Somewhere in L’Aubrac, France. August 2025.

It was a misty, drizzly mid-morning in southern France’s Aubrac region, a volcanic plateau famed for its vast landscapes and wheaten coloured cattle. The previous day, my family and I had set off on a several-day hike following the ancient chemin de Compostelle (this eventually leads to the pilgrimage site in Santiago de Compostella, Northern Spain), which was cut short for me after a mere few hours when I was crippled by an untimely episode of food poisoning. Sweet reminiscence of my last trip to West Bengal.

We decided to curtail our hiking escapade and stop off in a local village (I’ve quite forgotten its name, which perhaps adds to its intrigue). As is so characteristic when travelling, and arguably in life, when one door closes, another one opens.

My sips of herbal tea on a café terrace, all I could stomach at this point in the day, were interrupted by my mother’s excited beckoning to come and see a store she had found whilst wandering around the small village. Dazed, a little dehydrated, I followed her. It was L’Aubrac’s eccentric answer to the Den of Ali Baba.

A weathered shopfront advertising ‘electromenager’ (household appliances) framed a small vitrine containing, no household appliances, but shelves and glass cabinets scarcely populated with dolls, teddy bears, crocheted goods, plants, some dead, others alive, the odd plate and glass, faded picture frames, a dusty nativity set on a tea towel, and some objects which I quite frankly couldn’t identify. Most of the products on the shop window had been bleached by years of sun exposure, probably by my best estimate, since the 1970s.

My favourite feature of the shop window was the littering of slightly random quotes and phrases stuck to the glass panes, which ranged from the sweet, to the ironic and the absurd. Although I somehow can’t help but feel these little proverbs may have contained some kind of hidden wisdom. Or not. They certainly looked like once upon a time, the owner had had a field day with a new printing machine.

Avec si peu, un interieur chaleureux.

“With so little, a warm interior.”

La fleur de L’Aubrac.

“The flower of the Aubrac.”

Offrir ou à offrir…une bonne idée cadeau.

“Give or to give…a good gift idea.”

We stumbled in tentatively, and a ringing bell followed suit somewhere to alert the shop owner to our presence. A smiling, elderly woman hobbled out from a door behind the counter, from what seems like her living room. She welcomed us enthusiastically and asked how she may be of service. We had so many questions, but I settled for a small pin badge displaying the words Aubrac across one of the plateau’s iconic bovines.

Stepping into this little store is like stepping into another dimension. Not just into another time, but another life, into the story of a woman, a family, a village. It is more an extension of her home, or her soul, than a store. Paulette, now in her nineties, explains she has lived in this small village her whole life, and continues to run this shop which she opened over five decades ago with her late husband. Her eyes sparkle, as if always leaking a few drops of nostalgia. Her voice is soft, high pitched and comforting in a way only elderly women’s fragile tones are. Behind her, hundreds of photographs of family, children and grandchildren are displayed.

The selection of products is random, dusty, the pricing seems to follow the logic of a rolling dice, the arrangement of the space is chaotic, but this is one of the most beautiful shops I’ve ever set foot in. Like its owner, it tells a story. Of love and loss and legacy and persistence in a shifting world. Of passion poured into a space rather than profit, of a pillar in the local community. I would observe that Paulette is not selling products in fact, but memories, her memories, which passers-by can purchase, partake in. Set foot into, for a short while.

I don’t regret the chain of events, even the food poisoning, which led us here. It was humbling to meet Paulette, who happily posed for a picture, and proudly told us she was recently featured in a local newspaper for being the oldest trader in the village.

I leave you with a few pictures which probably reveal more than my blethering, but perhaps it is a case of you had to be there.

Photo credits: Raphaëlle Jones