We made plenty of stops for photo opportunities, and it was late lunchtime when we stopped at a wayside auberge with dogs in the kitchen, toilets in the garage and a baby donkey! in the field outside:
cybersofa recommended faux filet from the limited menu, explaining that it was a cheaper cut of beef masquerading as fillet steak. It was delicious and we scarfed it down. Over coffee he told us what it really was.
I was greatly annoyed with myself for being duped; I've only been to France, what, a dozen times? Luckily I don't have a problem with eating horse.
I made up for this lack of nous by holding a successful conversation about digital cameras in the town where we stopped for afternoon tea. I've no idea if carte de memoire is the correct term for what I wanted, but at least I managed to buy one. I also learned the French for 'chip and PIN', but can't now recall whether it's TPV or TVP.
We had one of these beasties, pretty much the polar opposite of my Vespa in its entire attitude, among the group, and from day one there was a general consensus that I should have a go on its pillion - whatever I or its rider, Howard, might think of the notion - to see if it could win me over to the charms of bigger bikes. This was the occasion we picked to give it a go.
Being used to the back seat, and backrest, of cybersofa's FJR1300, I can't say it was the most comfortable ride of my life, but it was fast, smooth and thoroughly safe (though I let myself off waving duties for this stage). I won't be rushing out to buy a Daytona, but I certainly wouldn't say no to another backie.
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