…Cut to trucks. Lots of trucks! Fricking loads and loads of enormous trucks on all lanes of a motorway narrower than a pair of skinhead’s drainpipes. Bienvenue dans le sud de France!
We’re already missing Gran Sol, and our little host at Arotzenea, but it’s cool, we’ll just try and stay alive long enough to get to Armagnac…
Death roads (I’m using artistic licence of course) give way to flat lands of vineyards and cornfields. Ahhhh Armagnac! We’ve arrived. But… there is no one here, no one except Annie Wilkes and her enormous Lurch-like son watching us from a garden as we try a three-point turn on the emptiest road in Europe. There is a sinister air to this place and if you ever plan to make a horror film this is the area for it: Eerie cornfields – think opening scene to Switchblade Romance – and ghost towns for miles.
Cornfields, cornfields, cornfields! And Very VERY weird people. We arrive at our hotel in… surprise surprise, a ghost town, to discover that not only is it actually just some English woman’s home, but she’s just picked her strange parents up from the airport. Oh Joy! A night with the (“Addams”) family! A brief handshake with her father’s gigantic, monstrous hand as he stares at me probably wondering which sauce to marinade us in, no wifi, and the realisation that there is no lock on our bedroom door, are enough to convince me to text our exact location to my battle-hardened Afghan-war vet brother. If something happens he’ll save/avenge us.
We make it to (snigger) Condom, where d’Artagnan is from, apparently, and manage to sample some fantastic local Armagnac from Chateau le Correjot. At least something is right.
Mira is so so SO ready to move to the glamorous yacht-filled marina, and billionaire playground of St Tropez. Not sure why