Cro-magnon man

I’m mid-way through a family holiday in France and their love of all things old fashioned means that the internet coverage and free WiFi availability are more or less nonexistent. I suspect that the French philosophy on this sort of thing is that their way is better. Sometimes this is right, sometimes wrong; Citroen DS, Simca, the way French girls smoke cigarettes, hairy armpits, the price of wine, the price of motorway tolls, the price of fireworks, the price of tea. You get the picture.

Our soundtrack for the holiday is now that’s what I call summer. Perfect plastic pop to pass the days with. That and Katy Perry promising to get me in my birthday suit and to bring out the big balloons means that work and home life are a distant memory.

I’ve had a week of running around the sand dunes and flat oyster beds of Ile D’Oléron where my biggest worry was why the French made you wear budgie smugglers to the pool. My upper limit on the runs was about 9 miles – mainly because it’s a family holiday and the competing pressures of kids, wine, wife and forgetting about life are all due my attention after a long year. The good news is I could run on for miles more and my energy levels are good. Now all I need is a drive to train for something long.
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Week 2 is underway in campsite no. 2. This one is outside the mediaeval village (tourist trap) of Sarlat in the Dordogne and to call it a campsite is about as appropriate as calling this a running blog. The accommodation we’re in (constant arguments about whether it’s a chalet, a caravan, a mobile home or a cabin) is so new and big we almost refused it at the start. Air con, ensuite, deck the size of Texas, leather sofas, built in kitchen. It’s better than home! The only certain thing is the cleaning deposit will be lost.

I’ve only ventured out for a short 5 miler so far but the good news (from a running front) is that we’re up the arse of nowhere and surrounded by hills so my week of running on the flat will be balanced with a week of sweating in the hills. Being miles from anywhere is great for the soul but a not so great for forgetting a pint of milk.

Still, onwards and upwards.

The blog title refers to the fact that this neck of the woods is where our ancestors grew up (proof we’re all descendants of the French I suppose- something to use in your defence when you try a new sexual move on your wife while smelling of garlic) and the area is dotted with cave dwellings and lots of stone age stuff. The empty spaces this week will be filled with the parents wrestling the devices from the children’s faces and whining at them about the troglodyte culture that surrounds them. The constant struggle between the near (iPod) and far (origins of man).

Laters

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