We packed up this morning with a heavy heart (and a heavier suitcase) to head for Galway, our base for the next three days. But before embarking on our westward migration, we convened for breakfast at the eminently civilised hour of 9am—proof that travelling with friends can indeed be harmonious when black pudding and coffee are involved. Cold Stone once again supplied the morning fuel, and off we went, fortified for the road.
Now, about Donegal. Officially, it has a modest population of 2,800. Unofficially, however, it feels like 20,000—because, of course, the town is currently hosting the entire tourism board of the United States. Coach after coach disgorges cheerful Americans, and you can spot them from a mile away: the sneakers, the baseball caps, the “Oh my GAAAD, look at this castle!” delivered at a volume sufficient to reach Dublin without Wi-Fi.
I’m starting to suspect they all failed a collective hearing test. Why else would one need to shout at a friend standing precisely six inches away? It’s either that or they’ve mistaken Donegal for Times Square on New Year’s Eve and feel the need to make themselves heard above the non-existent fireworks. Either way, it’s a curious cultural phenomenon.
But enough anthropology. Galway awaits! Stay tuned—there will be music, there will be Guinness, and quite possibly, there will be dancing (though hopefully not by me). As the Irish say: “What’s seldom is wonderful”—so let’s hope Galway delivers plenty of seldom and an extra dash of wonderful.
The Wild Atlantic Way carried us south-west, the Nissan Qashqai heroically soldiering on despite its sulky rear indicator light. I drove the first 150 kilometres under moody skies, while Chris nobly handled the remaining 100. Showers came and went, clouds brooded, but the road was kind enough.
Galway welcomed us at the peak of lunch hour chaos. Our lodgings? A fully renovated three-storey townhouse tucked in the old quarter. We claimed the ground-floor bedroom with direct access to the street—perfect for discreet snack-hunting missions.
Barely had we dropped our cases before the Latin Quarter beckoned. Less than 200 yards away, a proper old-fashioned pub lured us in with its jaw-dropping whisky collection.
Tempting as it was to explore the entire shelf, I remained faithful to my current favourite, accompanied, of course, by a brace of Guinness pints so smooth they practically applauded themselves.
Groceries were procured (tomorrow’s DIY breakfast: secured), a brief nap was taken (civilisation: restored), and soon it was time for an early apéritif. Dinner had been cleverly booked at Kirby’s restaurant two minutes away—just far enough to justify another drink on arrival. I began with an Old Fashioned cocktail, graduated to excellent fish and chips, and then sabotaged the entire meal with a Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon that can only be described as “ambitiously unpleasant.” Lesson learned.
Back home, we cracked open the Bushmills bottles procured earlier in the trip. I was the last to bed at the almost virtuous hour of 11 p.m. Reflections of the day? Galway charmed, Guinness delivered, and Americans remain both ubiquitous and mysteriously loud. Prices, too, seem to rise in direct proportion to decibels. Coincidence? I think not.
We started the day in what I like to call a “civilised hour” — 9am. Any earlier and it’s breakfast, any later and it’s brunch, and frankly, I can’t handle that kind of existential crisis on holiday. A short stroll brought us to a café called Cold Stone. Don’t worry, it wasn’t as bleak as the name suggests — coffee and eggs were as warm and reassuring as an Irish welcome.
Fuelled and ready, we bounced between Donegal’s greatest hits: a castle that looks straight out of a medieval Netflix series, a quick shopping mission (one of our crew discovered their shoes had officially given up on life), and the charming Railway Museum, where a local storyteller regaled us with tales of the region’s once-proud railway. Who needs Netflix anyway?
By early afternoon, we were inevitably lured into McCafferty’s Pub — purely cultural research, of course.
Two pints later, we were off for something nautical: the Donegal Bay Waterbus. At 3:30 sharp, we set sail (well, motored) downriver toward the Atlantic. We bagged seats outside on top, which was scenic and bracing, but mercifully a crew member appeared with drinks. Nothing says “I’m at sea” quite like clutching a gin & tonic while squinting at seals. Along the way we spotted a few blubbery locals sunbathing and some enviable houses perched along the riverbanks, the sort of places you only own if your ancestors invented Guinness or at least the paperclip.
