We woke before the alarm, so early that I actually I had time to scrub the ice off the boat and dry it before heading off to Luneville in the old Citroen. As we rolled in to the Gare, we received a text from Ian. The train had had a puncture or some equally debilitating mishap, and had been delayed by five minutes.
That NEVER happens in France, but it had, and we had time to smell the flowers.
Then another text came which said duration of the delay was indeterminate, so we had time to get some petrol and go to the hardware shop and have a coffee.
The next message had an ETA but also the news that Ian's luggage had been stolen, so we had more coffee and made lists of things we would need to find for him and where we could find them. Our carefully planning for the day had once again gone awry, would we ever learn?
There wasn't much room in the little Citroen anyway, so we were actually quite grateful for the absence of baggage, the nice young lady Police person even worked into her lunch two hours to produce an impressive report with a very official rubber stamp on it, and everyone we spoke to was horrified that this had happened in their country.
We were all quite relaxed really, although the prospect of spending a week with a naked Ian was probably something that was worth avoiding, so after yet another diversion to replenish the parts of his wardrobe that we deemed necessary, we eventually trundled back to Lagarde, vowing never to plan again.
Tomorrow we have no plans.
None.
So we'll probably stay in bed until the ice has gone, and smell even more flowers and make something up after that.
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