We lost a bit of the spring from our step this morning, not in an unhappy way, but some might say the continuous travel of the past month is starting to catch up.
Having driven for fifteen hundred kilometres in the past three days with bodies quite possibly thinking they are in a time zone fourteen hours away may be having a slight impact on our state of being as well. Whatever the case, we didn’t visit Honfleur as we thought we would, neither did we stop at La Havre, or Calais, or Dunkirk. Instead, after a long and leisurely breakfast, at which the line for coffee was such that if one went to the back of it with a fresh cup in hand, by the time one got to the front again one was well and truly ready for another, we ambled slowly away. Slowly being a euphemism of course for travelling at slightly less than the motorway speed limit, taking something less than four hours to travel something less than four hundred kilometres.
When we arrived at Saint Omer, a destination chosen completely at random on the basis that car parking was available at the hotel, and that it was less than an hour’s drive to Dave and Ria’s place, we decided a short nap might be in order. Our short nap ended up almost as long as our drive, and every bit as pleasant. Dunkirk can wait.
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My, my, my. This is a dramatic image.
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