WOMAD UK - with baby By Kate

OK, we cheated a bit. For the first time in the history of our attendance at WOMAD we didn't camp. But when you've got a six month-old baby and a handy guest room at parents/in-laws fifteen minutes drive away, it was a no-brainer. Plus I'm not a huge fan of camping in any case. It's kind of fun up to a point, but when you're a light sleeper who invariably needs to get up for a pee (or three) in the night, you can basically rule out much in the way of useful snoozery. Not that I get huge amounts of that at the moment anyway, but why make it worse?Accordingly we rolled up in Delilah the Delica early on Friday afternoon armed with sling, baby ear defenders, a picnic rug and a hopeful weather outlook. It was clear from the outset that Rosie was intrigued - no, make that fascinated - by the sights and sounds of the festival. As we walked onto the site her head bobbed from side to side, eyes bright with interest as she took it all in from her comfy position tied to Daddy's chest. Theo, meanwhile was doing his best impression of a pack horse, also wearing a backpack with various items (rug, changing mat, umbrella) hanging off it. I carried my flower pattern backpack and felt a teeny bit guilty about it. But only a teeny bit.
Duly wristbanded and clutching a festival programme, we headed for the Big Red Tent, Ipercussonici and the first potential obstacle to everyone's enjoyment. Would Rosie consent to wear her ear defenders so we could enjoy the raised decibel levels without having to clamp hands over our offspring's shell-likes to prevent possible hearing damage? The answer, thankfully and slightly surprisingly, was a resounding Yes. In fact, so successful were the defenders, that Rosie proceeded to feed then sleep quite happily while wearing them during the loud desert grooves provided by Toumast at the Open Air Stage. She napped in the first of several improvised nests we made for her on our rug (with the help of a colourful, highly sequinned parasol we'd purchased from one of the festival stalls) while we indulged in a half of lager and a bit of hip gyrating to Toumast. When Rosie woke up, she charmed everyone around us with huge grins as we danced with her (still in the ear-defenders) and generally Got Down. One woman even came and took our photograph, so enchanted was she by our beaming baby daughter. It was the best possible start to the weekend.The rest of the day was punctuated by more shows (most notable of which was that provided by the French lounge-core outfit Nouvelle Vague and their inspired renditions of various punk and New Wave classics) and a meet-up with Theo's sis, Hermione and spouse Richard and our mates Stu and Sam. In the end we stayed until almost nine o'clock (*thrills*), so comfortable did Rosie appear to be with her role as Official Festival Babe. We caught a bit of Chumbawamba, but were too far from the stage to really hear much, so took our leave.On Saturday we arrived at the festival slightly better prepared than the previous day - we bought a few cans of lager and cider. We also found a superb spot at the edge of the Open Air Stage which gave us line-of-sight and sound with both that stage and the neighbouring Siam Tent. As the two alternated their shows, it meant we could remain comfortably in position and simply re-angle ourselves to take in one or the other. Probably the highlight of the day performance-wise was a German outfit called LaBrassBanda - yes, a brass band. They were fantastic. Rosie's favourite (if her smiles were anything to go by) was Angelique Kidjo and Orchestre National de Barbes, seen by us in Madrid last year, were as endearingly entertaining as we remembered them. It was also good to see locals Phantom Limb in action with Yolanda in fine voice as they ran through their country-tinged set. We caught Imogen Heap's first couple of numbers, but Rosie wasn't especially grabbed and was clearly getting tired by that point, so we made a graceful exit.

On Sunday we had it down to a fine art and managed to catch Sounds of West Africa (did what it said on the tin - very well, too); the Sierra Leone Refugee All Stars (infectious uptempo music, totally belying the misery behind their formation); Mayra Andrade (sultry Samba-style songs - perfect for a sunny Sunday afternoon), Orchestre Poly Rhythmo de Cotonou (good, lively stuff) and the legend that is Rolf Harris.

He was a lot of fun, a consummate performer. Rosie, however, was unimpressed, preferring to sit in the sling firmly clamped to my right breast and doze throughout his set. The rest of us enjoyed it though. The Sarod player Soumik Datta was the last show we watched, hanging out agreeably with Patrick in the Arboretum as the expertly plucked strings sent out their rhythms and melodies from the Radio 3 stage. We ate a healthy festival meal of pie and mash followed by chocolate brownie, then reluctantly took our leave.
We came away two shirts (Theo) and one parasol (me) richer, several pounds poorer, amazingly clean (ah, the bliss of not camping...) and with a baby who, if this was anything to go by, is shaping up as a committed festival enthusiast, just like her parents. As long as it isn't Rolf Harris.

