Whatever that means
Drove into the nearby town of Colmar looking for an excuse to sit in the air con and also hoping to find a market to buy some proper atisanale smelly goats cheese and a pile of vegetables for next to nothing. Of course, although madame had said there was a market in Colmar, there wasn’t. Not until tomorrow. Still, the centre of Colmar is full of beautifully preserved buildings, reminiscent of York with the exposed beams and worrying leans and bulges. Very hot wandering around in 32C heat and we felt like rats scurrying between the little bits of shade cast by the buildings or searching for narrow streets where the sun couldn’t reach. Ice creams needed to be eaten quickly before they turned back to milk. Had to start the engine and leave the car running for a while to let the air conditioning bring the temperature down a little.
Back at the campsite, the kids were joined by a small French boy who wanted to play on the swings. Trying to be polite we persuaded them to ask him his name, which seemed to freak the boy out a little. In the end they were chasing him across the grass shouting \quel est votre nom?\” only to look perplexed when he eventually mumbled “Caesar”. That’s not a name that they recognised so they had no idea what he’d said.