Oh My.

I somehow managed to get frightfully drunk tonight, although it wasn’t very difficult. Even the wine wasn’t all that cheap. But then cheap wine is hard to come by, even in Brittany.

Brittany is somewhere else you see, and not France at all. Or so they say.

I don’t know much at all about France proper. And what little I do know didn’t impress me all that much because The Bretons are nicer by far.

Real stone built houses with slate rooves seem to stop existing somewhere around Nante. After that it is all pale stone and red tiles. Actually okay, but they don’t ever half go on, and on, and on, for interminable kilometres. If you are on a train. And eventually you get into The Vichy Country.
This is not good because you can smell it.

This must be something to do with available material, as in prehistorics days. Slate stops at Nante. Okay.

But why did I manage to get so drunk? That old bug called Loneliness. Give me a conversation and three litres of wine, and I can go on until I fall over, which I very nearly did.

Why am I still up and writing? EX WRENS. Wrens never fall over. And we all somehow manage to fall on our feet.

A demain.

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