“Well, that was an interesting drive,” I said.
I used that special tone of voice.
The one reserved for occasions when you know you’ve narrowly avoided becoming a news headline.
The fortress of Montségur stayed wrapped in so much moody cloud that we didn’t realise there was a path that led to the village below. As we drove The Beast down the slick wet hairpins that had given me an anticipatory sleepless night, we found dry tarmac and stone houses bathed in perfectly civilised visibility.
About thirty minutes into our high altitude odyssey, we picked up a hitchhiker.
Eugénie appeared at the roadside with a rucksack, extending a hopeful thumb. Her face lit up at nailing a lift in such a magnificent and unique vehicle, although her state of elation would not survive the journey.
