Captain Midnight here reporting from ‘this best garden of the world.’*
We finally made it across La Manche though it was touch and go. As avid readers of this blog will know, we got bumped from our original crossing because the Brittany Ferries’ computer ‘bots’ decided we couldn’t have a camper van and a pet-friendly cabin. Himself is still scratching his head about that, though it might be fleas.
Then, after 8 weeks of perfect blue skies, the heavens opened the minute we set off from Folly Cottage to drive to Portsmouth. Why a few inches of rain should bring everything to a halt is beyond me – I like a drop of the wet stuff. Suffice to say that we arrived at the Ferry Terminal after all manner of delays and diversions, with about 5 minutes to spare.
Himself says that the crossing itself was a tad rough and that up on the passenger deck it was a like a Roman vomitorium on a two-for-one feast day, whatever that means. He said there were screaming kids and sick bags everywhere. I could tell there was something going on by the banging and crashing on the car deck as I tried to have a snooze in Rosie, down below.
But here we are, three years since Himself and I were last in France, à deux. Not much seems to have changed: he still cooks himself steak on the BBQ and drinks lots of red stuff. He says it’s wonderful to be in a country where people appreciate food.
I say the dog biscuits still taste the same.
Tomorrow we’re going wine shopping (o joy, o bliss) and then we’ll head off to Limoges to a house called Paradise to meet up with Herself and a bunch of other friends. I’m looking forward to a couple of weeks in Paradise.
There’s bound to be a bit of chicken every now and then in Paradise.
Wouldn’t you think?
*Fellow lovers of the bard will recognise these words from a speech by the Duke of Burgundy in Henry V, Act V, Scene 2
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