Escape to France

The church bells tolling the hours in Capestang are as accurate as an atomic clock. On this, my first evening, the swifts and swallows swoop, dive and glide on the thermals around the ancient cathedral, which dates from the Middle Ages.  A large, leggy bird — could it be a stork? — claims his perch on the highest buttress. And then I see his companion stock-still on another.  

Happy hour on the front terrace (there’s also one in back): Roquefort and an assertively stinky local cheese that apparently doesn’t need a name; and Picpoul, a lovely white wine from the region.

Fingernail moon tonight, just rising.