When I booked a weekend in Brittany over Easter I figured that we were due some nice weather after the floods and general winter gloom . . . WRONG! Leaving the ferry at Roscoff - after forgetting to put my phone forward by an hour so we had to panic-dress in the confines of the phone-box sized cabin and forego breakfast - we were met with an icy blast from the Russian Steppe. Too early (8 am) to check in to the Hotel so deposited our luggage and were persuaded to have a cafe by the receptionist, who helpfully looked up the weather and informed us that snow was forecast. So, thus fortified, we set out to find breakfast. After one lap of Roscoff, looking for a cafe that wasn't packed to the rafters with bank holiday Brits off the ferry sheltering from the wind, we found ourselves back where we started for petit dejeuner.
Later . . . We ventured forth. It snowed on us. Got to Morlaix too early for lunch so dove into another cafe for hot drinks, then straight into the restaurant for plat du jour, where S warmed her frost-bitten fingers on her dinner plate. Now, let me tell you about S's circulation - she doesn't seem to have any in the extremities of hand and foot. This is unpleasant at the best of times when I inadvertently come into contact with her foot in bed which sucks all the heat from anything it touches, but when her hands get cold they look like those a corpses must after all circulation has stopped - the hand of the grim reaper - and come slowly back to life in front of one's eyes like an experiment of Victor Frankenstein's.