We apparently are approaching the end of August.

A few years ago, and for quite a few years before that, this would be a significant time of year.  We would be contemplating packing for a trip to France.

The first time we ever went there I had a banger of a Ford Fiesta, which like myself had seen better days.  We had a few maps, a ton of luggage [abut 90% of which was never used] and a tree year old impatient screeching child in the back seat.  I had a vague idea where we were heading, but had little idea how to get there, and seeing as we were travelling from Cherbourg to St-Jean-de-Luz on the Spanish border it was an act of ultimate faith in both the car and my driving abilities.  We made it in one piece [despite driving one the wrong side of the road] and had a brilliant time.

A couple of years later, we made another foray into Foreign climes and that was when we discovered the Dordogne.  We fell in love [with the area, not each other – too old for that even in those days],

We went back quite a few times, usually to within spitting distance of Sarlat and loved each trip.

Then what with one thing and another, and a few other things besides, we stopped going.  We haven’t been across the water now in six years.  Sometimes I get a hankering to return.  Other times I get a hankering for West Cork and sometimes I just get a hankering.  I could do with a few lazy weeks in the warmth of the Dordogne area, sipping glasses of wine and having the occasional confit de canard by the side of a street watching people go by.

We normally started the holiday in the first week of September and ended it four or five weeks later.  So around this time of year I begin to dream.  I dream of warm evenings, and medieval towns and villages.  I dream of visiting caves and canoeing on the Dordogne River.  I dream of driving on roads that are designed to work properly.  I dream of being just foreign.

Well, a bloke can dream?

Can’t he?