The golden roasted chicken, followed by meringues and red fruit needed to be complimented by more than the good Cotes de Rhone that had accompanied it. The sun was starting to sink into the Atlantic ocean to our west. The light was as clear and cold as iced Stolichnaya. We went for a stroll along the lanes that surround our hamlet. No people to be seen. The farmers were getting their few moments of rest before evening milking. A pair of buzzards were soaring above us. They did not appear to be in hunting mode, but, like us, just enjoying being together on a perfect evening.