Bordeaux : le Marché des Capucins – et tout le reste

This is the last in a series of five posts about my weekend in Bordeaux with my friend Thérèse in July of this year. During our time together we talked of many things, the kind of things that women of a certain age discuss: our parents, all gone now; our children, and the joy and grief they bring; our careers, past and present; where we will live out the last decades of our lives – Thérèse will choose between Paris, Bordeaux and Marseilles; our health – Thérèse suffered a crise de santé some years ago, but is mentally one of the strongest women I know; and whether there will one day be another man in our lives, and whether this is even what we want.

On our last day in Bordeaux the rain suddenly cleared and the sun came out. We ate a leisurely breakfast together in our apartment. It was fortunate we both prefer tea at breakfast-time, as we had given up on the coffee maker; it looked workable, and we are both happy with the drip method of making coffee, but this machine was so ill-fitting that most of the coffee pooled under the jug instead of inside it.

We had the morning at our disposal before I needed to catch a bus to Bordeaux airport and Therèse needed to take the TGV back to Paris, and we decided to devote this to le Marché des Capucins. This market was an easy walk from our apartment and Thérèse, who is knowledgeable about art and architecture, pointed out features and facades along the way. 

Food and produce markets are always interesting, and this one is huge. We experienced the pungent smells – fresh seafood, hams, fruit, spices, herbs – even before we entered. 

People were already drinking wine, beer or spirits at the bistrots and cafés inside the market. We feasted our eyes on this array of tapas:

But neither of us felt ready for wine and tapas so early in the day, and so we contented ourselves with cups of black coffee, a jug of hot milk, and some miniature canelés.

When it came time to wander back to the apartment, we took a different route – along a narrow street that had passionfruit sprouting from the pavement and climbing the walls of buildings. 

Thérèse thought these plants looked untidy, but they reminded me of my childhood at Ardmore College where we had a vigorous and well-fruiting vine; and they also reminded me of Bill’s and my short holiday in Moorea where a different variety of passionfruit, giant in size, grew wild around our simple accommodation, and we feasted on the fruit.

Thérèse and I stopped to chat to two workmen, who were sweating under the weight of heavy limestone blocks, as they transferred them from a demolished building to a small truck on the street. “People around here are so demanding,” one of the men grumbled. We wished him bon courage.

As we did our final packing back at the apartment, Thérèse turned to me, “Tu n’as pas de regrets, Ann?”

No, despite the rain, and the little errors on both sides, I had no regrets.

“Il y avait de bons petits moments.”

And we had some lovely moments together.

Blog by Ann Barrie