effort forward.
I made a loop around the Excideuil market and found myself weeping. Some people do it at museums, in front of works of art. For me, food in a perfect state is a work of art. And passion. It was a good thing, really, that the soft rain was falling so I wouldn't have to explain to anyone why fresh veggies make me cry. I continued my stroll, coming to the historic Les Halles covered market building, where only artisan producers of products the region is famous for can sell their wares. These fois gras and duck vendors have been coming to this hall for centuries. I would have paid a king's ransome at that moment for the profound pleasure of taking home a whole goose, a basket of wild mushrooms, or a fresh lobe of fois gras, to cook and savor in my own kitchen. Not to be.
But . . .
A long car ride from Excideuil to Eymet and it was market day there too!! How fortuitous that I got a do-over and once again could sniff and ogle the tiny goat cheeses, in all stages of aging. Look at the flowers! Look at the gleaming fishes! I was on overload. So much so that I forgot where I parked my car. I convinced myself that I had parked on an east-west street, so walked up and down each one looking for a non-descript gray Toyota. Nope. I tried to retrace my steps back to where I turned off the main road. I looked at my phone to see where I took the first pictures upon entering the market square. That helped because I could see the church steeple in the pic and then lined myself up with the photo, made a 180-degree turn and . . . Voila . . . There was my car on a north-south street instead.
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