Three shot wonder

Two points about our main holiday this year. Firstly, we went in June rather than September; and secondly, we had no internet access for over two weeks. So this blog, while drafted in France, was not posted until we were back in England.

Yes, we went to France again; in fact to Brittany, where we’ve had a number of good holidays in the past, but in a totally new area in Finistere.

So there we were, in a Breton supermarket, standing in front of an expansive selection of ciders. There were Normandy ciders (virtually foreign), generic Breton ciders (regional), and local ciders from five kilometres down the road ….

We have a favourite from previous holidays, but Luc asked “So what’s the difference?” “Well, there’s really only one way to find out”.

So we bought three bottles of an unfamiliar Breton cider. Why three bottles? One to form a first opinion, the second to confirm it, and the third to confirm when you’re in a different mood.

So, after a day at a complex where old crafts were demonstrated, we were sitting in front of the wood-burner in the late evening, when I opened the first one. Or rather, I removed the wire cage…..

Normally I’m quite good at opening sparkling wines, but as I looked at this one I registered that the cork was moving of its own accord.

A loud bang, followed by another, then a dull thud. The cats left by the window (yes, it was open). The cork had shot out, hit and dented the wooden ceiling, and landed on the floor by me.

The cider wasn’t bad.

The following night, after a day at a botanic garden, we decided to have the second with our supper. The wire cage was removed …. Followed by a loud bang, followed by another, then silence. The cats disappeared through the open door. The cork had shot out, hit something, and completely disappeared. We hunted for it for ten minutes or so, then gave up and drank the cider. It still wasn’t bad.

Later that evening, I found the cork. I should explain that the bathroom in the cottage was downstairs, off the main living area, and we had left the door open to air it. The cork must have bounced off the main cross beam running across the ceiling of the cottage and gone through the open door of the bathroom. No prizes for guessing where it landed.

The following day, after a morning at a local market and an afternoon at a chocolate makers, we got home in time to spend the late afternoon in the garden. As the temperature started to fall, we decided to open the third bottle of cider. I insisted this was done outside, well away from the cottage.

There was a loud bang, and both cats hot-footed it inside.

I then walked down the garden, pacing out how far the cork had flown. About 15 metres. The cider still wasn’t bad, but we agreed not to have any of it in the car for the drive home.

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On a different matter, Dyson proudly presented his first ‘souris’ on the inside mat within two hours of our arrival. The second one, also brought indoors, came later that evening. After that, he got the idea that ‘les souris’ belong outside, so he left them on the patio. He got eight that we know of. Il sourit.