Chez Cesarine Holiday Diary

Rudely awoken at what seemed like a very early hour by a gang of screaming children jumping on bed. Removed earplugs and eyeshield and crawled out of bed and caromed into wall. Realisation that we had only a few hours to pack and leave gradually dawned. At breakfast certain individuals were attempting to disguise their self-inflicted suffering through bravado and there was no time for a run to the boulangerie.

After several cups of black coffee, I endeavoured to strip beds, pack my bags and clean the bathroom out. No particular plans had been formulated for the evacuation of the property and needless to stay Angie ended up doing a lot of it until Madam Hamon arrived to assist. In an inspired move the night before, Nige had packed most of his kit into the Maestro, which had acquired TARDIS-like qualities after he had removed the carpets from the boot, filling every available cavity with cornichons wine and sausages. For subsequent trips he bought a trailer!

Gavin set up stall in the yard outside the backdoor on a small card table and started to prepare the final holiday accounts. Much counting of coins and shuffling of chits, thats chits with a C, and income and expenditure analysis followed. When the figures were reconciled and balanced, the masses were summoned. Despite scant regard to the essentials of budgetary control during the holiday, amazingly a rebate was issued to all concerned. Gavin must be the Paul Daniels of accounting circles.

At that point the next family arrived and were perhaps a little intrigued to be met by such a welcoming party with the head honcho sitting magisterially at a table near the entrance dispensing largesse. It was good to hear a common tongue again even if they were from Essex. Pleasantries were exchanged but they had arrived too early so we turned them away and told them to come back when we had gone. Eventually, after what seemed an age we were packed up and ready to go.

Our ferry back to Plymouth was from Roscoff, but we were not due to sail until the next day so we drove to St Pol de Leon which is close to Roscoff, where we had planned to stay over for the night. There was an air of irritability; everyone was weary from the bacchanalian excesses of the previous evening and the nerve-fraying tension of leaving, this coupled to the anticlimactic gloom of the end of the holiday.