I’ve lost count of how many days we’ve technically been off road, possibly edging towards 10? 14? Even with the hire car, cabin fever set in a while ago, but at last, it’s tantalisingly close to over. The clutch has been delivered and installed. We’ve had word that a post lunch pick up is guaranteed.
There’s just enough time to pack, squeeze in a last walk around Larche and pop out for lunch on what’s evolving to be a particularly lovely day. Slowly but surely, summer is edging its way forward.
Our walk takes us through the village, its 500 year old church bell and along the river, beautifully reflective away from the slip way.
Lunch in a new spot today – a light as a feather cep omlete for me whilst Himself follows the local lads with a country soup, duck l’orange served with semolina (cous cous) and crepe filled with icecream. I prefer my tart de pomme, made of course with the Limousin golden delicious apples the area is famed for.
Lunching in this part of France has come with an interesting learning curve. Whilst there are plenty of places with a la carte options, where the locals dine with a plat de jour, it’s not unusual to see shared service: soup is served in a communal tureen where one can ladle as much or little as one pleases, it then goes on its way to another table to do the same. Cheese is communal too, a platter is presently for each diner to cut from and it’s then passed on to the next table. When the wedge looks a little mean, a fresh offering is added, but there’s no waste. Manners dictate that the next diner has the last of the previous wedge. Very sensible from a food management point of view but I can only imagine Australian food police’ apoplexy.
Tummies sated and repair invoice paid (eeek) there’s a task that can’t be put off any longer. Whilst Himself drives the motorhome, I have to drive the hire car back to the original garage some 40 km again. Sounds simple, no? But I’ve never driven in Europe. It’s not without trepidation that I set off.
In the end, the driving isn’t the worst bit. I nudge gutters and the road’s edge once or twice in the interests of not hitting oncoming traffic, trucks in particular, look gargantuan on small country roads. My left hand keeps wanting to change gear despite the gear stick presenting on the right. The worst is roadworks which inadvertently catch me in an endless loop of gravel road deviations complete with bulldozers and other roadwork vehicles. I have to divert TomTom to an alternative route which, instead of delivering me to the garage as it had before, takes me over hills and deposits me 5km out at the opposite edge of the village. Frequent calls from Himself wondering where I am. Google maps eventually saves the day but one does have to wonder about a business that only lists the town they’re in as a business address. Still I get there eventually, both car and nerves relatively intact. I’m calling it a win.
Another bill settled for the car hire and two tows (double eeek) we’re finally ‘home’. Very much looking forward to sleeping in my own bed tonight.
The motorhome doesn’t even have the good grace to look ashamed of itself. I think it’s rather enjoying the attention. The credit card meanwhile is whimpering in a corner as Himself ties to coax it out. I hear the phrase “it’s only money” more than once.
Miss Baci Travels 