British Poppies and French Bleuets

It was a lovely clear day this morning with blue skies and warm sunshine; all the better for Armistice ceremony in our two villages. This time there was a break with tradition as Maggie, a Yorkshire woman on the Town Council read a Wilfred Owen poem at the War Memorial which was then translated into French by Michel. The mayor who wanted to recognise the part played by the British community in the village by honouring British and Empire soldiers who fought and died alongside their french comrades. He went the whole hog with the National Anthem following the Marseillais. After that, there was nothing more to do than ajourn for a patritic apéritif.
Of course, here, the actual day is a public holiday so we headed up into the mountains to a local restaurant where we hadn't eaten for ages. Tried to be reasonable but the size of the portions still left us bursting at the seams. rabbit for me and a selection of grilled fish for Christian. The photo is one of the views from the restaurant and shows it's a wee hamet très rustique!
Oh yes, you might be asking what's a bleuet. Well, it's a cornflower and symbolises the same thing as the Poppy.