We thought that since we were going to be hanging around for the best part of the rest of the week we’d hire a car and have half a day touring and top up our groceries while we were at it. The only cars available locally are not quite current models kept at the port for the likes of we boat dwellers stranded a few tens of kilometres from any of the modern services.
The 2CV’s are at once a delight and an exercise abject terror to drive. Far from their prime and while technically kept “safe” there can be no doubt that a minor accident could result in, as the label on my new pair of pliers reminded me last year: injury or death. As we career through the country side at the speed of sound, and all speed is sound in these monsters, while being passed by tractors and children on tricycles we wonder if we should phone at least one of the progeny to remind them where we keep our wills.
Somehow though, we survived once again, and arrived back at the boat laden with duck and red wine and a thousand varieties of cheese.
Actually we arrived back with some soap powder, a lettuce and a couple of chops for tea, but where's the story in that?
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