The chapel of the chateau in Marthon is a notable thing.
It's at the base of a cliff, and on the clifftop there's
the chateau, which in mediaeval times was accessible only
through the ceiling of the chapel. The idea was that any
brigands and other foes had to lay their weapons outside
the sanctuary, as it was consecrated ground, before being
admitted to the chateau itself, giving the residents an
advantage (presumably their swords and daggers had been
installed before the consecration of the chapel). The
sanctuary has been transformed into a rather nice little
concert hall seating maybe a hundred in a pinch. The
performance drew maybe a half crowd, a shame, as Letitia was
in full voice and form. Afterward a cookies reception in the
hall (grapefruit juice for me!, apple or orange for everyone
else) and then up to the chateau for dinner (it is now
accessible by normal means).

Letitia's father, Bob, a retired military officer and pilot,
now somewhat diminished and on a cane, joined us for the
concert and supper. Unfortunately, her mom was feeling under
the weather and couldn't make it.

Patrick, the impresario and the lord of the manor, was feeling
less ebullient than in years past - he'd had a massive infection
and had to be induced into a coma for a couple weeks and is now
just getting back into the swing of things, and, as he's in his
mid-70s, there are those who think he may be entering his
swansong period. Instead of being the flirtatious animated
conversationalist of yesteryear, he relied on props for most of
his communication, which led the discussion in different
directions than accustomed; he went to his treasure hoard and
pulled out various curiosities, from a stone axe from a nearby
cavedweller community to an odd little sculpture that had been
made by his great-grandfather, who, as it turns out, had been
Rodin's first art teacher.

Patrick's wife (whose name I've sexistly forgotten), beautiful
in a timeless French way but now a bit careworn, is holding
things together with the help of a devoted confidente (whose
name I've sexistly forgotten). Between them they provided a
simple but delicious meal of local produce - Charentais melon
marinated in Port for starters, a salad of the town's best
greens, and omelet with mushrooms.

Red, white, and rose, the region's freshest, made by friends
and acquaintances, rounded out.

Cheese for afters, Cantal and a blue, with red wine or, as
Patrick wanted to make a point, a bit of this old Muscat de
Rivesaltes if one wanted.

Interesting meal.
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