A few years ago in Dijon, we would start each day with a cycle ride along the banks of the river Ouche, around Lake Kir and back along the canal. We'd dress in layers with scarves and beanies and gloves and dash between patches of sunlight where we'd linger over the carpet of yellow-orange leaves soaking in as much warmth as we could before once again gliding into the shadows.
Today, we bad our cycles farewell with a nostalgic journey that was an exact contradiction of our former experience. Clad in broad-brimmed hats, forgoing helmets even as a concession to the heat, shorts and sandals, we dashed from the patches of sunlight, lingering in the dense shade that covered the path for most of the journey.
In the shade, gliding with the wind in our faces the temperature lost its edge, and we wondered why everyone in Dijon wasn't gently cycling along shaded trails.
But clearly not everyone in Dijon feels as we do, there seems little point to some, in having a beach on one's lake if one is unable to boast about last summer's sunstroke after all. So while we soft-shelled Antipodeans hid in the shadows under shirts with collars, exposed bits daubed or even lathered in parts in fifty plus, those with no summer to look forward to later in the year frolicked near naked until their skins turned pink.
Now we will never be sure again, if the pink in the sky we see on a clear evening is actually an effect of the setting sun, or the happy glow of a thousand swimmers returning shirtless to their barbecues.
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