Our sleepy naval port, usually the scene of dignified holiday makers whose worst transgression is having one beer too many on a Saturday, saw un-Wetlandish scenes of camper vans parked willy-nilly in the grass verges, all the better to be able to watch the racers.
We had a Tour de France party to go to. Very well organized. We got there in blazing sunshine and 26 degrees C. And then this happened:
Our hostess decided she would do her hostess thing anyway, and it was a valiant effort.
But when the thunderstorm started to pelt us with rain and wind force 8, many people decided to find shelter. The temperature dipped to 16 degrees...Then 14 degrees...
We stood our ground. Our daughters shared a hoody and had fun anyway.
I secretly reversed back to my original sentiment: I am not a Tour de France enthusiast, especially not when I get wet through to my skin and cold to boot. Call me a pussy, I don't care.
Later we heard that LeMoulin, Dutch Hope in Fearful Days, had tumbled off his bike and will skip the rest of the Tour. Aw! Stupid, stupid, stupid thunderstorm!