Back on dry land, we regrouped with the noble intention of more pubbing. The Castle Bar was our first target… only to discover it has a waiting list for drinks. A waiting list. For a pint. I’ve seen many things in pubs, but this was a first. Plan B: O’Donnell’s, where we successfully hydrated before moving on to the Grand Hotel for dinner. Dining was lovely — until a table of very vocal Americans behind us treated the entire room to what I can only assume was a rehearsal for Broadway’s next big musical.
For the nightcap, we skipped the pubs altogether and went DIY: two fine bottles of Bushmills whisky, opened in Acky & Sylvia’s spacious family room. A civilised 11pm lights-out capped yet another Donegal day brimming with castles, history, unexpected footwear emergencies, and the occasional seal.
The day began with a fairly sharp start, which is travel-speak for “too early but necessary.” The cure? A Full Irish breakfast—a meal so calorific it could power a small village, or at the very least, keep six tourists upright until dinner.
First stop: the Giant’s Causeway. UNESCO World Heritage, world famous, and—under today’s dark clouds and gale-force winds—world dramatic.
Our guide Philip was cheerful, informative, and strangely comprehensible. Later we discovered why: he was from Yorkshire. That explains it. We marched a couple of miles over, around, and occasionally against the rocks before collapsing gratefully over a cup of tea—proof that tea is indeed the national first-aid kit.
Next up, the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge. Or at least, the path to it. The bridge itself was closed thanks to the wind (and my vertigo sent it a thank-you card). Still, the 1.2 km walk gave us astonishing views and me a respectable photo album to prove I “bravely approached” the bridge without actually stepping foot on it.
By mid-afternoon we were Donegal-bound, showers and all, and crossed back into Ireland just before 3 p.m. Our B&B, Riverside House, won immediate approval… though we only admired it for five minutes before setting off on foot for more pressing business: finding a pub.
The Olde Castle Bar provided a lively pint, another pub on the town square offered a second, and by then our dinner plans had to involve an Indian restaurant—because why not? It turned out excellent. On the stroll home we passed “Pub Number Two” again, and, well, resistance is futile. A whisky nightcap sealed the deal: Donegal, 1. Liver, 0.
The alarm rang cruelly early, but when you’ve booked six people into the Titanic Experience for 9 a.m., you either rise with purpose or you sink without trace.
Belfast’s pride and heartbreak, the Titanic, was built right there in the docks, and the museum is a proper immersion—plenty of information, slick displays, and just enough drama to make you feel you’ve stepped into history without getting your feet wet. I nearly emerged with a captain’s cap, but a calming cup of tea proved more seaworthy for my wallet.
From maritime tragedy, we shifted smoothly to liquid triumph: Bushmills. With time to spare before our afternoon distillery appointment, we fortified ourselves with an outstanding burger-and-IPA combo. Proof, if any were needed, that Irish hospitality extends well beyond the pint glass.
Our B&B, a mere 5 km away, welcomed us like long-lost cousins. Luggage deposited, we hatched a plan for the evening: procure supplies for a makeshift snack in the pub downstairs. (Because nothing says civilised travellers like sneaking your own picnic into licensed premises.)
At precisely 3:30 p.m.—punctuality being the politeness of whiskey-lovers—we presented ourselves at Bushmills Distillery.
The tour was a sensory delight, particularly the air itself: warm, malty, and faintly intoxicating even before the tasting. Naturally, the finale involved a glass or two. For me, a 12-year-old Bushmills: smooth, complex, and just cheeky enough to suggest another might follow later.
Evening saw us reunited with Guinness at our B&B’s bar, where time flowed as generously as the taps. Conversation, laughter, and another small nip of that 12-year-old rounded off the day. By the time we headed upstairs, the world was pleasantly blurred and very, very Irish.
Tomorrow may come early again, but tonight, we sleep like sailors after shore leave.
A day of breakfasts, queues & questionable digestifs
The Breakfast That Ate Lunch
Holidaymakers are not supposed to start early. It goes against the natural laws of lounging. Yet there we were, bleary-eyed at 8:15 in the lobby, proving that determination (or hunger) can override jet lag. A short stroll brought us to Tasty Options — a deli with a menu so vast it could double as bedtime reading. Most of us went for the Full Irish, which is less a “breakfast” and more a declaration of intent to skip lunch. Spoiler: it worked.
The Queue of Doom at Sixt
Next up: the glamorous world of car hire. We had been warned it would be busy at Sixt. Busy, it turned out, meant “an hour of your life you’ll never get back.” By the time we reached the desk, I half expected to be asked for proof of survival skills as well as a driving license. At last, keys in hand, mirrors adjusted, we were off on our two-hour journey to Belfast, North Ireland’s buzzing capital.
