The intrepid quartet of Millbrook (Dong, Shazzerooneypoos, Mrs The Millbrooker and me) made our collective way across the water on Wednesday last to our wee hidey-hole in rural Brittany.
The purpose of the trip, apart from just chillin' (to use a parlance that proves beyond doubt how hip and down with the kids I am), was to mark the beginning of my forty eighth Earth year by eating and drinking more than might be considered strictly necessary.
We were to be joined a couple of days later by everyone's favourite aristocrat The High Lord of Southwick - but that's for another posting.
As we approached the shores of Breizh, a seafaring man in the employ of Brittany Ferries did flag hoisting duties at the front end of the boat.
And remarkably quickly we drove onto the tarmac of Roscoff ferry terminal where I spotted, to my great excitement, one of Norbert Dentressangle's fine wagons. yes, I know it's sad but we all make our amusements in our own wee ways and bouncing up and down with child-like glee upon spotting a Norbert Dentressangle lorry is one of mine.
You'll have noted the dampness on the ground, a condition that remained for the majority of the following day as well - hey ho, a wet birthday isn't the worst thing in the world.
I awoke with Mrs The Millbrooker keen to make me open presents; I was equally keen to oblige.
I must urge lady readers to control their understandable passions at the next photo, it is merely meant to illustrate birthday morning present opening and not to inflame natural carnal desires.
With it being the first day of holiday, supplies had to be got in, so birthday or no birthday, off to the supermarket it was; we stocked up on lots of yummy looking food and, arguably more importantly, plenty of decent plonk.
Here's Dong making one of his unerringly wise selections at Le Clerc in Carhaix-Plouguer.
I was allowed to open cards and presents once we were back at the ranch.
Here's a cracking card, handmade by The Wizzers of Soz, who seems to have caught the mood of the last few weeks as Wrecker's Morris has become a favourite subject of conversation.
Dong and Shazzerooneypoos generously donated a motion activated cockerel. Yes, really. Call me childish, but I had great fun with it. Still am.
It makes a gloriously irritating cock crow whenever someone walks past it. Noisy "cock-a-doodle-doo" traps were laid throughout the house over the next few days to catch the unwary as they opened a curtain or went to the loo.
The weather was still being inclement, so after attempting an outing which was abandoned as being too damp, we made a trip to a nearby hostelry.
Followed by a trip to even near-er-by hostelry which, for the purposes of this posting shall remain nameless.
Note the lit white thing in Dong's hand as he props up the bar.
Ah, yes, France might well have an all encompassing smoking ban, just like the UK; it is, however, roundly ignored in lots of countryside bars - the owners are as often as not to be found puffing away behind the bar despite the possibility of a monstrously crippling fine of they get caught.
Make your own judgements, I merely report as fact.
We intended to have a birthday feast at La Rotonde (one of my favourite restaurants in Carhaix) but it was unexpectedly closed, so we went to another of my faves: Ty Gwechall. Here's Mrs The Millbrooker about to tuck into a yummy looking gallette. Followed by an interior shot of the lovely little creperie.
One last ritual had to be observed, and a cake was duly forthcoming. I don't actually like cake very much, so we replaced the traditional sponge or fruitcake with a yummy fresh glazed fruit concoction.
Apart from the bottle or three of wine and several nightcaps that was the day done with. And there was sunshine to come.....but that's another story (which will be accompanied by photos of a, probably, more attractive nature featuring Breton countryside and the like).