The Luxembourg Lergy

Actually, we hadn't planned on visiting Luxembourg at all. Theo had been there before and wasn't too worried about going back, but suggested we might as well call in as we were in the area and as I had never set foot in the third Low Country I agreed. After all, no harm in completing the trilogy of Benelux lands, a mini European hat-trick to pop in the portfolio. A few hours wandering around Luxembourg City, one night's stay and a trip back through the Ardennes to the Netherlands ought to do it.

But my innards had other ideas. On our last night at the Grimbergen campsite near Brussels (much nicer than the name suggests, although it brings back painful memories in some respects) I was suddenly struck down by a urine infection. To spare the more squeamish I won't go into the details, but it was deeply unpleasant. Theo was alarmed and wondered if I should be taken to hospital, but by morning I'd managed a few hours sleep and although I wasn't 100% in the pink again, most of the uncomfortable symptoms of the previous night seemed to have cleared up. We set off, as planned, for Luxembourg.

The city itself has a few grand buildings and some pleasant squares, but its old ramparts and tree-filled surrounds are probably Luxembourg's most interesting features. Most of the shops were closed and the streets around the city centre were virtually traffic-free, which made us wonder if we'd got our days mixed up and it wasn't Friday at all. In fact, it was the feast of the Ascension and a public holiday, which helpfully meant all parking was free.

The Kockelscheuer campsite where we pitched up, despite having sparkling facilities, was the cheapest official place we had yet stayed on. A pair of French travellers, who invited us back to their fantastic lorry conversion for aperos, told us the comparatively high wages and low cost of living made it an excellent place for a working sojourn. They were funding their itinerant lifestyle (complete with two dogs) by working in one of the local bars.

That night, urgent and feverish bladder-emptying had me tumbling out of Sheena every two hours and in the morning my back was aching and I was passing blood. This time when Theo suggested a visit to hospital, I acquiesced.

As Theo pointed out to buoy me up, it was interesting to sample another aspect of Luxembourg culture - its health service. Generally, I would prefer to sample a country's culture by sipping a drop of its local tipple from a hospitable cafe than providing a drop of my own urine in the city hospital, but Theo had a point.

Despite the inevitable wait to be seen, the hospital had an air of calm, courteous efficiency and like most Luxembourgers, the staff were multi-lingual. I was assessed first by a nurse, then a doctor, had some blood taken for a test and was eventually told I had developed a fairly serious kidney infection and was prescribed some strong antibiotics, which I would have to take for the next three weeks.

My prescription cost an eye-watering 60 Euros, but the helpful pharmacist told me I could get most of the money back via EU health agreements and even wrote down the address of the place where I should go.

So, bearing in mind the doctor's instructions that I should return if I got worse over the next 48 hours, Theo and I returned to Camping Kockelscheuer, requested a pitch near La Sanitaire and settled down for some convalescence. At least it's meant I've finally finished A Suitable Boy. And I'm feeling a whole lot better too. But next time I have to do any water sampling in Luxembourg, I would rather it was in the spa.

Pisa

On our way south to Rome, it made sense to call into Pisa as it was on the way and gawp at the Piazza Del Miracoli, which truly is a beautiful place. We both envied the students chilling out on the lush lawns (though they were probably just tourists, the students no doubt being way too cool and/or hard working to be seen doing such a thing). The leaning tower itself is surprisingly quite amazing and didn't disappoint. Not that we weren't expecting it to lean or anything, but just that it didn't seem in anyway lessened by the expectation.

What was also fun was watching all the tourists taking photos of themselves "propping" up the tower.



Naturally, I had to have a go - when in Rome (or on the way) and so on. Here's my effort.

Kate thought the whole thing was rather infantile and reacted in a very mature way as you can see.


Not quite in the spirit of things.

That night we camped by the sea near Cecina and swam in swarms of whitebait. Weird.

Plus que change...

After a late start in Coimbra, Kate successfully navigated us to the Lisbon campsite, a drive of some 4 hours on the back-roads while my arms fried in the afternoon sun and we munched on juicy nectarines from a small shop in Porto.

