This writing has by now turned into an Exquisite Corpse. I feel as if I’ve lost the thread I thought I was following leaving NZ, arriving HK, that I’d thought would be most durable, to do with the sense both of place and of displacement, the latter a

An exasperating morning, meeting the elusive M.-C., with whom all communication and arrangements re our accommodation prior to our arrival had occurred. She arrived with C., bearing bags of pastries and breads – breakfast -, shook hands with J. and I, grabbed Q. firmly by the shoulders and kissed him

Coffee at a place of torrefacture, which, although it sounds like bull or some heinous process you’d subject bodies to, is coffee-roasting. A Costa-Rican. The proprietor, middle-aged, stood in front of his laptop with his banker, justifying the expenditure on green-beans. And that was Colombian… I heard him say.

Le Puy is still fantastic, despite today’s dull weather, dull light, chilliness. Sucked in again by the offer of breakfast at Hotel Bristol. It was a buffet, as the receptionist had said, but one comprising nothing hot, and nothing cooked, apart from boiled eggs. Which, when cracked out of

Le Puy-en-Velay is fantastic. Fantastic! But first we have to leave Moulins. As he’d promised, F. had prepared for us a personalised itinerary, not the dense action-packed one he’d threatened, but a number of what are called bonnes addresses, sticky-noted onto a Moulins tourist guide. The Grand Cafe

The runaround, after packing, checking out from the entirely adequate Belle Vue – especially after they gave us the room with the terrace, views over the Loire -, where the proprietress helpfully scaremongered in regard to the strikes, which are over nothing more serious than raising the retirement age from 60