Well. Yesterday a local told us that England has had no rain for 3 months (they must have been panicking as their reservoirs are barely existent), but today, it pours.
We are it seems, the recipients of the tail end of hurricane Bertha, coming at us from who knows were. It doesn’t rain, it buckets down with a fierce wind for good measure. We make a half hearted attempt to look around before we head off to France. We stop for lunch near the sea, mainly to watch how powerful the waves are. The locals have been driven inside and it’s Sunday, so most things are shut.
After a month of calm seas, it’s quite extraordinary to watch the sea pounding the shore. Huge waves, and it’s so churned up that the water is an unpleasant muddy brown.
In the end we shop and attend to domestics for our trip tomorrow. It will be the first time we’ve taken the motorhome to Europe, so it will be a learning curve. Bit nervous about a few things, but at least we will go well prepared with our best foot forward. Where we go from there will be up to the fates and what level of dire need they may have for immediate amusement.
Time will tell.
Chris spends the evening not thinking about wild weather and the ferry crossing, and I diplomatically don’t mention it. It’s progress I think, for us both.
Despite much protest, I feel I’m in for some WWI site visits. My idea of France is lovely countryside, a visit to the Dordogne, Paris and perhaps the champagne region. Desperately sad fields of poor young men who lost their lives in battle is just too depressing to contemplate. I just don’t have the ability to let it go. I think of all the young men I know and what their loss would mean. Their poor mothers. They must have howled in their grief.