Morning broke.

Today is forecast hot. 31°C. It's clear too. A full complement of stars are out while I head for petit déjeuner and coffee. Usual approach. Tried not to wake French guys, but I dragged a chair and burst a paper bag over the fretful gentleman. This establishment is just a bar. The Tabac is across the street. No TV or Lotto or PMU. He got very worried when he realised there were not enough beds for him, wife and mother-in-law ... That's some triplet. There is a TV ... He just forgot to switch it on. Now this is the car I dream of driving. Although last night I dreamt of Whitby and Hull. It's usually dark, dank and rotten in the dreams I contend of those places. And Hull was hell like, except for some excellent converted factory/bar. But, again, I was wearing zero - nothing on to hide my modesty and I was so was very nervous - especially with Glenn driving. Two large coffees. Bloody 24hr none news. It's all planned. What is news? Is it really necessary to a peaceful day? I doubt it. Even in a language I don't understand it makes me seethe.

Always bread and coffee. What has changed in France since the middle ages? Perhaps the type of coffee drunk. Most workers also have a cognac before they head off to content with Mme Rapport's pipes. Give us this day our daily bread. I am the same. Coffee complements my reawakening state. Last night I assorted my walking atire, because there are a lot of biting insects on the Voie Verte I have opted for a long trou.

The bells ring for seven. No one in the town sleeps passed five past seven. The clock in the centre gives you five minutes snooze before the campanologists get giddy. A man sits down to gorge himself on newspaper guilts. The sun is making and appearance. It is up at 7:31. The nights are drawing in! Tell that to the sun ... 31°C mid September.