A new deadline was slowly appearing, something that we thought may need a plan, as we are due to pick up friends in Montbard on Thursday, and we are almost twelve kilometres away.
A few weeks ago that wouldn't have been a challenge, we would have laughed manically and dug the silver spurs into Mr P, roaring off towards the horizon, and we would have been in town by quarter-to-lunchtime. Now, however we are cruising properly, and we are in Buffon territory and it's raining in a misty sort of way, or misty in a rainy sort of way, we aren't sure which.
,
Buffon, was arguably the greatest naturalist who ever lived, (of the study of animals and plants kind not the walking round unclad variety.) He was also quite wealthy and owned the town from which he took his name, although even that didn't go as smoothly as one would have preferred it seems. He may not actually have told his father that he had assumed the affectation "de Buffon" while traipsing around with the English gentry, and was a bit surprised to find that his dad had sold the town in his absence.
He did the only reasonable thing under the circumstances, and bought it back, and left a whole bunch of stuff for us to discover three hundred years later including a botanic gardens and a water powered forge complex.
We thought his forges might well be worth a visit, so arrived a polite time before lunch and rather than placing any stress on the system, decided not to venture into the bleak until after that sacred hour.
When we eventually stirred ourselves, wandering to the gates of what is a world heritage listed monument, we were greeted by one of our very favourite notices.
"Open all days" with a line below proclaiming what should have been obvious, given the day we were there;
"Except Tuesdays".
So we pressed on into the afternoon, all the way to the town of Buffon's birth, Montbard.
A day early.
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