The garden is dotted with french hens softly clucking about the weather and racing up the slope to prod the earth for worms. Inside, the low ceilings keep the heat in and hold the you close while you sip wine and wax poetic about the river and the rain.
The bed is soft, your feet touch the baseboard as you stretch out to the morning kissing your forehead. Theres plenty of dishes to cook yourself breakfast after you go to one of a few hypermarkets in the area, stocking on wine and cheese and eggs.
You’ll fill a cup with nespresso liquid and sit under the deck and fork your eggs and you’ll sigh and think: if this isn’t nice, I dont know what is.
A cat or two will jump over the gate and prowl their way up the slope, agreeing with you. For €1 you can take the A2 into Bayonne or all the way to Biarritz.
When you leave, though, you’ll miss the polite hens in the yard - their gentle chatter and mild manners and puffy outfits.