Our first three nights were spent in Bordeaux, with a friend we see every year or so, Craig (or Ferret to some readers), and another we see every time we step into Northbridge (NB: we walk through NB* everyday), Michael (or Hanlin, Handbag or “suit guy” to some readers…although he may not be aware of that particular nickname).

*NB: NB doesn’t usually stand for Northbridge, except the one place I used it in above, so please revert to custom Latin anagrams from now on.

Although, physically and emotionally affected by jet lag, we had a nice start with a cruise (although lack of booze being not so idillic) and a lovely dinner together, in a beautiful restaurant, with lovely hostess…albeit well aware of the contrast that was about to show itself in the form of suit guy and the ferret who turned up at 10pm and 11.30pm respectively.

Waking peacefully on our first morning, after a lovely sleep on European pillows, which are as useful as…….a stupid pillow…on a bed…(I’m too tired to come up with similes!) to the sound of of “workers”, who by now we know only “work” on Sat mornings from 7-9am in Europe, we couldn’t help but think, “thank <insert deity> we’re not running a marathon today!”  Well, three of us got to think that at least.

Congratulations to Hanlin, he actually ran a marathon. It doesn’t matter how much wine, beef and oysters were consumed en route (French), he finished within the required time, which is more than any of you have ever done…apart from those of you I’m well aware have done…and more. BUT, did you do it drunk, in green face, with a crown and some form of adult ADD?? Maybe, I didn’t see you do it, but it sounds somewhat unlikely.

Oh…it turns out not only didn’t we see any of you run a marathon, but we also didn’t see Hanlin do it either. We missed the train. After a sprint of our own along platforms 1-9 looking for platform A, only to see the sign at #9 indicating A, B and C are just before #1, I could almost hear the “hor hor hor”s of the French transport workers who meticulously designed the station just to confuse foreigners.

So with literally no other options, other than hope and a 200E taxi ride, we were forced to accept that we wouldn’t attend the climax of an event that was sure to be awful for spectators anyway…and foreigners…particularly those with a fear of red vomit, French or marathon runners. So the three of us, instead, parted ways, Craig “my favourite pub is the one I can see right now” went to the closest pub he could find with rugby, soccer and all the accompanying elements you’re currently picturing, while the Stewarts went to the Cite du Vin…quelle surprise (French). Where, after 2 days in Bordeaux and a wander around what should have been his favourite ever museum, James finally got to taste a Bordeaux blend. And it was Chinese. Qu’est-ce qui se passe! (French) WTF (English). It seems we’ve done something seriously wrong to upset Dionysus.

After a quick beer at the Austra pub (the only semi-Australian pub in town, which must have been the closest pub to Craig at the time) with Craig, we all had dinner with the Frog Prince…a position you need to be careful of being in here, all the frogs are legless and the Princes headless. Although, it could be said that at least one of those is an apt description here.

James and Lea passed out, missed many a phone call and were awoken by Craig in a panic trying to avoid the prostitutes downstairs…yep.  We couldn’t help but think of the poor lady downstairs, whom we assumed worked at the bakery write something about yeast and/or buns and/or ovens being fed up with the AirBNBers upstairs banging (sorry…I won’t touch that…eww…or that) on the door every night and running away scared.

The following day started with James telling Lea, I don’t think today will go to plan (with slightly different wording), with Lea laughing back with, “I’ve known that for weeks…idiots (French)”. After missing out on a root above a (potential) brothel, we almost very nearly missed out on a drink in the largest wine region in France

An hour on the train to a French town, on a Sunday…somehow the plan didn’t work out. One person wasn’t surprised. We managed to find ONE cellar open for tasting of TWO wines per person! Because anymore is “IMPOSSIBLE”, despite the plethora of glasses, open bottles of wine and thirsty-willing-to-pay tourists

Anyway, without commenting on the French’s ability to say “impossible” about the simplest of tasks halting their progress over the last few hundred years, we went away with wine and, more importantly plastic cups (alas no toothpicks to help budge the Medoc tannins) to drink in the bleachers of the rugby field next to the train station.  In a very Grease, meets Breakfast Club, meets rugby move (Invictus? Maybe not) meets a bunch or unorganised idiots in the Medoc moment.

After some train drinking (which in France gets smiles from the conductors, an interesting contrast to Australia where it’s the last remaining Capital Punishment) we had “lunch” in a beautiful square in in Bordeaux. James had only recently started a regime of skipping meals, to ensure his clothes lasted the full 2 weeks, which was made a lot easier at the chosen “restaurant”. Particularly when the confit canard (French) resembled a rubber ducky out of luke warm child’s bath and made you question whether it had been used to make a reduction that went into the Canard bottle in the bathroom.

After lunch, 2 went for naps and 2 had a drink at home…and then went to find more drinks and play in a fountain drinking 9% beers. I won’t tell who, but there ends my memory of Bordeaux. And the other is pretty obvious. It wasn’t Lea…or Craig.