Arriving early in the evening, I cooked while Kate played guitar, eating out under the shade of a eucalyptus. Later we sat in Sheena, read and played rummikub while listening to Bonnie Prince Billy, Feist and Joe Volk. Almost exactly like being back in our flat in Clifton.

Except we're in Lisbon's municipal campsite inside a 2 x 6 metre squared Madza E2200 van surrounded by a purr of feral cats.

It's a funny old world sometimes.

Town, Gown & Fado

We loved Porto, but mindful of our limited time in Portugal before going to the Rocket Festival (and that there are a lot of places in Spain we still want to visit before the end of May), we decided to push on towards Lisbon. Our guidebook recommended Coimbra as an interesting city to see and as our new South American friends had also given the place their thumbs up, we decided to call in on route.

The city only has one campsite, but it was easy to find, very reasonably priced, has good, clean facilities and a regular bus into town - perfect. It also had the biggest European mix of clientale we'd encountered so far, with fellow campers including Dutch, French, Spanish, Portugese, German and another English couple. AND the young woman on reception spoke some English, so that made everything much more straightforward.

It was very hot in the afternoon - Theo chose to spend it snoozing in Sheena while I mooched around doing domestic things like the washing up and wrestling unsuccessfully with the campsite clothes washing machine. Eventually, I gave up, went and got my three Euros back from reception, only to return and witness one of the Dutch women sticking a load on in nary a blink of the eyes. I've noticed Dutch people seem to be very efficient campers (well, motorhome enthusiasts) - next time I want to do some laundry I think I will lassoo a Netherlander first. It could save me a lot of frustration.

We took the bus into Coimbra for the evening after the inevitable confusion buying tickets - not only does every country have its own system, but as we've discovered in Portugal, every city and individual bus firm does the business of ticket buying and stamping (or not) and return issuing (or not) in a different manner as well. Rather baffling to the unwary foreign traveller, but don't let that put you off. Without taking the bus, how would you get to see the scruffiest suburbs and lowliest housing estates of all these proud cities? It's also cheap and you can get all the thrills of a fairground ride with some of the more gung-ho drivers.

Coimbra is a city with a university at its heart. King Dinis gifted his Coimbra palace to the institution and it's been established in the city since the early thirteenth century. The buildings are crumbling but still impressive, with the university precincts dotted with statues and steeped in a long, proud history.

The town itself has a multitude of steep, narrow streets, lined with tall appartments, many of them tiled in patterns of blue and green and festooned with their residents' drying clothes. We spent a happy hour or so wandering round (after the obligatory cafe pingo and cup of hot chocolate taken outside a cafe beside the Santa Cruz monastery, itself a rather beautiful converted chapel) before going to the Restaurante Jardim da Manga for some food. We were greeted by a very friendly, English-speaking waiter, Diago, who guided us through the vegetarian options at the cafeteria-style sevice counter. We ate our huge platefuls outside beside the water garden, formally laid out with heavily-laden citrus trees dropping their fruit into the quartet of fountains. We got complimentary glasses of port (yay!) and the whole thing cost less than fourteen Euros.

While at the top of the town during our walk, we'd noticed what looked like a festival laid out in the city's riverside park. It turned out Coimbra was midway through it annual student extravaganza, Queima das Fitas. Essentially, ten days of each faculty celebrating that year's graduation with an eclectic mix of live music, beginning after midnight and ending with traditional Portugese Fado.

Having encountered Fado already through seeing Mariza at WOMAD (the stylish young Fado singer, who has almost single-handedly opened it up to the rest of the world) and then Dona Rosa (who I preferred), I was interested to catch some live. Coimbra's most succesful bar is aCapella, where they put on shows every night in a fourteenth century monument. For ten Euros a head you got three shows, explanation and background to the music in Portugese and English and a drink. We got a jug of sangria, which lasted us the night and watched two young guys, one on Portugese guitar, the other on English classical guitar, deliver a beautiful and intricate set of ballads, serenades and dances. They had a singer with them, who was less impressive - not bad on the more uptempo numbers, but tended to confuse emotion for volume on the slower more melancholy songs and had all the over-bearing vibrato of the lead tenor in a small town, church choir.

Nonetheless, it was an enjoyable couple of hours and I was interested to learn that every year each faculty at Coimbra university composes a new fado song so the students can say their farewells. Some of these have become incredibly well-known throughout Portugal and the finale was the 1958 Medical Faculty fado, which had the Portugese members of the audience all singing along...a lovely moment.

