Fancy lunch – tuna and wiener sausages on, for lack of baguette, crumbly biscuits – in the vast emptiness between Châtillon and Dijon. Appropriately, the closest village is named “Salives”.
Nothing says “bike trip” like absurd last meals before insurmountable climbs of (censored, so as not to frighten my companions) metres. Imagine, a landslide would come down that slope above us and bury us poor sods, the bikes, the foodstuff. In fifty years, after Germany’s efforts against global warming will have resulted in a new ice age, Burgundy will be covered in two kilometres of solid glacial ice, so some century’s are going to pass until they dig us up, perfectly-ish conserved. “So that’s how people around the year 2000 have lived!”
Here Nelson corrects me: The years would by then be counted in the Era of Merkel. Perhaps, but then I rather imagine a Jeanne d’Arc situation: A few hundred years after a mob of starving Greeks has burnt her at the stake, she will be rehabilitated by the leaders if the Seventh Reich – coincidentally in the same year in which Merseyside, Essex, Rhode Island, Kent and Lancashire break away from the Kingdom formerly known as United.
The heat here is dizzying, we should carry on to Dijon before we get silly.