Our room had its own loo, bath and TV – luxury. There was porn on the TV! The big news was a terror plot and chaos at Heathrow. Loads of family members were flying around Europe and across the Atlantic this week so I worried a bit. We cleaned up and washed lots of clothes, then headed into town.
We sat in the main square and ordered baguettes and chips. I had lots of tomato juice to boost up my tomato intake. During our lunch we had a change of waiter and the new one just wanted to charge us for our drinks. I didn’t have the language skills to explain the mix up but ‘Un autre addition pour le mange s’il vous plait’ worked OK. He touched my arm in recognition. French people touch me a lot. The wind picked up and it was cold, we stopped back at the hotel to check our washing was still secured to the balcony and to pick up fleeces.
We headed to the Basilica St Cyn. It was really quite impressive. The RAF had bombed it to smithereens on Bastille Day in 1944, but they’d rebuilt and were steadily adding stained glass windows. The light in the church was fabulous. We strolled around town looking for an internet café, we found several boarded up ones but not an open one. We mooched about looking for pasta. Yes, I know I’m in France, but I don’t eat veal or horse which seem to be the only food choices. Bad buskers rendered parts of the city no-go zones to people with functioning ears. The main square was the best option.
I had salmon pasta and some Touraine Sauvignon Blanc. Scrummy. The waitress was running back and forth across a busy road to a family we could only assume from their compositio were Mormon polygamists. Our Dutch chums from earlier in the day were eating in the square. She was glammed up in a suit, he was not. That explained her huge panniers and his tiny bag. We strolled back to bed.