Poolside

Arthur's feet are sore so we drove to Moulins, 20 miles away, to buy him some Crocs in a larger size. No chance. Nothing in the centre of town. We were directed to an out of town shoeperstore - a sort of Le Tommy Balls, where we picked up some knock-off Crocs which will have to do.

Anyway, whilst in Moulins we had a thorough look around and exhausted the fleshpots in less than twenty minutes.

We took in a few villages on the way back looking out for potential restaurants. Nowt. France is even more shut than Spain. It's like that mock town they built to test nuclear explosions in the Nevada desert, except at least they had Indiana Jones in a fridge.

We spent the afternoon by the pool enjoying the local church bells striking a selection of random hours every so often in the distance and guessed how long until tea.