One or two of them took photos which they e-mailed me later which had the effect that most photos of myself do, which is to make me quite certain that I should never be seen outside the house again, or not without a burkha, and that unphotographed web presence only is probably the best way forward from now on. ( No seemingly fished-for compliments please; the best response was once from my very gallant brother-in-law, who said "Well, that's what you look like. What do you think it's like for the rest of us having to see you all the time?")
When I came out and met up with Tom, it was wet but perfectly manageable, until we hit the high ground inland round about Quèssoy, and from then on it got more and more hazardous, far worse than in the morning, so that we nearly finished up in the ditch with rather a long way to walk home a couple of times. We cancelled the second party of the day at the Quiet American's and B's, I cancelled my last lesson tomorrow with The Beautiful Maxime, and now we are officially snowed in. We have plenty of wood in the shed, a full gas bottle, food in the freezer and wine in the hall, a warm and very excited dog (she loves snow even though she ends up with intractable pom-poms of it all over her legs), and it's really rather a shame it'll probably all be slush and meltwater in a couple of days. We feel sorry we missed the party, which may have been postponed until tomorrow anyway, though in fact I was rather full of terrine and cake aux olives and bûche de Noël from lunchtime anyway, but there is really no question of getting out of our village tonight, much less getting home again safely.
So there was nothing left to do but don wellies and get out and photograph it.
(Above is Bel Air, the highest point in Cotes d'Armor, don't you know...)
Or, equally, stay inside and photgraph it through the windows,
or even stick your face in it, because stuff smells good in it. Even though it does give you pom-poms.