When we got outside, this year's graduates had filled Coimbra's streets, many of them still wearing their black graduation gowns with badges sewn on, scout-style. We contemplated joining the celebrations and going along to the party in the park, but all that sangria and dolorous Fado had made us feel sleepy, so we got a taxi back to the campsite. Tomorrow if it's hot, we decided, we would get our laundry done and go canoeing while it was drying and maybe head to the beach later on.

We woke this morning to the familiar sound of raindrops pattering onto Sheena's roof. Nah, we'll get on the road to Lisbon and the laundy will have to wait.

Kate and Theo´s Big Night Out

Our time as a married couple had been threatening to settle down into a routine comprising a modest beer or glass of wine and in bed before midnight, with French socialising confined mostly to people older than us and revolving around eating (mostly lunch - but it´s hardly an easy deal, you need the rest of the day to recover from some of those dejeuner do´s, I can tell you). So we resolved to put that right in Spain and do some partying. Our first night on the tiles en Español was last night, here in Salamanca - and if that´s an average night out with the Spaniards, then I´m sold.

We arrived in Salamanca at lunchtime and pitched up at easily the best campsite we´ve stayed in so far, at the Hotel Regio in St Marta, a few kilometres outside Salamanca itself. After an easygoing afternoon, we took the bus into town, which conveniently left the campsite every hour and cost a little over one euro each.

When we got to Salamanca, we followed the general drift of humanity until a joyous hubbub reached us and the narrow street we were walking down opened out into the wonderful Plaza Mayor. It´s a very large, very beautiful and very popular square with the city´s residents, tourists and large student population. All sides are lined with tables and chairs put out by the cafes and the centre of the plaza was filled with teenagers and twenty-somethings sitting in groups, just hanging out on the flagstones.

We chose a table and opted, like most of the other clientale, to enjoy a caña and coffee and drink everything in for a while. As we sat there, three storks flew gracefully overhead to their nests on one side of the Plaza. Soon after, as the light fell, the Plaza was suddenly lit up, a moment greeted with appreciative applause from all its assembled visitors.

Our time after that was spent trying out the Spanish habit of taking small drinks accompanied with tapas - basically small portions of barsnacks. We tried out El Bardo, which had a few vegetarian options among its tapas. More memorable was the bar specialising in Asturian sidra, which confusingly gave out very small measures of the drink served in glasses about the size of a pint, plus two tapas and even more confusingly, two corks. These last were taken away when we opted for a second helping, although we never quite worked out what their significance was. Meanwhile, we watched intrigued as portable sidra dispensers were wheeled around to groups of customers. A tall, metal, snake-like contraption, which held a bottle of sidra at the back and had a cradle for the glasses at the front, was operated by a large handle - which at first glance looked like the non-business end of a big kitchen knife. The sidra itself was dry with a clean, appley taste. Good stuff.

Eventually - gone midnight, when the night was still young as far as most of Salamanca´s younger generation was concerned - we decided to sample some of the clubs. This was easy to do because none of them charged for entry. The first one we went into, Camelot, was a haven for under-agers, with most of the clients looking like they were still waiting for their sixteenth birthday. Even Theo felt old there, so you can imagine how I felt. We didn´t stay long.

The next stop was at the Country Club, which was actually nothing of the sort. Steps led down to a cramped, mosaiced room and glowing with UV. It played vaguely left of centre rock music, which was actually pretty good, so we stayed and danced for a while. Before we moved on, we were accosted by a friendly and somewhat merry young Spaniard, who initially took Theo to be an Italian. As I had invested in some trousseau for him in Biarritz (Theo´s default mode of dressing being best described as scruffy), I felt reasonably pleased, given the Italian reputation for being stylish. Mind you, the guy was pretty drunk.

Finally, we opted for a rather more tacky dive in the "street" area of Salamanca - a litros bar, where you could get beer, spirits and other concoctions in one-litre buckets costing from three and a half euros. I ordered "agua de Valencia", which turned out to be a mixture of Cava and a shot of rum, topped up with orangeade, in a half-litre plastic glass. A terrible thing to do to Cava, really. The whole thing tasted like an alcoholic Fanta.


