An Irishman happily lost in France with no sign of Bonnie Tyler.

Tweet

There’s a tousle-haired weirdo sitting at a small, round table on the pavement outside a café down by the harbour in a small village on the coast of Brittany. All the other customers have sought refuge inside the café, but this particular freak of nature sits in the cold wind, his only source of warmth being the dwindling contents of a bottle of red wine. Beside the bottle is a small bowl that had been filled with a hearty beef and chestnut stew some time before. The winter sunshine thinks about starting to wane. Seagulls wheel and squawk in the blue sky, beside themselves with excitement as small fishing boats return to harbour. The freak fancies himself to be a late nineteenth century romantic poet, but without syphilis. At length, before any awkward verse has been spilled from his mind onto paper, his sister-in-law pulls up in her 2CV to take him back to her house where he’s staying, to eat the breast of one of her ducks.