residents are sipping coffee and munching fresh croissants when the
stillness is broken as nearly 3 litres of the MoCo's finest iron rides
into town. Actually, my bike is a nice legal version but H, who should
know better, has retro-fitted a pair of shotguns. The result sounds
like a Lewis machine gun on full chat. An unfortunate similarity for
the flat acres of the Somme. H decided he could not remember where the
farmhouse of his youth was. Personally, having been told more detail
of his exchange visit last night with the addition of some snippets
about the farmers daughter, I think I frightened him with visions of
thirty year old offspring ready to shake him warmly by the throat.
So, without more ado, we headed to Amiens for breakfast.
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