MY VERY OWN POUTRE

I had one of the best experiences I've ever had in France today.
Benoît was going across the river to pick up the poutres he had ordered for his house from the sawmill.

—Can I tag along?

—Sure.  You will see a vanishing part of France, la France profonde.

It took us a while to get there.  Benoît is still not as familiar with Anjou as he is with Touraine.  We had to take the long way across to Véron because the Montsoreau bridge has been out of commission for a week for maintenance (Nothing to do with the Occupation this time).  Constant fell asleep and I didn't know where we were supposed to be going.  We passed through La Chapelle-sur-Loire and were well on our way to Langeais when Constant woke up and redirected the caravan.

We pulled into a laneway with trees on both sides.  The chickens scattered and the free range pig snorted.  All around were steam powered machines: threshing machines, pressoirs, giant band saws.  The loud hum of machinery signaled that this was no antiques museum but a working sawmill.

I saw my poutre almost immediately.  4 metres long and 30cm squared, it must have been an enormous tree, likely growing for centuries before being felled.

M. LeChat moved it to the cutting area with a forklift.  He leveled the ends and cut about a metre off.

—Do you want that smaller piece?

—How much?

—€10. Do you want it?

—Hell yes!

We loaded up the remorque with my great poutre de gloire and Benoît's four smaller ones, as well as a six-paned window and an old fashioned évier that Constant wants to refinish for our kitchen, and headed home across the newly reopened bridge..

What a great day!

Playlist:

Bright Blue Rose
Jimmy McCarthy and Christy Moore