The Joy of Parking (Yes, Really)
Our apartment came with the holy grail of city living: secure parking. A&S were billeted elsewhere, so we did the only sensible thing and agreed to meet at a pub. Guinness was the drink of choice, and — sacrilege though it sounds — we all agreed it tasted better here than in Dublin.
Murals, Miles, and Murmurs of Thirst
Fueled by stout and historical curiosity, we set off on a long walk westward. Falls Road and Shankill Road: two names that carry the weight of history, politics, and enough murals to give Banksy an inferiority complex.
After several miles, parched and heroic, we staggered into The John Hewitt Pub for gin & tonics. Because nothing says “cultural immersion” quite like swapping stout for spirits.
Duck, Zen, and the Art of Dinner Maintenance
Dinner was at Zen, a Chinese restaurant that made us forget our noble plan of “eating local.” Crispy duck with spicy sauce? Yes please. At that point, I’d have happily joined the duck in crispy retirement.
The Great Digestif Hunt
The night was still young, and so were our digestive needs. Muriel’s offered cocktails and loud music — the kind of loud that suggests the DJ is settling a personal score with your eardrums. We fled and found sanctuary at Bootleggers, where sitting outside and people-watching turned into our unofficial evening entertainment.
The Final Nightcap
The finale? A dignified stumble home, capped by finishing the bottle of red wine that had been silently waiting for us. Over 10km of walking, a history lesson in mural form, a Full Irish, Guinness, gin, duck, and digestifs. In short: a balanced diet.
Today is kind of a special day, though the reasons come in no particular order. First, we’re heading off to Dublin early this afternoon. Second, it also happens to be our 49th wedding anniversary — a milestone that apparently comes with no official “traditional gift.” (Perhaps the experts just gave up after 48 years and thought, “If they’ve lasted this long, they probably don’t need any more suggestions.”)
But possibly the most significant event of all: I have decided to wear long trousers.
Yes, for the first time in four months, the shorts are being retired in favour of something that actually covers my knees. The Irish weather report hinted at “cooler conditions,” which in plain language means, “You might freeze if you don’t put some proper clothes on.” There’s even a chance socks will be involved. Socks! Imagine that.
This wardrobe shift is, of course, the ultimate seasonal marker. The calendar may insist we still have three weeks of summer left, but trousers (and socks) tell a different story. They whisper softly, “Winter is coming…” and not even Dublin’s Guinness can argue with that.
So here we go: off to Dublin, celebrating 49 years together, armed with long trousers and the possibility of socks. Not a bad way to mark a “special” day, after all.
Flight FR1975 from CCF to DUB began with the usual Ryanair special: a 45-minute delay wrapped in a cheerful “on-time” promise. Silver lining? No one in the middle seat. Now, before you imagine first-class luxury, let’s be clear—this is Ryanair. “Spreading out” merely means I can pick up my drink without elbow-wrestling a stranger.
Speaking of drinks, Ryanair has modernized the concept of “duty free” by letting you order gin & tonics online before takeoff.
Our two were delivered with military efficiency the moment the seatbelt sign pinged off. Sadly, what arrived was less “gin & tonic” and more “junior apprentice potion”—a weak, pre-mixed beverage pretending to be the real deal. But, having been sober for over two months, perhaps it was a gentle (and merciful) reintroduction to the world of alcohol. I struggled to finish it, which I hope won’t be the case later in Dublin. Tonight, I plan to make up for lost time with Guinness and whisky chasers.
We touched down in Dublin with the usual Ryanair flourish—cheap, cheerful, and vaguely uncomfortable. The walk from the gate to the taxi rank felt like a marathon, but eventually we were whisked into town, landing at our accommodation with the spectacularly suspicious name: Tom Dick and Harriet’s. For €175 a night, one might expect at least a dash of luxury. Instead, we got “perfectly acceptable.” But no matter—this isn’t a night for sitting in rooms.
Our friends Chris and Julia were already settled next door, so off we went in search of a pub. I had barely put a dent in my first Guinness when Acki and Sylvia, freshly arrived from Germany, burst through the door. Reunion complete, the pints began to flow.
Later, in pursuit of food (and balance), we wandered towards the Liffey and found a restaurant serving up hearty Irish fare. I went classic: beef stew with yet another Guinness for company. Walking back, we stumbled across a welcoming pub, and it seemed rude not to stop for a double Jameson nightcap.
