So this is Burgundy

The weather forecast this morning was promising.

As we lingered over our breakfast in Silhouette's main saloon, staring through the ports across the Saone, it was apparent though that what the actual weather was promising was temperature far below a civilised one, and to send us back wet if we were to venture out.

When we were last here in Chalon-sur-Saone it had been damp and chilly but it had been late in Autumn when one expects that.  In spring we simply assumed things climatic would be perfect so we hadn't planned to stay with Roger long enough for rain clouds to clear.  We had planned to spend the day in Beaune after all, arguably at the very historic heart of Burgundy.

Then it dawned on us.  Not the sun, it's still safely tucked up somewhere above the ice and cloud, but the fact that we'd planned our week.  Planned it.   Damn!

Sure, we'd left it till absolutely the last moment, arranging our itinerary the night before we left London, which by my watch was still less than forty-eight hours ago, and that should have meant something.

Clearly it had not.

Even last night, just a few strokes before midnight, while arranging the hire car, I hadn't twigged the peril we had placed ourselves in by making plans, we were after all, going to be in Orleans on Wednesday and Belgium on Sunday and Lagarde on Wednesday of next week.

What if the rain doesn't go away?   What if it's drought breaking week long flood inducing stuff?   What if, what if, what if?

We can't spend every day sitting in cafes drinking coffee and eating "steack and frites" like we did today.

Can we?