It didn't start well when the Sat Nav dumped us unceremoniously in a field and said in a self congratulatory tone. "Arriving at destination. On left." Gulp! It took all our ingenuity to remember how to read one of those picture-place-direction-foldy paper things they used to have in the '90s to find where we needed to be.
We arrived in time, however, in an extremely picturesque village, with a car park right in front of the restaurant. After about thirty minutes and a 47 point turn I'd managed to negotiate a parking space, originally designed for 15th century Smart Chariots and we were ready to enter the restaurant, calm, collected and sweating like pigs.
No one at Reception.
Eventually an old crone shuffled towards us and I fluently announced our booking. "Oon tarble, Mister Tim, un hoor!"
She ushered us into, what can only be described as, le back room. Through the gloom and a single mullioned porthole we could see table after table of happy French families tucking into du pain, du vin et du bloody Boursin in the sunshine outside. We waited.
Then we waited a bit longer.
Eventually, we were handed menus.
We decided.
We waited again.
We looked at our menus a bit more.
We put them down.
We waited.
Eventually, a very nice lady came to take our order. The menu we had chosen from wasn't available on Sunday.
She went away.
We got up and left.
Sod that, we thought. Life's too short to eat expensive food in the cupboard under someone's stairs and, anyway, the kids had already polished off the bread and aioli. So after about 30 minutes and another 47 point turn, we hurtled straight outta town and no looking back, sweating like the things pigs say sweat a lot.
We set sail for St Generoux and the fantastic Au Bon Accueil, where we had happily lunched during the week.
When we got there, it was pretty full, but they found us a table and warned us that service may not be quick.
Fine. We relaxed at last in the convivial atmosphere. Lisa did a little peripatetic interrogation with some newbies from the encampment and we tucked into a million courses of fish, duck, ham, steak, chocolate, almond sponge and meringue!
Fully sated, we popped into one of the oldest churches in France, just across the road and then headed back to base.
This evening sees a ritual 'hazing' for the new recruits at Happy Valley. They're calling it a B-B-Q to get them through the door, but we're old hands now and part of the apparatus of control. This means we get to poke the Belgians in the buns, pass the Dutchie on the left hand side and squirt ketchup on the French fries.
Woot!
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