August

[Sweder]

Yeah, well, to be honest my recollection of the precise name may be a little . . . hazy. I blame the Patis, which is alarmingly efficient at inducing that holiday mood . . .

More plodding this morning, a swift 4.5 miles on a marvelous misty morning. Last night we joined some fellow gite-dwellers for apperatifs and an impromptu recital by a talented fellow here to play a concert. Matteaus hails from Normandy and spent many years studying Mongolian throat singing. I know how that sounds but the results are startling; whilst playing a beautiful Mongolian cello much in the style of Jimmy Page on the live versio of Dazed and Confused the goateed maestro produced an unholy sound from deep in his throat. We all looked for the gadget he must have employed, but as we searched in vain he stopped playing the instrument to focus on the magical ringing song. Great stuff; we're off to a medieval church tomorrow to witness a full performance, accompanied by classical singers. Avec St Emilion a-plenty, naturellement.

Even more fun yesterday afternoon was a visit to the karting circuit at Saint Gernis de Saintonge where the family took to the tarmac for a mini-Grand Prix. You find out a lot about your loved ones when they strap on a race helmet and get behind the wheel of a racing machine. For example, I learned that Mrs S drives an exceedingly wide kart, and the Pheebster is destined for greatness should she ever get over the horror of the hair disaster caused by the sweaty lid. The really tricky part for me was climbing back into my two ton pick-up truck and driving home without taking every apex and stuffing some poor unsuspecting farmer into a ditch. More of the same today I fancy, and a couple of gentle plods to round off the week.

This fortnight will yield something in the region of 120 kilometres - around 90 running, the rest cycling. Good hard-top mileage for a hillside loper, and reasonably effective against the ravages of French cusine and holiday sloth.