We had a very pleasant day in Tarragona yesterday. The Roman town and amphitheatre there are as impressive in their own way as Carcassonne, and the city itself is very pretty. We are thinking of going back on Monday to watch the human towers display, but apparently the crowds are absolutely horrendous, so we haven’t made up our minds yet. There are some good activities on site, so I’ve been playing Paddle tennis, which is a somewhat strange hybrid of tennis and squash, and doing some archery.
The campsite has suddenly filed up for the weekend with hundreds of people from Barcelona. I know that there is at least one other English family here because I heard the following conversation in the gents this morning. I was sitting on the throne, and several other cubicles were occupied. The usual trumpet involuntary was taking place when suddenly a blast to stifle all completion rung out. There was a short pause, after which the proud voice of a little girl of about three rang out, proudly explaining “My Dad done the biggest fart, and he’s not even having a poo!” This was quickly followed by some desperate shushing and a very rapid departure from the arena.
A little verse I wrote while sitting contentedly near Cahors, just after we had arrived and set up for the evening:-
Life’s pretty good
Sitting here beneath a tree, life seems pretty good to me
Sun is shining, chair reclining, soon we’ll start to think of dining
Birds soft-calling, warm-stone walling,
Zephyr of breeze or water falling?
No more driving, done with striving,
Gone the stresses of arriving
Nowhere that we have to be
Just warmth and peace and you and me,
Drinking tea beneath this tree.