The French Can Be So Cutting...

During our recent holiday Mrs The Millbrooker, Dong, Shazzerooneypoos and I spent a fair amount of time tramping across Breton countryside. Mostly in the right direction; occasionally veering slightly off track.

One such walk has gone down in the annals (that's TWO "n"s, thank you, in the cheap seats) of holiday lore as the "We're Back on Track Walk" because the person in charge of the map (that'll be me then) lost all sense of direction and purpose. The result, of course, was much head scratching and searching for non-existent pathways.
We found some interesting routes, some of which involved using a white cane in a manner for which it was not designed; beating down nettles and brambles to allow the passage of inadequately be-socked legs.
I think I was "volunteered" to go first whilst beating a path as punishment for bad map reading; my lower calves are only just recovering from the ravages of a myriad stinging nettle rashes.

At various points in the walk, though, I was known to observe that "we're back on track, now" before realising with a sinking feeling that we were probably a kilometre or so away from where we should be and facing in the wrong direction.
Mind you, I wasn't the only one wandering around in ever decreasing circles looking aimless. And I did let everyone else check the map as well, so I refuse to take every last inch of the blame.
Eventually, we did reach the safety of relative civilization once again.

But I did think that the signage left for us by the locals was rather cruel. Just because I'd got us a teeny bit lost for a while is no excuse for name calling.