And so, my first day drinking in months, and our 49th anniversary, ended in proper Irish style: full stomach, happy company, and a head pleasantly spinning. Tomorrow—Belfast awaits.
Ah, the final golden rays of Occitan sunshine are gracing my face like a farewell kiss from a lover who knows I’m about to cheat on them—with a raincloud. Yes, tomorrow I leave behind the seductive warmth of southern France and fling myself into the damp, chilly arms of the British Isles. Specifically, the glorious, green, and slightly soggy embrace of the Island of Ireland.
Now, before we go any further, let us get our geopolitical ducks in a row. Ireland is an island (not to be confused with an island—this one’s capitalized and comes with centuries of drama). It consists of:
The Republic of Ireland, where people say things like “grand” and mean it,
And Northern Ireland, which is part of the United Kingdom, but not Great Britain. (Don’t worry if you’re confused. So is everyone else. Including, occasionally, the UK.)
Screenshot
With that thrilling primer in international relations complete, I return to my more pressing problem: packing.
Ah, packing. Once a straightforward task of rolling up your clothes and stuffing them in a suitcase. Now? It’s a full-blown competitive sport—complete with tears, heartbreak, and weighing scales. Why? One word: Ryanair.
Bless their blue-and-yellow hearts, they have turned minimalism into a mandate. I believe their current cabin baggage allowance is “one thimble and a whisper of hope.” So here I am, trying to fit a week’s worth of weather-appropriate fashion into what is essentially a glorified pencil case on wheels.
The list, naturally, has become an art form:
A raincoat, obviously. Possibly two. One to wear and one to dry while the other is soaked.
Passport, to prove I am who I say I am.
Credit card, because I am under no illusions that I will not buy another scarf “just in case.”
A sturdy pair of shoes that scream, “I hike… emotionally.”
And a deeply personal vendetta against drizzle.
Of course, I’m trying to pack light—as light as possible. There’s something noble about embracing the minimalist life when you’re about to be pelted with Atlantic rain sideways. Maybe I’ll become a better person. Maybe I’ll just become very damp.
In conclusion, as I soak in my final Mediterranean sunset and stare longingly at my suitcase (currently giving me the side-eye), I remind myself: It’s not what you bring—it’s who you become when you forget your adapter and have to negotiate with a stranger in Galway for one. With any luck, I’ll land on Irish soil as a smarter, humbler, slightly colder version of myself.
Next stop: Ireland. With 73% chance of rain, 100% chance of tea, and the very real possibility of regretting that I didn’t pack a second pair of socks.
It’s official: the trip to Ireland has moved from the “Wouldn’t it be lovely?” stage to the “Print virtually your boarding pass before Ryanair charges you a kidney” stage. Yes, there’s no alternative from Carcassonne to Ireland—unless, of course, you fancy walking, hitchhiking, or attempting the Celtic Sea on a lilo. So, Ryanair it is: the fastest, cheapest, and possibly least glamorous way to catapult oneself from the medieval towers of Carcassonne straight into the heart of Dublin.
Day after tomorrow, we land. On the very same afternoon, like some kind of European summit but with more pints than politics, we’re due to meet our friends: C and J flying in from England, and A and S swooping in from Germany. The plan? Reconvene in a pub close to our accommodation, where the first couple to land gets the enviable task of choosing between a couple of options. (May the luck of the Irish—and a decent Wi-Fi signal—be with them.)
As for tonight? Nothing dramatic. Just the ritual of online check-in: click, confirm, pray you don’t get assigned a middle seat between a stag party and someone with a leaking sandwich. Boarding passes printed, spirits high, Guinness glasses practically clinking in the distance.
Ah, August. The month when most of the world seems to go on holiday… except at my place. No visitors this time, which made for a rather quieter stretch. The fridge was grateful, the wine rack untouched, and the sofa deeply appreciative of the calm.
Speaking of untouched wine racks: yes, I’m still off the booze. By the end of August it hit the 9-week mark. Who knew self-control could stretch that far? By now I half expect Guinness to send me a “we miss you” card.
Of course, sobriety doesn’t mean hibernation. I ventured out to a few restaurants, including one last beach-day fling at my beloved Hospitalet Beach in Narbonne Plage. Sun, sand, seafood – the holy trinity of summer. If beaches gave out loyalty cards, I’d be on platinum status by now.
