The winters were long and sometimes the village was isolated from gorges. People had no other way to survive than to be almost asleep. Enforced as everywhere on the plateau hibernation. Resigned inhabitants remained away from their big houses. They just recently consumed sparingly food set aside before the bad season: canned vegetables, pies, jams, pickled pork or poultry. A baker, the only one on the top of the Causse, assured regular tours. A grocer rode once a week from the valley, but if the snow should fall prohibiting access, we knew it would happen some time for its services. Solidarity was natural and the village was like a big family where everyone was living under his own roof, but when everyone knew we could count on the neighbor. In recent years, a rustic inn housed in an old barn brought a bit of life even in the midst of the offseason. In summer, the restaurant offered his table to instructors and students gliding club, he welcomed the passing tourists and trekkers who enjoyed almost providential step on these highlands so uncrowded. In winter, he put his cooking skills at the service of the villagers he invited some nights to gather around the fireplace, so high and wide that could be cooked on the spit a whole boar. It was an opportunity for the musician he was, to take some of his electric piano notes rang merrily under the stone arch. Christian then came out of his pocket a harmonica, and when the daughter of the aubergist began to accordion, orchestra improvised shone sparks of joy in the eyes of the guests who were not to be asked to accompany the singing leading trio or improvise a few dance steps. These evenings were filled with happiness and helped to maintain friendships indispensable. Life was hard but beautiful. Generous and never quite lonely hearts.

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