By now it was almost three and although we´d been told many of the clubs didn´t really warm up until four am, we were beaten and took a taxi back to the campsite (more like UK prices - cost us just over nine euros).

We both thoroughly enjoyed our experience of partying with the Spaniards and I truly wish going out could be such fun occasion in the UK. No aggro or edgyness, just loads of people out to have a great time. It´s certainly whetted our appetite for our forthcoming visit to Madrid and the Rocket and Primavera Sound festivals. Bring it on!

Today we both awoke mainly unscathed from our agua de Valencia experience and after a lazy time at the campsite, are now back in Salamanca appreciating some more of its considerable culture. The buildings are absolutely stunning. It´s a friendly place and I can highly recommend the ice-creams (helados) and hot chocolate with churros. Although you need a strong constitution for the latter - Theo and I felt quite dazed after a cup each of the really thick, dark chocolate served with four deep-fried strips of doughnut mixture. I´m amazed the Spaniards aren´t a great deal fatter in general, but it explains where they get the stamina for their marathon nights out.

Tomorrow, Portugal.

the road to Salamanca

We took our time leaving Miguel's place in Galkao this morning. Partly because of my usual habit of spending ages having a shower and coating my skin in unguents supposedly guaranteed to keep it young and beautiful. Partly because of a clutch of emails needing pressing and thoughtful replies. And partly because our genial host was keen to chat. About Sheena (he's very keen on getting a camper van himself); about where we should go next on our Spanish tour (he recommended spending the day in Segovia before heading for Salamanca - a rather optimistic suggestion given Sheena's stately pace on the road and our habit of taking long-drawn out lunch breaks and siestas); and his own desire to move to England and what his chances were of getting employment (pretty high given his abilities in renovation and driving - he's already been a building manager and train driver and after seeing his reversing and manouvering skills, I'd say he's the kind of potential bus-driver Bath is crying out for).

But after a stop in Bilbao old town to buy a Spanish dictionary and road atlas and a visit to the Eroski mega supermarket to stock up on supplies, we were on the road towards Burgos. Okay, it was gone one by then and Segovia looked like it was off the menu for the time being. But we had a beautiful drive through the sierra dividing Basque province of Bizkaia and Castilla and eventually made it to a brilliantly quirky campsite at the Paster monument, not far from Miranda.

There we chummed up with two friendly New Zealanders, also on a tour of Europe and currently hot-footing it to Madrid to meet relatives before driving on down to a villa the south of Spain. We spent a most convivial few hours chatting with Andy and Tracy, sharing wine, beer, cake and prunes in eau de vie (which had already caused something of a sensation with Miguel and Beatriz) - thanks in part to chairs and table loaned by a very friendly Spanish guy from the neighbouring chalet.



We've now resolved to get on the road by 0730 tomorrow so we can make it to Salamanca in time to sample some of its famed Saturday nightlife. The fact that the campsite showers can be best described as bracing will probably cut down on the ablutions and help hurry us on our way.

Crippled Black Phoenix/On the Road

Last Night we went to see Crippled Black Phoenix at Pole Etudiant in Nantes - they were great and it was lovely to see Joe; Chipper, Matt et al. I reviewed it for The Fly:

"With eight people on stage there's a huge capacity for chaos, but instead this strange brew of old rock hands, Bristol noiseniks and a teenage drummer called Crippled Black Phoenix are carefully controlled. Justin Greaves' grand compositions weave their way around Joe Volk's pastoral lyricism, cutting from choral interludes to majestic, textured riffs to great washes of feedback with sympathetic ease. If The Fly was Art Monthly we'd make some apt comparisons to renowned painters of somber and portentous landscapes, but we're a music mag and know shit about art. We know what we like however. We like this."

It's a strange sensation being on the road. I figured originally it would be a little like being on tour and in some ways it is of course, but there are some rather crucial differences. For instance, you don't know where exactly you are going, what your itinerary is, or what you are going to do once you get there.

