… time running out on our sojourn European… Leaving Les Saintes Maries de la Mer realising how special a place it is. The commencement of the Mediterrannean coast proper with its shift in scale from hotel to resort says it. First we had to cross the Petit Rhone by wired paddle-ferry,

Abrivado, our hotel, seems to be run by a group of young(ish) couples. Relaxed atmos. Geezers in mufti. No superiority bullshit or internal hierarchy visible. Guy who brought brekky told us he’d personally included the juice in the set menu for us. Not: that’s what it comes

Leaving L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue was again difficult, because of course we’d not really got to know our hosts, C. B. and M.-C. R. And we hadn’t really got to know our town, but we spent the morning, until midday, scooting around, over the canals and past the water-wheels,

On the way to le Pont du Gard, I sucked up a La Jaunie into my windpipe. Not a pleasant thing, since they’re pure liquorice root. It was stuck in the folds of my vocal cords, so it felt, until it dissolved. Quite hot. Pont du Gard looked from

Planning forward to Barcelona, we failed to follow the advice of our SFR salesman, who’d sold us the SIM Card, which was to go to McDonalds’s, buy a coffee, and use the free WIFI there; we sought out GecoSystem, Espace Internet, an island of geekery, on the island,

Les Baux, the mistral blasting over it, where it rises out of the surrounding countryside, after St. Remy, in the Alpilles, under a cloudless, hazeless, pellucid and intensely blue sky, offered another of those heart-racingly exciting moments, expected, as in we’d seen photos, unexpected, because of how it was