Here lies the king of the mountains, destroyed by St Maxien to Lezay. Mike says his chain fell off, which started his troubles. James says it was the Heineken he put in Mikes bag. We actually had a can each in a shaded area of a public park to celebrate a stretch of continuous climbing in 28c mid afternoon heat, before heading off to Jeff's sister's gite for the night. A good chance to wash clothes, watch the end of a TDF stage and sleep in a comfortable bed. A neighbour, Bobbi,
provided us with chicken legs (sorry James) and a glass of wine later on, giving us her insights on life as an expat in a small rural community. It all sounds a little like the wild west, in that you're either in with the mayor or you're run out of town. A friend of hers had left the village after her spaniels had, in a high spirited moment, torn the Mayors cat to pieces.
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