The potters went home
The village is a lot quieter this week, and I'll be honest, it feels good.
1001 Pots closed Sunday, August 16, after six weeks of taking over the whole place. The stalls are gone, the park's parking lot is back to being a regular parking lot, and there's suddenly room at the bar on a Tuesday night. I like that festival as much as anyone around here, but I have to admit the quiet coming back has its own charm too (or maybe I just say that because my legs are tired after six weeks of full services).
We had some good late evenings this summer. People walking out with a bowl wrapped in newspaper under one arm, sitting down for one last beer before the drive, and asking us the same question every time: what was this place before? (Le Baril Roulant, for anyone still wondering. Same building, new crew, Mike in the kitchen and me at the bar since 2025.)
Le P'tit Train du Nord hasn't slowed down one bit, though. Cyclists still roll down toward the river late afternoon, dusty and in a good mood, ready for a pint before heading back out. That one doesn't stop just because a festival ends.
Anyone thinking the season's winding down is a little off. The terrasse is still open most nights, and there are good warm evenings left before that really changes. The menu hasn't moved an inch: haddock fish and chips, steak du moment with chimichurri (depends on what Mike finds that morning), and the linguine with seasonal vegetables for anyone who wants to start lighter. Maple sticky toffee pudding closes the night out properly.
Dinner is now in two seatings: arrive between 4:45 and 5:30, or between 7:00 and 8:00. Between seatings the door stays open for walk-ins. For anyone coming from further out, we've got seven rooms upstairs, no more, and it's easier to find a spot for a last-minute weekend now that the festival crowds have thinned.
The light shifts a little faster than it did a month ago, and summer always moves quicker than you think. There's still a good stretch of it left, though. Come see us before that changes.