8
‘Alice let her feet guide her to the main square, Place Marcou. It was small and filled with restaurants and clipped plane trees. Their spreading branches, wide like entwined and sheltering hands above the tables and chairs, competed with the brightly coloured awnings. The names of the individual cafés were printed on the top – Le Marcou, Le Trouvère, Le Ménestrel.’
I have lost count of the number of times I have eaten in this square: toohot summer lunches under the lime trees, close evenings indoors with the fans turning, pizza in the hidden square by the fountain with buskers singing, bright cold winter mornings of milky coffee or sharp little black espressos and delicious butter croissants.
