Sublime.

Sunday morning. Off to Toulouse. If we get there before ten there's no problem parking. Having waited for the statue repairing builder we're running half an hour later than usual. We finally find a parking spot behind the cathedral.

Sunday mornings in French towns strange affairs. As if a neutron bomb has gone off. The streets deserted. 'The Font'
window shops and looks at a sculpture of a herd of bulls. Thankfully, the gallery is closed.

The bread stall doing a roaring business. Now we know why the streets are deserted. The French can all be found in the market buying things for Sunday lunch.

Back in the village a large bus arrives. It's bringing all the special needs children from the home in the small market town to the Salle des Fetes for lunch. The children are taken out somewhere different every Sunday. Angus is once again amazed by the professionalism and love of the young carers. No hint of irritation or annoyance at their charges wild antics. A disco has been set up in the village hall but the children are soon spilling out onto the village green. Organized chaos. Their laughter fills the air.

Over the weekend I heard the words of a eulogy given for a very young and very brave Medecins sans Frontieres doctor who died in Syria. The eulogy given, in glorious and passionate and loving French. " There is such a thing in moral philosophy as the aesthetic category of the sublime, as applied to the highest mountains, raging oceans, the night sky, the interiors of some cathedrals, and other things that are superhuman, awesome, limitless. In this case it describes a life of a surgeon, a son, lived in the open. A man less concerned about his own life, and more concerned with others ". These young teachers and carers tend towards that category. Seeing them makes me hopeful.

Sophie is told that she can't go onto the village green and join in the dancing. It would put too much stress on her leg. She clearly disagrees.