Towards the sun

Normally it takes under two hours to drive to the port, so giving ourselves 3 1/2 hours at one thirty in the morning should have been enough of a magin for delays. As it turned out, it wasn't. The M25 was shut and we found ourselves in Essex, driving through alien town centres as the clubs were chucking out and as the cold rain was chucking down. We finally got round the closure and down to the port by 5 o'clock as the ferry was steaming off. We had written off the holiday in our heads and were prepared to drive home but thought we owed it to ourselves to try and blag our way onto a ferry sometime during the day. As it happened, they let us straight onto the next ferry, and all of a sudden the holiday was back on course. The weather brighteneed as we crossed the channel, and as we started to go south on the (superb) French motorways, the sun stayed out and the temperature began to rise. At lunchtime in the stop pictured, the temperature reached 26. As we got south of Dijon the temperature hit 32. We reached our destination in the heart of the Burgundy wine-growing region by going up an imposssibly steep dirt track through the heart of vineyards to reach a tiny hamlet that clung to the summit of the hill. Having unpacked, we needed some food, wine and cigarettes, so off to the local supermarket. It didn't sell fags, and after filling ten percent of the shopping basket, they informed us they were closing by waving their arms and stamping up and down on the spot as their French language skills weren't up to the task of informing foreigh tourists that they should really be on the other side of the door. I still had no fags, but luckily, there was a petrol station across the road.
Petrol stations in France don't sell fags.

Bugger.