I also discovered a gem of a place some 50km away: Le Chat qui Pêche in Argeliers. It translates to “The Cat Who Fishes” – though in fairness, the only fishing the cat seems to do is for compliments about its food (and rightly so).
There was also a quick dash to Pézenas, complete with BBQ at my friends Gérard and Ferry’s place. They split their year between there and elsewhere, but rest assured the grill was firmly full-time.
Back home, the pool hosted its own highlight: a Sunday lunch party. Plans for next year’s Le Mans 24h (June 2026) were enthusiastically hatched after a few bottles. Not by me, of course – I’m the sober scribe of this story. Which explains why I’m now the one holding the planning file.
As the month wound down, so did the temperatures. The evenings turned cool, even cold. I stubbornly stuck with shorts and short sleeves… and promptly earned myself a cold. Lesson learned: Mother Nature does not hand out sympathy to optimists in summer clothing.
So, August 2025: quieter, sober, tasty, sandy, and just a little sniffly. Bring on September – but this time, maybe with a jacket.
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Ah, août… Ce mois où tout le monde file en vacances – sauf chez moi. Pas de visiteurs cette fois-ci, un vrai calme plat. Le frigo a soufflé, la cave est restée tranquille, et le canapé m’a regardé avec gratitude.
Côté boisson, toujours abstinent. À la fin du mois, ça fait neuf semaines pile sans lever le coude. Si ça continue, Guinness va finir par m’envoyer une carte “Reviens vite, tu nous manques !”.
Mais bon, sobriété ne veut pas dire enfermement. J’ai quand même fait quelques sorties au resto. Le clou, c’était la dernière escapade de la saison à la plage : direction Hospitalet Beach à Narbonne-Plage, sûrement ma préférée. Soleil, sable, poisson grillé… que demander de plus ?
Autre découverte : Le Chat qui Pêche à Argeliers, à une cinquantaine de kilomètres. Rien que le nom me fait sourire. Le chat pêche, mais surtout, il sert bien à table ! Franchement, ça valait le détour.
Petite virée aussi à Pézenas, avec un barbecue chez mes amis Gérard et Ferry (quand ils ne sont pas là-bas, c’est ailleurs – des vrais migrateurs, mais avec des saucisses à la grille !).
Et puis, fin août, une belle journée festive à la maison autour de la piscine. L’ambiance était bonne, les bouteilles aussi (mais sans moi). Résultat : entre deux plongeons, on a lancé des plans pour les 24 Heures du Mans en juin 2026. J’ai pas bu, mais c’est moi qui me retrouve à organiser… cherchez l’erreur !
Enfin, le temps s’est rafraîchi d’un coup le soir. Moi, fidèle à mon short et mes manches courtes, j’ai gagné un petit rhume en prime. Moralité : dans le Midi comme ailleurs, quand le soleil se couche, il faut sortir la veste.
Bref, août 2025 : calme, sobre, gourmand, ensoleillé… et un peu enrhumé. Vivement septembre – mais cette fois, avec un pull sous le bras !
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Der Monat, der war – August 2025
Ach, der August… Der Monat, in dem alle ans Meer oder in die Berge verschwinden – nur bei mir war es ruhig. Keine Besucher, nur ich, mein Sofa und ein stiller Kühlschrank. Herrlich.
Alkoholfrei bleibe ich natürlich weiterhin. Am Monatsende waren es genau 9 Wochen ohne Alkohol. Ich glaube, Guinness wird mir bald mal eine “Wir vermissen dich”-Karte schicken.
Aber alkoholfrei heißt nicht, dass ich zu Hause geblieben bin. Ich war ein paar Mal essen, unter anderem zum letzten Strandtag der Saison an meinem Lieblingsplatz: Hospitalet Beach in Narbonne-Plage. Sonne, Sand, Meeresfrüchte – einfach perfekt.
Eine weitere Entdeckung war Le Chat qui Pêche in Argeliers, etwa 50 km entfernt. Der Name klingt witzig, der Rest ist richtig lecker – absolut einen Ausflug wert!
Außerdem gab es einen kurzen Abstecher nach Pézenas für ein BBQ bei meinen Freunden Gérard und Ferry (die verbringen mindestens die Hälfte des Jahres dort). Fleisch auf dem Grill, gute Laune – was will man mehr?
