Rain, Re-runs, and the Stubborn Pool

A Week of Noble Endurance

Or: how one man heroically resisted the weather and watched a lot of television about it.

The week opened on a genuinely triumphant note — the kind of drive that makes you feel briefly like the protagonist of a European arthouse film. Down from the foothills of the Puy de Dôme, through the volcanic grandeur of the Auvergne, then swooping across the Pont de Millau — that extraordinary viaduct where you float above the clouds and feel, momentarily, like a minor deity commuting to work. Truly, if roads were operas, this would be Verdi.

And then: Carcassonne. The sky’s shutters came down. The wind arrived, uninvited, with all the enthusiasm of a damp relative who wasn’t expected until Tuesday. Rain followed. Then more rain. The meteorological ambition of the week, it turned out, was to make the Auvergne look like the Riviera by comparison.

“Essential indoor activities” — a phrase which, in the annals of self-description, covers a great deal of territory and requires absolutely no further elaboration.

What followed were several days of what shall be diplomatically described as essential indoor activities. The sofa saw things. The television worked overtime. Somewhere in a streaming service’s algorithm, a flag was quietly raised: this account has watched more vintage comedy than is perhaps medically advisable. One does not simply watch old comic episodes — one studies them. This is cultural enrichment, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

Then, as if ashamed of itself, the sun reappeared on Sunday. The brother arrived with spouse in tow. A pleasant lunch was had. And so, in the grand tradition of those who have waited out a siege, the afternoon was spent exactly as it should be: horizontal, pool-adjacent, victorious.

The pool itself, however, remains diplomatically described as “bracing.” A couple of degrees have slipped away during the week’s meteorological unpleasantness, and the water is currently in that liminal state beloved of no one — too warm to be refreshing, too cold to actually get into without considerable personal courage and at least one firm pep talk. It has been observed from the lounger. Respectfully. From a safe distance.

Next week promises heat. The pool is on notice.

The forecast, mercifully, points toward warmth next week. At which point the pool will be re-evaluated, the television will be rested, and the Puy de Dôme will be allowed to become, once again, a beautiful memory rather than the high point — in every sense — of an otherwise waterlogged week.

Until next time: may your roads be spectacular, your skies cooperative, and your pool exactly the right temperature.

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