Sunday and Monday were a bit of a blur of French roads, car-ferries and the Southampton rush-hour. We were home by early afternoon and got quite a long way with the dreaded unpacking before we crashed out for a doze. Dog and cat were collected, too. Highlight of the return journey, apart from there not being a dock strike at Ouistreham, was a visit to an old friend of Anna's who lives just outside Caen. They made us a superb meal, vairrh French, and we had a good old chat. I like meeting them, as the husband was a senior oncologist before he retired, and has a huge number of interests but only modest English, so it is the chance for me to really get the skoolboy French out, dust it off, and give it an outing. The less I think about what I am saying, the better I get.
1200 miles and four tanks of diesel. The car behaved itself on the way home, so I tip my hat to Mustière Vannes for identifying and fixing the problem. I tip nothing at all to Ford, who seem to think that over three hundred fucking quid for a brake caliper and another ton for a pair of brake pads is somehow acceptable. Over six hundred notes gone - that's my little bike trip later this year up the spout, I think.
I woke this morning and did a bit more unloading, sorted out the bins and so on, and then started to feel a bit odd. I skipped lunch and went to bed about 2 pm, where I slept until 4 pm. Aches everywhere, freezing cold despite the room being 23°, lousy gut - you don't wanna know. I slept again from 6.30 to 8.30 and I am now starting to feel human again. I don't know what has passed through me, but it wasn't nice. It's a bit of a mystery, as Anna and I have eaten an identical diet since we left the campsite.
Unfortunately, there's a lot of kit out on the drive waiting for me to put it away. I hope it doesn't rain tonight, but there's no way I am going out there now.