Zu Hause fand dann am vorletzten Sonntag des Monats noch eine kleine Poolparty statt. Die Pläne für die 24 Stunden von Le Mans im Juni 2026 entstanden nach ein paar Flaschen – nicht von mir natürlich, ich war der nüchterne Planer. Jetzt habe ich also das Organisationsheft in der Hand.
Und dann wurde es abends richtig kühl. Ich, stur in Shorts und T-Shirt, habe mir prompt eine Erkältung eingefangen. Lektion gelernt: Auch im Sommer sollte man die langen Sachen nicht vergessen.
Fazit: August 2025 – ruhig, alkoholfrei, lecker, sonnig… und ein bisschen erkältet. Auf nach September – diesmal mit einer Jacke!
Sipping my morning coffee today, peacefully watching the world fall apart one international headline at a time, I had an alarming revelation—I haven’t posted anything in five days. Five. Days. That’s practically a digital sabbatical in my book. Unheard of. I’m not saying I was missed like a Kardashian at a camera convention, but still… unusual.
Truth is, last week was suspiciously quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you think, “Either something big is coming, or I accidentally activated stealth mode on my life.”
And then it hit me: it’s summer’s end. You can tell by the mass migration of sunburnt humans desperately fleeing the coast and returning to reality, honking their way back into traffic jams and existential dread. Judging by the tailbacks, I predict next weekend will be even worse—possibly featuring the collapse of civilisation in the Lidl car park.
Despite the risk of being absorbed into this rolling automotive apocalypse, we dared to take a road trip to Pézenas on Saturday. Rebel move. No motorways, no sat-nav tantrums. We took only the secondary roads through the Minervois, a choice that was half French romance, half GPS roulette. It took longer, yes, but the views were lovely and—according to the traffic reports—we made the right call. Plus, nobody cried, swore, or questioned the life choices that led to us sitting behind a tractor for 14 km. A win.
The day was spent at Gerard & Ferry’s, where the BBQ was sizzling and the pool was more inviting than a politician’s promises during election week. We ate, we swam, we floated around like lazy otters with better wine. The return trip home was via motorway, and we made such good time I briefly considered buying a lottery ticket.
Then came Sunday. Our turn to host. Eight guests arrived bang on time—clearly aware that punctuality earns you an extra margarita. I debuted my new invention: the Spicy Margarita Rosé. Yes, it sounds like something Martha Stewart might drunkenly invent on live TV, but it was a hit. Judging by the alarming number of empty wine bottles I now have to recycle, the crowd was enthusiastically hydrated.
Now, I’m still holding strong on the dry spell—70 days in and still alcohol-free. Someone, somewhere, cue a slow clap. This allowed me to observe the party in full clarity, and somewhere between the cheese course and the impromptu debating society that formed around whether Le Mans is more “authentic” than Formula 1, a major decision was made: We’re going to the 24 Hours of Le Mans next year.
I’ll be coaching three newbies, which means I’ll need to create an itinerary that balances high-octane racing with enough wine and cheese to qualify as a UNESCO heritage experience. Challenge accepted.
This week has so far been uneventful, unless you count lunch with my brother yesterday where we tried to summarise an entire summer in one sitting without descending into interpretive dance. He’s been away most of the season, and I had to bring him up to speed: pool parties, cocktail inventions, minor traffic miracles.
Tomorrow, however, the yearly Feria kicks off—the official farewell party for summer. Four days of music, dancing, wine (not for me), and rain (definitely for me). Yes, it rained last night. Just enough to let us know that the infernal heat has passed and it’s time to start pretending we love “cozy autumn vibes.” Still, we might just score a golden Indian Summer, which is like Mother Nature saying, “My bad, here’s a bit more sunshine before I ruin your life with November.”
But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. All eyes are now on next week’s holiday to Ireland. We’re meeting two other couples—one from the UK and one from Germany—in Dublin, and from there, launching a scenic booze-tinged tour of the Emerald Isle: Belfast, Bushmills, Donegal, Galway, Kilkenny, and back to Dublin. Whiskey distilleries are on the agenda, which will likely mark the end of my noble dry streak.
I’ve even started the pre-Ireland ritual: staring blankly at my wardrobe, trying to decide if I still own a waterproof coat that doesn’t make me look like a lost fisherman or a depressed tour guide. Ireland waits for no one—and definitely not for someone packing only linen shirts and optimism.
