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By Peter Graham
Published 1999
It was exactly twenty years ago that I first set eyes on the house where I live in the Auvergne. Overlooking a tiny square next to the church of the small village of Mourjou (Cantal), it had been for most of its life (it was built in 1817) one of those hotels/restaurants/cafés/groceries rolled into one that used to be, and in some cases still are, the backbone of French rural life. It was there that generations of children had bought their sweets and farmers’ wives the staples they did not produce themselves; there that the menfolk would go for an apéritif or two after church services and funerals, while their wives waited outside in cars, or to play endless disputatious games of belote; there that village dances and wedding feasts had been held. No doubt because of all that, the vibes felt good as I followed the notary who was selling the house into the two huge ground-floor rooms that used to serve as café and dining-room; they felt even better by the time I had finished looking the house over, and a week later I managed to raise a mortgage and buy it.
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