the end, part deux.

Just over two hours walk the rural way to the airport, apart from the last house on the right, who wouldn't open a gate for me - le Grande Bois (I gave him a raspberry, turned back and walked through his paddock) - it was a healthy option. Still no public transport. Just the Flyer at Leeds Bradford Airport, and sullen faced folks in the queue to check in baggage. The long yawn back to Blighty begins. Time to arrange my backpack and hand luggage and then eat a breakfast a leak quiche and Belchard apple: Charentes - purchased at Les Halles.

As departures gets busy I sit on the floor: no way to socially distance... It's a tiny airport. The dreadful monologue of the Geordie couple behind me... They say nothing, but could take forever. Waiting. I hate flying. It's so meaningless.