Stay tuned. Adventures await. Raincoats will be tested. Whiskey will flow. And most importantly—I’ve officially broken the five-day blog silence. You may now exhale.
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Silence radion, BBQ, bouchons et fin d’été brutale
En sirotant mon café ce matin – tout en regardant le monde sombrer, titre de presse internationale après titre de presse internationale – j’ai eu une révélation brutale : je n’ai rien posté depuis cinq jours. Cinq. Jours. Une éternité dans mon monde. À ce rythme-là, on pourrait croire que j’ai été enlevé par une secte de minimalistes digitaux.
La vérité, c’est que la semaine dernière a été… étrangement calme. Trop calme. Le genre de calme qui te fait te demander si la vie ne t’a pas mis en mode silencieux sans prévenir.
Et là, le déclic : la fin de l’été est là. On le sent au grand exode de vacanciers rouges écrevisses, regagnant la civilisation à contrecœur dans des embouteillages philosophiques. Et vu l’état des routes le week-end dernier, je pense que celui qui vient sera encore pire. Possiblement la fin du monde dans un parking de Lidl.
Mais bon, n’écoutant que notre courage (et pas les alertes Bison Futé), on a pris la voiture samedi direction Pézenas. Objectif : éviter l’enfer autoroutier en prenant uniquement les routes secondaires à travers le Minervois. Oui, ça a pris un peu plus de temps, mais honnêtement ? Entre les infos trafic apocalyptiques et les paysages splendides, on a clairement fait le bon choix. Pas de klaxons, pas de sueurs froides, pas de crise existentielle derrière un camping-car allemand. Tranquillité absolue.
Journée chez mes amis Gérard et Ferry, où le BBQ était au top et la piscine plus accueillante qu’un mojito en période de canicule. On a mangé, nagé, flotté, somnolé. Le retour s’est fait par l’autoroute cette fois, et on a battu notre record de vitesse (dans les limites légales, bien sûr… à peu près).
Dimanche, c’était à notre tour de recevoir. Les huit invités sont arrivés à l’heure – probablement motivés par la promesse de cocktails. J’ai pu servir ma toute nouvelle création : le Spicy Margarita Rosé. Oui, ça sonne comme une expérience ratée dans un bar branché du Marais, mais je vous jure, c’était un succès fulgurant. Et vu le nombre de bouteilles vides qui traînent aujourd’hui, on peut dire que l’hydratation a été… sérieusement prise au sérieux.
Pour ma part, je suis toujours en mode zéro alcool, 70 jours pile. Oui, vous avez bien lu. Sobre comme un moine en cure. Cela m’a permis d’observer la scène avec une clarté presque inquiétante. À un moment donné, entre le fromage et les débats passionnés sur les mérites comparés du Mans et de la F1, une décision majeure a été prise : on va au 24h du Mans l’an prochain.
Je vais devoir coacher trois novices, ce qui veut dire : prévoir un programme mêlant vitesse, vin et victuailles. Rien que d’y penser, j’ai envie de créer un PowerPoint.
Cette semaine, rien de folichon à signaler. Déjeuner avec mon frère hier, pour faire un résumé express de l’été. Lui, il était loin pendant la saison, donc il a fallu que je le mette à jour : apéros, piscines, routes bucoliques, margaritas épicées… la totale.
Demain démarre la Feria annuelle, qui marque officiellement la fin de l’été. Quatre jours de musique, de fête, de bandas, et bien sûr… de pluie. Oui, elle est arrivée hier soir. Pas un déluge, mais suffisamment pour que l’on sente que le grand chaud est fini. Espérons quand même un bel été indien, histoire de retarder l’arrivée de l’automne déprimant version boue et rhume.
Mais pour l’instant, tous les regards se tournent vers la semaine prochaine, avec notre départ en vacances en Irlande. On retrouve deux autres couples – l’un venant du sud-ouest de l’Angleterre, l’autre du nord de l’Allemagne – à Dublin, point de départ de notre tour de l’île : Belfast, Bushmills, Donegal, Galway, Kilkenny… et retour à Dublin. Quelques distilleries sont sur notre chemin, ce qui risque de coïncider, comme par magie, avec la fin de ma sobriété légendaire.
Je commence déjà à scruter mon placard à la recherche d’un imperméable digne de ce nom, quelque part entre l’élégance britannique et le style “pêcheur breton désabusé”.
Voilà pour les nouvelles. Le silence de cinq jours est officiellement rompu.
I do it my way 