Holy goats Cheese - theres Davros...or "A picturesque cathedral green, French Market and an un-PC comment"

England dear England:

Cathedrals.
Greenery.
Pale skin.
Proud moustaches, Blazers and pullovers in the midday sun.

What a lovely morning Ive had on my day off work. Up with the lark, shower, healthy breakfast, summer t-shirt and out the door by 8 30. With my 'Im not really trying to sell you Krishna books' bag over my shoulder, a flask of coffee, and some wobbly whistling, off I trekked down the slopy high street.

Walking through the little alley towards the grassy knoll outside the cathedral, faint sounds were being carried in the warm summer breeze. Was that 'Mon dieu, c'est magnifique' I could hear? And 'zis ees good, how you say, cheese, non?'

The French farmers market had invaded.

Why were they doing this to me. Id already had my breakfast, the last thing I needed was the aroma of 768 different kinds of cheeses, pates, sausages and coffee caressing my nasal passages. It was like a culinary red light district - all of the cheeses, scantily clad on the sidewalks, displaying their prices. The camembert, saucily peeling off its clothes to give me a tantalising glimpse of its nakedness underneath.

I hurried my pace and parked my derriere on the grass, eyes averted. There I sat, reading my notes, scribbling some more, smoking my gaulloises, sipping my coffee. And being incredibly British with my thermos flask and white skin.

As I sat there, mulling over ideas in my head, and gazing around, it struck me that it was an incredibly odd scene. Almost medieval in a sense. The cathedral grounds were bordered by brick walls, railings and stalls, lending a castle feel to the area. With all of the pensioners and unemployed people strolling around inside, like the peasants and fair maidens, with the French market stalls offering their simple produce. There was a severe lack of merde though to give it a truly authentic medieval smell. Lots of dogs though. Thankfully being walked, not offered up on a spit.

As if this mixture didnt look bizarre enough in a Monty Python-esque Holy Grail kind of way, amidst all of this quaintness of olde Englishness and marche francais, a buzzing could be heard. The unmistakable sound of an electric powered chair, rolling over a gravelly track. As the crowds parted, milling around the edges of the stalls, a Stavros* like vision came hurtling, sorry, gently meandering, along the pathway.

I half expected gasps of 'its the work of the devil, 'tis witchcraft i tell thee' to be shouted, followed by the hurtling of blocks of brie.

Such was the dreaminess of being in the sun and feeling like Id been transported back several hundred years to a gorgeous, green oasis of calm, in historic quaint rural times.

(* I did warn in the heading that this is a touch un-PC, but it is without malice)