Summer is no longer a figment of our imagination.
Blue skies by day, violent thunderstorms by night, temperatures well into the thirties and ice in every drink was the order of the day.
Neale and Trace stumbled off the train into the midday laziness, in time to join us for both our early afternoon snooze and our late afternoon one, and in between our first proper exploration of the town in all its historical Buffon-esque glory, although there was no explanation that we could find for the plaited golden locks hanging from the tower on the ramparts.
It was the sort of thing we thought best left well alone, so rather than stepping up our enquiries we found a shady tree, and sat in its cool for the duration of the evening, not once giving another thought to the state of being of the owner of those tresses.
For just a few hours, the world had disappeared from our consciousness, taking all its problems with it.
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