The Chateau and the Ghost Goat

This morning I woke up, threw open my shutters, and decided to have a lovely breezy day.  I wrote some postcards over a breakfast of tea and a chocolate croissant, and then I slung my purse over my shoulder and strolled out the door.  Many people were going about their housework and errands at this fine hour, and we exchanged "bonjours!" as we passed.  After a sunny 10 minute walk, I arrived at the post office.

Though I haven't been speaking a ton of French lately, the words I needed flowed from my lips with no deliberate thought preceding them, and the postal lady didn't even attempt to switch over to English, which is something that occasionally bothers me.  If a French stranger asks me a question in French and I respond correctly in French, why do so many switch to English just because I have an accent?  Maybe I'm fluent, you don't know my life!  But moving on.

After the post office, I decided to go back to Chateau Mantouban, which was closed the first time I went to go see it.  This time, there was a delightful sign on the front announcing that they are now closed until spring.  But I didn't walk all the way up there for nothing, so I decided to sit on the steps and ponder what it was that so inspired the famous French author, Daudet, that he came back to write all of his novels at Chateau Mantouban.  

I'm sure the estate's beauty wasn't detrimental to his creativity.  Even though I've never read this guy's work, I feel sort of connected to him, because even though I'm only an aspiring author, he and I both came to this town at least partially to finally get around to writing a book.  He came back dozens of times.  Who knows, maybe I will too.  And maybe the damn place will be open and I can get a tour.  

Since the jerks decided to go on vacation for like six months, I didn't feel bad about being a creeper and peering through any windows that happened to provide a view.  The chateau itself was shuttered up, but there was a small structure a few feet away.  I went and pressed my face against the window and had the crap scared out of me by this:

Bad photo, but there's a weird ghost goat in there, and I was not expecting it.  Couldn't understand the explanatory plaque on the building, but I'm guessing that the goat that used to live in this shed thing is why half the postcards at all the souvenir shops have goats on them.  Must have been some goat.

After the adventure, I returned home, where Edith and Nicolas were busy putting together a dinner for their friends who were coming over with their three children.  It was not the most tranquil meal I've had here, but the lasagna was divine.  

In other news, I am currently locked in a fierce war with the mosquito from hell.  All body parts included, it's about the size of a drink coaster, and after a botched attempt to smack it from the air with a hand towel, it is literally after my blood.  The mosquitoes here are definitely something I could do without.  There aren't many, but what they lack in numbers, they make up for in size.  Show your face, you ugly bug.

***Update

Killed the son of a bitch with a sock.