The Brompton must be oiled for the winter. Until the next year it’s going to be stored folded and greased.
It’s the hunting season in France and it makes me sick. Indigenous people used to hunt for survival. It was hard and dangerous. Not fun. Today people kill for the fun of it. To experience some sort of exaltation over the murder of a defenseless creature.
By definition, such behavior is a mental illness. Every would be hunter should register with a Psychiatrist for a compulsory course of Haloperidol treatment. Because killing for fun is literally sick.
I don’t even understand how it can be fun. The process is so mechanical, it’s not much different from a slaughterhouse. The scared animals are chased by the dogs in the direction of the shooters who kill them as they get closer. It’s execution.
The public never cease to amaze me either.
When a moronic dentist kills Cecil the Lion all America is outraged. The poor idiot has to go underground as he is receiving death threats.
But ask yourself: what’s the difference? Why killing a lion is a crime, but killing other animals, like deer, boars, stags, rabbits, foxes, etc. etc. is just a fine entertainment ?
OK, you stand with a gun where the bike is, and the dogs chase your animals from the little grove the background – right in front of you. So that you could amuse yourself by killing them. Seriously, you need Haloperidol.
I jotted this schedule to avoid Paris. Spending a few hours on a train to Bordeaux seemed like a good idea: these trains are larger than the TGV so you can do some work. It’s easier to load / unload the bicycle as well. In fact, all the three seats in my row were vacant so I was able to take a good nap from Marseille to Toulouse.
However, there is some train collision which messes up the entire network. I arrive in Bordeaux 55 minutes late. My train to Poitier has left. I have about one hour until the next train. Which is also late! So I have some time for a beer.
Finally, I am on the TGV for Paris Montparnasse. Two minutes after the train pulls off the platform somebody throws a massive rock in my window. WOW. There are some angry people in France.
The conductor calls the police and they make me move to a different seat (the cracked window is just fine with me but they insist).
By the time I arrive in Poitiers it’s pitch-black and raining. I barely manage to hop on the last train for Montmorillon. 40 minutes later I am on my bicycle on the night road to L.T.
It’s drizzling but I feel good. Because of the clouds and water mist there is diffusion of light in the air. So you can actually see the edge of the road.
It’s much worse when it is crystal clear and there’s no moon. The black skies absorb all the light from the earth. When it happens you can’t see the road at all. You vanish in this overwhelming darkness! But not this time