Last Tango in Toulouse by Mary Moody

elaborate and very stylish French baby carriage that includes a car capsule for a newborn. I drive Ethan and Lynne to Bob and Carole’s, ostensibly for a farewell drink. A crowd of twenty-five friends have gathered and they leap forward as we enter, much to the kids’ astonishment. Lynne is overwhelmed by the generosity of her new friends and sheds a few tears. She and Ethan spend hours working out how the various components of the pram slot together. It’s great that they have been accepted into this community but also sad that they can’t stay and have their baby here at the local hospital. At a time like this, Lynne needs her family’s support, and they would not be covered by the French health system, which would make it a very expensive delivery.
    A few days later I drive them to Toulouse airport and as they book in at the Air France counter we realise that the folded pram has now put them seriously overweight in the baggage department. They are slapped with a massive excess baggage bill and the young woman behind the counter doesn’t show a flicker of compassion despite the fact that Lynne is obviously distressed. I offer to pay the bill with my credit card, reassuring them that they can repay me with some work at the farm when I get back.I laugh quietly to myself, thinking it would have been cheaper for me to buy them a pram at home, but of course they are so thrilled with the stylish French one that it’s unthinkable not to take it back.
    Back at the house, I am alone within those four thick stone walls for the first time. I light a fire, put on some music and pour a glass of wine, soaking up the mood and trying to regain the heady feeling I had the previous year of being a woman living alone in a small French village. It’s an overwhelmingly seductive sensation. I feel rather decadent being so free and independent, sparing barely a thought for David at home, trying to settle into the farm and feeling so lonely without me.
    After a day or two of just revelling in the delights of the house I start to get organised for the real purpose of this visit – setting up the village walking tours that I aim to run every year to justify my annual visit. My friend Jan, originally from New Zealand and now living full-time in France with her French landscaper husband Philippe, has agreed to help me with the task, which involves booking hotels and bus companies and working out an interesting and varied itinerary. Her French language skills are terrific and we set off to visit all the towns in the region to gather material from each one’s Office de Tourisme. I have decided that walking should be an important facet of the tour; it’s by far the best way of seeing the local countryside and appreciating its unique beauty.
    During this period of setting up the tour I ponder the rights and wrongs of bringing Australian tourists to regional France. After all, I have just experienced the downside of tourism in my home village back in Australia, so I question whether it is absurd of me to be doing exactly the same in reverse here inour quiet little region of France. I run my doubts past our friends, asking them how they feel about my bringing Australian tourists to the Lot.
    â€˜Don’t worry about it,’ says Jock. ‘It will be fun. As long as I can still get a seat at Madame Murat’s restaurant, I have no objections.’
    â€˜It will be a boost to the local economy,’ says Jan. ‘It will provide some work for the bus companies and income for the hotels. It’s a great idea.’
    â€˜You just can’t have too many Australians,’ says my English friend Miles, wryly.
    I feel slightly reassured that I am not turning the Lot into Disneyland, but I still wonder whether the local French population, those not directly involved in or benefiting from tourism, will be as enthusiastic. I can only hope that the fact that the tours are very small (fewer than twenty