By Laura MaCarthy I take a plane to Bergerac in July, the temperature already reaching 26 degrees by our 10am arrival in France. Once past the airport and business parks on the outskirts, the town itself appears to me as a well-preserved pressed flower between the pages of a book. Bergerac wears her history on her sleeve. Half-timbered, shuttered buildings line the cobbled streets, so ancient that they seem to lean, threatening to topple over – …
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