swimmingly but with a rocky finish

I won’t detain you for more than a moment, the thing is done, the journey made etcetera etcetera, but it is in the nature of continuity that I feel constrained to provide this brief report on the so called outward & return 2024. At least, at this moment of composition, just the outward phase of the scheme, in the springtime of 2024.

Swimmingly: because we were prompt off the boat and made the sixty miles to our chosen breakfast stop in one hour flat in reasonable, bright weather and on almost deserted roads. From Châtelaudren it is true the weather took turns at being inclement or bright, and the frequency of other road users became more noticeable but we bowled along the prescribed roadways via the ring roads of Rennes and Nantes without a glitch, to once more fetch up at the fishing quay at Port-du-Pavé (views of the Île-de-Ré bridge) to eat our humble repast (an excellent wedge of quiche apiece) as well as encountering three stormy turbulences punctuating the shining heavens (steady on –ed), from the safety of the motor’s cabin. Brilliant. From there an hour or so elapsed before we were parking up in the concrete bowels of our oft-frequented La Rochelle hotel where we were assured of a pleasant supper, good beds and safe secure parking.

 

Swimmingly: because although being a little late away the following morning, Mme Melling having failed to add on an hour to her timepiece for being in Fr. (and it is she who determines the ultimate moment of departure) we still made our breakfast stop betimes, the Surgères café selected having the necessary. Not quite so smooth from thereon I have to record, two significant Routes Barrées confounding (but briefly) our desired path and adding a handful of extra miles to our anticipated daily total. And then the navigator fell asleep and we overlooked a turning, leading to a visit to at least two towns not pertinent to our shining path. We overcame this with grace and not even a cross word: the right eyebrow quivered, but only for an instant. By that time we had consumed our excellent chicken and salad baguettes in a Puisseguin vineyard where cuckoos trilled, flowers glowed and the sun shone down from an azure sky.

Not quite a hop and a skip from there but nevertheless we clocked in at The Continental in Condom at ten past the hour of five. Our usual suite was at our disposal; we came down to our supper (we did not dress, on these informal visits – we tend to suspend the formalities) and dined, I have to say, rather well. Snails and Squid formed the central attraction for me (I think Mme Melling had something similar, you’d have to check with her to be certain) and I took a glass of a rather fine Armangnac with my coffee to round off the repast. I did so with the conviction that the morrow would be my lucky day (my turn on the Bonds, don’t y’know). 

Swimmingly: because Ernie came good and at last pushed some spondulicks in my direction, a few blues to soften the blow as it were. We were carefree, settled our Continental accounts without demur and got ourselves into town for a breakfast we most certainly did not need. I was persuaded by Mme Melling to secure a bottle of that fine Armangnac for my cellar, so she navigated us out to the château where said bottle was obtained, at a somewhat eye-watering but worth-every-centime premium. The boxed bottle joined the two litres of DF Gordon's already laid down on the ferry, travelling steerage in the boot of the Oct.

Through the fine country of the Gers we meandered, distant views of snowy peaks and greening trees, blossom and brilliant sunlight, then through Tarn et Garonne (and across those rivers) and Aveyron departments. We entirely skipped lunch, and came at last under the Viaduc de Millau to the city of that name.

Oh yes, we stopped at St-Sernin-sur-Rance for refreshment but no one came to our table (we were the only ones sitting out there, maybe the place was actually shut) but we had time to admire the multi level town hall and an arguably somewhat explicit sculpture of the wolf boy who was supposed to have roamed these parts (you know the sort of tosh: raised by wolves, I mean, is it likely? yeah……right… any self respecting wolf would have made a quick plat de jour of the toddler rather than saddle herself with the task of raising the tike). Anyways, the sculpture could have displayed less bollocks. (could you put that in another way? –ed).

We booked in at our Millau hotel with its panoramic views and contemplated supper. 

Rockily: because our dinner was dire. Nothing we ate at the place above the hotel was anywhere near appetising. We’d eaten well there the previous autumn (but when I have subsequently asked Dr G who was guesting with us on that occasion, she was not quite as positive as she might have been in retrospect, feeling she just chose badly). In that case we chose, this time, disastrously. Heaven only knows why we sat there and took it. PLEASE don’t ask me to go into detail (I refuse utterly) just let's say everything was brown and horrible, undercooked or overcooked. We ate altogether too much cheese because the wine was good. By the time we staggered to our comfortable hotel room I was feeling clogged, and distinctly uncomfortable.

Food poisoning is not pleasant. Either for those suffering from it or those witnessing a victim. I now draw a veil over the nightmare that punctuated what should have been a period of sweet repose. Suffice to say that no food passed my lips for the 36 hours following the giant abomination of a sweet I had mistakenly contracted to round off the supper. Nail in the coffin, nail in the coffin. 

Somehow we manage to complete stage three of our transit stopping twice rather more to facilitise than suck up bevvys. No croissants now, dear me no. St Martin-de-Londres is visited after many years but being in the process of being municipally tiled and gentrified, it fails to attract quite so readily through the fog of my grogginess. We took to the town quite keenly, before the son-and-heir broke surface. He likes the place too.

Pic-St-Loup obstinately refuses to allow us close contact once more, where Mme M and self, with bronzed, muscled and tireless limbs, had once summited in the heat of the day, hardly breaking a sweat in the process. Today our patience and fortitude is exhausted, we bolt for Sablet, arrive and call it a day. We empty the conveyance, I go to bed. I sleep fitfully for nearly fourteen hours with ‘interruptions’ (need I say more) throughout. 

The following morning Mme Melling does a pharmacie mercy dash(on the evening of arrival she tucked into a Lasagne after I had gone upstairs to die, fgs).Thankfully I can now report that I am on the road to recovery on account of the medication she secures for yours truly. I’m on solids again. Just.

A welcoming apéro with the Berkhampsteadians on our first full day Sabletside has to be handled carefully. I avoid getting over excited, I drink no wine (except a modicum of Saumur bubbles, pressed upon me for purely medicinal reasons, you’ll understand) and I only nibble at a tiny slice of pizza: previously two bananas and shredded wheat have been all I could manage during the day… which I did not spend in bed as reported elsewhere …… but might as well have.

So a rocky ending. Mme Melling is feeling less than 100% now. Really: how very inconvenient one’s spouse can be. DO get better soon dearest, we’ve not come all this way to stare at the bedroom ceiling all day now have we… Come on! Pull yourself together now…

You didn’t just read right through this tosh to the very end, did you? Have you really nothing better to be getting on with?