We’ve just come back from a holiday to Brittany. There are worse places to catch one last blaze of midsummer heatwave than the deep sylvan glades near Guingamp. There are better places too, e.g. ones where the restaurants don’t close for lunch. But rural western France was rather fine.
There was only one minor spat with my Dad, but even that didn’t end so badly. There was much bread, cheese and wine: I can eat bread once again, it seems; and France is a good place to discover that. We had days and days of seaside trips, paddling in the Channel, and reading books; evenings of roaring log fires, punctuated silly quizzes as the great leveller of generational differences.
Most of all, over everything we did and everything we saw dripped a syrupy, delicious, sunlight mingled with bursting greenness; drying fields of crops, and dewdamp banks of foliage, all rich with their variations on that Homeric honeycolour.
Since we’ve got back, it feels like it’s pissed down every day.