We woke to the roar of high winds, to dark clouds and the threat of rain.

As a breakfast coffee the Arabica Doux turned out too doux for our liking, so I went to the Padern Huit à Huit in search of a coffee with more kick to it. I picked up a likely candidate in the formidable-sounding Jaques Vabre "Gringo" Goût Corsé, and headed for the checkout.

Language note: For efficiency in opening vacuum packed coffee, it is worth while to know the word encoche, meaning notch, the place where you try to break the seal.

The checkout line was long, as if half the village had chosen that hour for their daily shopping. I noticed one man of singular appearance—comparatively young (less than 40 is young in Padern), aloof, pale and unkempt. Later on we learned that he was an American who had settled in Padern and made his living as a goat-herd. "Our American," the locals called him.

I essayed a little polite conversation with Mme Legrand, the lady who had kindly come forward to direct us upon our arrival in the village. On this occasion, though, she was less gracious. She accused me of talking to her just to practice my French, and told me I ought to be paying for the privilege. I admitted the charge as largely (actually about 99.9%) true, whereupon the lady laughed and prattled on freely for about F20-worth of language practice. In the end she asked my opinion of an American personage whose name came out sounding something like Bee Eel Clean Tong. "Le président," she explained. I reached for the French equivalent of "tricky rascal," but could do no better than the cognate tricheur. A poor choice—tricheur means cheat, only a rough approximation to what I had in mind. But in light of subsequent scandals, perhaps not so far off after all.

***

Later in the morning we set out for Cucugnan, the nearby hilltop village famous as the setting of the tale of the local Parish Priest, the Curé de Cucugnan, who drew upon a vivid dream of heaven and hell to persuade his flock to renounce sin.

By this time the wind blew even harder than before but the overcast had broken up into separate clouds like so many black boulders flying overhead. Entranced by the effects of brilliant patches of sunshine and cloud shadows flitting across the hilly countryside, we failed to notice the turnoff to Cucugnan and ascended instead to high-lying Duilhac-sous-Peyrepertuse. Lunch beckoned across the valley, but we took a moment to survey the panorama before us. Upon turning to look in the opposite direction, we saw the ruins of the Château de Peyrepertuse standing on its rocky outcrop still father up the steep hillside.

The wind continued strong. With her hair flying in the wind, Jean looked the way comic-strip characters are drawn to suggest fright.

The narrow streets of Cucugnan present a challenge to the driver—at least to this driver. Trying to maneuver around a parked truck of a cheese vendor without touching the stone wall to our left, I scraped instead the wall to the right. My mistake was failing to fold back the rear-view mirror.

We found a Parking on a disconcertingly steep down-slope just outside the village, and allowed the wind to blow us back to:

Cucugnan

Located as it is in the middle of the village, the restaurant offers no panoramic views, but we found the spacious and comfortable interior of this converted stone-walled barn to be adequate compensation. The ambience was rustic all the way, including service on pewter plates.

Crudités: The standard collation, with all-fresh ingredients.

Charcuterie: A crusty boudin noir was the outstanding item here. A rose-colored saucisson and a tender, coarse paté were also fine.

We drank a pitcher of house red wine, Cuvée du Curé de Cucugnan 1992.

Lapin saupiquet: An example of the traditional dish of Languedoc, consisting in this case of a leg and the two halves of the loin of a roast rabbit, one loin with the kidney attached, served with a garniture of beans and eggplant on a wine sauce thickened with the animal’s blood and liver. The meat was cooked to perfection, moist yet crispy on the outside. We ate every shred—or I should say I ate every shred since Jean is not a fan of rabbit—and gnawed the bones clean. The sauce seemed overly thick and tasted too strongly of liver.

Pintadeau salmis: A breast of tender young Guinea fowl with the wing attached, served with a splendid sauce in which the flavors of tomato and peppers were discernable. The vegetables were the same as with the rabbit.

Among the cheeses offered, we especially enjoyed a local chèvre.

As dessert, a clafoutis aux poires proved unexceptional.

The total at Auberge de Cucugnan was F206.