Limoges

The car coughed and spluttered its way to Limoges, sometimes slowing us to an embarrassing thirty mph when climbing hills on the motorway, a little bit scary when you've got truckers up your back end. My theory is that the automatic choke is faulty meaning too much petrol is getting into the mixture thus partially flooding the engine; but since I know as much about car engines as I do about football I wouldn't say that out loud to another human being.

It was an odd kind of show at the Woodstock Boogie Bar in Limoges - well attended but a little rough mainly due to technical issues (one being that Chris and Katie were technically drinking more wine than they should). I ended up with the private apartment above the venue as accommodation for the night and quite nice it was too, though due to it having the previous tenant's possessions and decor it did feel a bit like sleeping in the bed of someone recently deceased.

We're eating pancakes with nutella spread for breakfast, another example of how surprisingly civilised the French can be the further you get from Paris. The tripe sausages we had at a roadside cafe on the other hand were pretty revolting.