Monday, February 11, 2013

Auch and about

test-driving my snoodAs Brent had taken Gustav out for a football-watching lunch in Jegun, Munson and I had the afternoon to ourselves. On any other drizzly winter afternoon I’d have stayed in and enjoyed the hearth but with only two more weekends to go before the movers, I succumb to that feeling that I should go out and see something else for the last time. Not necessarily the last time ever but I experience an anticipatory nostalgia whenever I’m moving on.

One of the local event guides tells me there’s a three-day festival in Auch which (according to the description on another website) goes back to ancient times and promises parades, acrobats and outdoor food. Citizens are encouraged to be a little crazy, to cross-dress and be otherwise subversive. This would definitely be a side of Auch I hadn’t seen before, which frankly has always struck me as having only dull sides, to be visited simply for shopping, using the train station, or undergoing bureaucratic rituals at the local prefecture.

Uptown AuchWe arrived mid afternoon to what was not much more than a ghost town: not even a hint of a parade, and unless the acrobats were hanging from the organ gallery at the cathedral, they were in hibernation. of food, there was one cafe open in the upper town, and a boulangerie in the lower. A few people were out walking their dogs around the river Gers which bisects the two levels of the town.
Auch, river Gers
Auch passageway  Le migou (BD store)
Our loop of the town took us past the local tourist office, which as usual was keeping any secrets about local activities away from the prying eyes of those at its window. I think some of these offices are like confessionals for event organisers, eager to unburden themselves of information about their entertainments but only to a single person, who will never tell.

JegunLe Migou, the bandes-dessinee store is further down the street, also closed but with more interesting window fare. It struck me that Migou (the term for the yeti in Tintin in Tibet) would make a splendid name for a malamute, if it weren’t so easily confused with (Mister) Magoo.  The French already think my dog is named after Marilyn Manson.

Our walk won for us an almond croissant and a baguette, yet not even the sight of a poster or flag for any street events. I asked a couple of people if they knew anything but got nothing but shrugs.

We returned via Jegun, hoping to look in on Brent & Gustav. The pub was closed and there was no sign of them, so we continued home. The hearth was calling.

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