Sunday morning, brings the dawn in....

Like the Velvet Underground in the 1960s, my Sunday mornings are fuelled by freaky mushrooms, although these are the ceps I mentioned yesterday rather than Psilocybin, served with scrambled eggs (with some chopped dried chilli added), on toasted sourdough.
Then to Issegeac for the Sunday morning market. An old bastide town, it's centre would be difficult to walk through on an empty day, given the narrow streets, but on a Sunday, the town is given over to a market, a real market. With vegetables. And fruit. And bread. Not for this place a market selling out-of-date alcopops to underage chavs and mirrors with pictures of Elvis printed on them. It was heaving, much like any sane persons response to the Elvis mirror. And overrun with British. In the car parks around the town, UK plated BMWs mingled with rusty 2CVs and the voices ordering the market goods were as often Henry's as Henri's. Still you can't blame them. If you're in the area, what else are you going to do on a Sunday morning in the Dordogne?