Sundays are a pain for us. Being gluttons we have trouble carrying more than two meals on the bikes, and since just about everywhere is closed on Sunday it means we either have to stay put for the day and get a load of groceries in Saturday evening, or risk having a miserable meal of cous cous and noodles or some such from our emergency rations.
So it was today, we had a lay in while the weather tried to make its mind up between heavy rain, light rain or drizzle. We breakfasted on some strange soft type of baguette I’d ordered by mistake due my dreadful French, then bummed around the camp site, oiled the bikes and cheekily got the lap top charged in the camp bar. We played Yam and munched our way through hundreds of salted sunflower seeds which last ages and pass the time as you nibble at the shells, squirrel like, to get at the tiny seed within, but there’s something faintly addictive about them I think. I often think of an old fellow I saw in Barcelona sitting on a bench on La Ramblas nibbling sunflower seeds skillfully one by one at some speed while the size of the pile of shells below his knees suggested he’d been there for some hours doing nothing else. I won the game of Yam and declared myself Yampion, drawing victory Ys on my knees in celebration (we’d managed to get a couple of litres of cheap wine in yesterday) and Kez amused herself by nosing at the other campers. A guitar twiddling single bloke, a pair of cycling lesbians, two tall blonde Dutch girls with a huge tent and a car with mechanical problems that was stuffed with junk and grandparents with two young grandchildren who IMG_1305produced crisp white shirts and Alice in Wonderland dresses from their tiny tents and after admiring each other disappeared off to attend a wedding, we guessed.
Our new citronella candle completely failed to deter the mosquitos as the sun finally gave up its losing battle with the cloud and bats flitted delightfully around above us.