Missive from the midway

Dijon meal time: tuna, sausages and bread

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.

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