© Ayr/Gray

It was more than thirty years back then, when we had a two week holiday in the south-west of France, where my cousin had a second home in a tiny hamlet. She had said we could do anything we wanted, since she was busy working in London, and she wasn’t able to get away at that time.

We had a little rented car, and it was just as well, since the roads were very tiny in that hamlet. We’d stocked up with lots of goodies, mostly in the huge Carrefour (always loved that place, by the way).

So we pottered around the garden, even though it was steep and narrow, but we were able to do a bit of weeding and a little planting. We would stare over the next field, where there was a pretty black bull, although we thought it would be a bad idea to get too close to him.

In the evening, we didn’t bother to watch the television, since our French was pretty ropey. Instead we played cards – Rummy and Cribbage, and also there was a large jigsaw, and yes, we did finish it.

We could get lovely French sticks and cheeses, but after a few days, we decided to drive to a rather larger town. We’d left the car a few streets before, since it seemed rather busy in the centre.

And, lo and behold, what did we see? Yes, that’s right, the Tour de France was just passing the main group… so fast!

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