Montaunoux

We are walking upwards through cobbled streets, surrounded by the type of buildings I have come to expect by now in tiny and charming towns. There are the familiar narrow winding streets, colorful shutters, cobblestones and flowery balconies, but we are walking past them,  walking up towards the highest point in this small Southern town,  where "panoramas magnifiques" are promised. 
It's a church,  of course.  A small grassy hilltop with a square stone church and a view over countless brown tiled roofs. There are two children playing outside,  probably about three and five, and they tumble over each other in their striped pajamas,  mewing and giggling like countryside kittens. We smile at them with touristic affection and step into the church. 
The cool air settles on your skin. It's not very big inside, just a rectangular room with two chandeliers,  a grand piano in the corner and stacks of foldable chairs and tables against the furthest walls.  But looking up,  you feel a magic.  The plain wooden ceiling and plaster walls are covered in multitudes of paintings,  clearly  hand painted and in every color imaginable. Not only nativity figures peer down from the ceiling but also just peaceful faces of men and women, ordinary and angelic. There are three people in the building other than us and they are the caretaker and a French couple (the parents of the children outside), who are speaking in smooth, quiet voices. Then the man of the couple sits down at the piano and starts to play. 
And boy,  does your heart soar. 

Tidal waves of perfect sounds echo around the room, the highest notes quivering the crystals of the chandeliers, the lowest rumbling over the cool stone floor. His playing attracts the attention of his children, who run inside hand in hand, laughing. And I think, this music is too heavenly and this ceiling too beautiful and these curly haired children too much like cherubs and I am content in the rare joy of being in the right place at exactly the right time.