For a former tour manager, always used to setting out on the road with a firm route, timetable and ultimate aim in mind, this has been quite an adjustment to make and I don't feel I have yet made it. For instance, despite the fact I'm driving a mobile home that we can sleep in at the drop of a hat (or, rather, shift of some cushions) the idea of not knowing where we are going to stay goes against all my instincts and makes me quite edgy. When I was inter-railing around Europe aged 18 accommodation was always the first thing I sorted out upon arriving somewhere new; on this trip, partly because we've got our own bedroom on wheels, but also I suspect because we rarely seem to hit the road before 12, we've often been turning up to places without the first idea about where to stay/park. We're currently in a Cafe in La Rochelle, a very pretty old town that seems to have been Broadmeaded rather comprehensively, with a vague idea that we will find a campsite on Ile de Re but the lack of exactness in our plans is making me slightly tense. The fault here is entirely my own - my control-freakery refusing to be jettisoned along with the other remnants of the rat-race the we left behind when we quit our jobs. Hopefully it'll fade in time.

On the plus side, being away from everything that we know has made things more interesting for Kate and I; we are rediscovering each other again. When we were living in our cute little flat in Bristol, our understanding of each other was defined in part by our relationship to each other but also by what we did and who we were. Kate is no longer "Kate who reads the news" and "Kate who does Fine Tuned" or "Kate who sings in Hot Flush" or even "Kate who meets friends for lunch" or "Kate who makes my lunch for work" - Kate is now "Kate who is my wife and co-traveller". It's a whole new Kate who only I know and that makes me feel very special indeed.

Of Monts and Molehills

Well as Kate has done a fine job letting you know what happened while still in England, it falls to me to let you know what we've been doing since getting to France. If you are short of time, here's a summary: stayed overnight in Cherbourg, drove to Mont Saint-Michel, took photos, drove to Dinan, checked into hotel.

Thanks for reading, do check back soon.

For those of you with more leisure time or a more pressing need to avoid doing any work, it's slightly more complicated than that. Our French is taking a while to warm up, so trying to first find a mechanic and then explain that we needed our headlights adjusted, straight off the boat while trying to get my head around the French traffic system was a bit of challenge. However we did it - sort of; we've put stickers over a section of the headlights to avoid blinding those on the other (left-hand) side of the road. So armed with a handy map of Cherbourg from the tourist office we decided (as it was now 3.30pm) to stay in Cherbourg rather than to push on to anywhere else. Priorities: a shower and to sort out the arrangement of luggage in Sheena. Last night had been comfortable, but cramped.

The Map pointed us in the direction of a campsite. After a few obligatory wrong turns we found it, only to find it was closed. Well, actually it was open, but all the shower and toilet blocks were locked up. Still there was running water on site, flat ground and it was near the beach, so we just decided to stay - if anyone turned up we'd offer to pay, but the unlocked gates seemed to suggest that they weren't too bothered. Well we'd always intended to do some free camping. This still left the issue of showers.

We solved this by going swimming. Not in the sea (tempting, but probably more than a bit nippy this time of year) but in the piscine next door. The plan was, have a dip then use the changing room showers. Brilliant. As ever, nothing was quite that simple. The next problem was that I only have Bermuda Short style swimming trunks and, for reasons unclear to me, these are banned from French swimming pools. Hmmmm. After fronting it out with the receptionist ("oui, oui, j'ai le malliot correct") I decided it was safer to go through in my boxer shorts, which, handily, were black and close fitting trunks. Had to tuck in the Calvin Klein waistband - could have been a bit of a give away - and felt unable to risk using the water slides, but otherwise Kate and I very much enjoyed our little dip, feeling buoyed up by our problem solving skills.


Suitably refreshed and cleansed we headed off in Sheena back into town to Carrefour, one of those gigantic French supermarkets, to buy a picnic dinner and the most obscene chocolate patisseries ever. We were both feeling much better by now, having managed both breakfast and lunch on the ferry. We felt great, sitting out behind Sheena in the warm evening sun eating bread and cheese with fruit and salad, sipping Champagne (thanks Jon and Sarah!) and toasting our good fortune. Later, after a romantic beach side stroll we retired to bed, feeling like we had just about everything worked out.

.... oh dear.
If the presence of countless molehills was anything to go by there used to be a pretty healthy mole population at the Collignon campsite before we arrived. After some rather fluid bowel movements the following morning this is probably no longer the case. I felt like I was committing mammal genocide as I madly dug with my shovel and squatted, intestines heaving, in the early dawn. All yesterday's optimism at our returning health - mine in particular - vanished pretty quickly. Kate's stomach was at least holding up, though the poor darlings lungs were behaving like those of a 60-a-dayer after a 3 mile swim through treacle. It was in rather duller spirits that we made our way through splendid sunshine and rural roads to the glorious Mont Saint Michel.