A little sea

Our Breton holiday, more than two weeks long, flashed by, as holidays are wont to do. It's the same thing every year: a diet consisting mainly of butter and cider; swimming in the "little sea" (mor bihan in Breton); mild walking and trips to the market; reading and afternoon dozing in the little garden; coming back with resolutions to improve my French which last a couple of weeks. Walking along the headland and on the beach, especially in the liminal time around dusk, staring at the infinitely graduated colours of the sea and sky, it is so beautiful that you don't know what to do with it.

I lugged my old heavy computer all the way there and back so that we could watch the football. I hadn't paid for anything but a carry-on bag, but have developed a technique of slinging my man-bag over my back to hide it somewhat, and then waiting until the gates are about to close to go through, when they are less likely to spend time charging you for your extra bag.

We did online shopping, with everything brought to the door, which made me wonder at how we used to manage in the past, lugging it all back from the village. It also makes you realise how much you're all drinking.

I had an enforced night in Nantes on the way back, due to there being no bus from the village to get me to the railhead in time for my train to the airport. The poor public transport out there seems to be getting worse. I stayed in a book-lined room in a flat full of art, with a woman who spoke French to me throughout, for which I was grateful, despite the many times when I was saying what I could, rather than what I wanted to. I was surprised by her tutoyering me from the outset, and it took me until the next day until I could reciprocate. Brittany seems to be loosening her stays.

I was early to the flat and she wasn't in, so I found the local bar, where I was latched onto by the local loon, who wanted me to buy her a glass of wine, despite her shaking a fistful of euros. I declined her request. Later, I saw her riffling through people's wheelie bins.

The gloom of work was lightened somewhat when I found out that we are to be given European rail passes -- something I've always had in my employment with other train companies but which Transport that Fails did not provide, and aligning with other companies in another respect: we are to be put onto a rolling roster, with the occasional "long" weekend (of three days, as opposed to five elsewhere, but it's a start). At the moment we don't find out until Wednesday (at the earliest) what we're doing the following week.

I'm not celebrating yet, as TtF spout more rubbish than Thames Water, but should these changes happen, Mel will be receiving quite a few postcards. I suggested we could fake cohabitating in order to get her a pass too, but she hasn't the same willingness to lie as I have.