Legends from our own lunchtimes

Sunday, July 03, 2011

On any Sunday

With Shelley on her way back to London, we resisted the seductive powers of the old town and the magnetic allure of the festival at the top of the hill, and we too quietly slipped away from Bar le Duc into a perfect Sunday afternoon.

We had agreed with those pesky Canadians, that we'd meet them at the first place there was space, which turned out to be a town called Tronville.  Between there and our departure point was nothing but a few hours of clear sky and water lily lined canal, and rolling fields of wheat and corn. Occasionally the tranquility of it all was interrupted by a cyclists cheery wave, or a friendly "bonjour" or twelve from a family strolling along the tow path called in a volume great enough to be heard above Mr Perkins' dulcet throb.

It wasn't particularly hard to pretend that we were quite enjoying ourselves. We even made a brave show of it all when, were faced with quietly watching the sun subside over the lily pond in which we were forced to moor for the evening.


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