It was midday before we left town this morning, stopping at the market to buy two quarter pieces of roast chicken and some potatoes cooked in their juices. The sun was up, and it was hot. Very, hot. We struggled to find any shade and as we cycled we couldn't believe a few days ago it had been raining. By four thirty the heat had beaten us, it was now in the thirties. The cool air drifting from the river Loire that ran alongside was welcome during the evening. John cooked himself chorizo with some chicken of the woods he'd foraged earlier. Ten minutes later he was violently sick. Chicken of the woods, chorizo or too much sun the cause. Who knows?
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