Saturday 1st June

The worst bit of the holiday, for me, by far.  The drive.  It is long, tedious, boring and I hate it.  I much prefer to fly, which is strange because just a few years ago I decided not to fly anymore.  Ever, I think the decision was.  A mixture of environmentalism and a dread of airports, where the cold hand of modern consumerism appears to have firmly laid its palm, combined to make me decide that now that I was on my own again there would  be an end to flying.

The drive down to France, which according to my partner must be accomplished in a single day has re-converted me back to flying.  Agreed it does take considerably longer than the one hour, thirty-five minute flight, but at least you aren’t trapped for sixteen hours in one seat looking at miles and miles of French motorway.  The driver at least has something to do, if only overtaking and changing lanes; the passenger just sits there.  On a plane and waiting to board I can read, and listen to music without appearing to be antisocial.  And on-line booking and only hand luggage means you are out the other end very quickly.

I still think train is even better, but to get to Eymet would involve three or four trains and probably cost an awful lot more.  I agreed that on this holiday I would accompany my partner, but I try to plan it so that I can fly in a day or two after she has slogged it with the car full and the dogs scampering around over everything.  So wish me luck as I go on my way.