Rogered (de Bussy-Rabutin)

Everywhere is up from where we're staying. It makes for a rather immediate raising of the heart rate when you hit a half kilometre 15-20% slope within 30 seconds of leaving the front door, but it at least means you've earned the croissant and baguette bought en route on the return (and you may have guessed the gf life has gone to pot this week).

A brief loop takes in the local aerodrome entrance and a great segregated cycle lane out to the Lac du Pont. The French love their manmade activity lakes, which I guess is understandable when you're so far from the sea. Defining a tiny rubble shore as a 'beach' seems to take things a little far, however, but maybe we're just spoiled in Scotland.

While out Mel gets up and spots the kingfisher from our balcony, then later as I clear up the breakfast paraphernalia it lands three feet from her elbow (before realising she's there and makes a sharp exit). My wildlife luck (save the day cycling on the canal) really needs to kick in on this trip, but heading into the Morvan I'm hoping for a shift in fortunes.

We head out from Quarré-les-Tombes, in the north of the regional park, as the baking sun cranks up the heat. We take in rutted narrow paths between fields, with overhanging branches and brambles; quiet country roads with rogue wild hops growing up telegraph poles; seemingly abandoned and stacked beehives still swarming with the industrious critters; we skirt the edge of a deer field, and spot, briefly, the safeguarded captives inside; we send crickets fluttering and pinging as they enjoy the intensifying heat; and we hear, but fail to see, a succession of jays.

The walk is about 10km, and is a pleasant mix, with pretty much the entirety to ourselves. We only take one wrong turn, requiring a backtrack, after a minor misreading of the French directions, the correct reading of which didn't correspond with the marking on the route (there is an excellent system in this country for marking walking routes, which we've followed many a time before, but it can sometimes got a little awry). But I'm beginning to feel like some sort of reverse Dr Doolittle, with the lack of truly interesting wildlife. There's still time. Still time.

* * *

Chateau Bussy-Rabutin is by no means the grandest in the area, but is surely one of the most charming. Unlike it's slightly rogue-ish original owner. Roger de Bussy-Rabutin appears to have had something of a caustic wit, something which saw him banged up in the Bastille, with his wife leaving him in that time, presumably through sheer boredom. We get to the castle after a brief discussion in the ticket office (the only time so far someone has launched into English) about how the lady behind the counter would visit Scotland if it got independence and stayed in the EU. The sun is shining, and the little (?) building is looking stunning.

The driveway in front rises slightly, giving a great view of the turreted ends, and the picture postcard setting. Inside there is a welcome retreat from the heat, with sparsely, but interestingly decorated, rooms. The walls are covered with painted representations of other grand chateaux, then royals, and members of the Rabutin clan.

The cutting tongue of Roger, the one which got him locked up, then under house arrest in this provincial backwater, is also on display. One room is decorated with paintings of ladies of the court, under which Roger has added commentaries such as, 'X's beauty is not as famous as the uses to which she put it'. Not necessarily that scathing by modern standards, but in the days of Louis XIV this type of thing could cause a storm.

The gardens are small (and carrying on my wildlife curse there are no promised Mandarin Ducks in the moat) but give pleasant views out over the valley and the facing Bussy-le-Grand, and also contain a little maze, which you simply follow to the centre with no turn choices available. But you can imagine Roger having some fun in there...

* * *

There's time for a meander down some country lanes to take us over to Flavigny-sur-Ozerain again, and a chance to see the Chocolat setting in the sun. All is quiet, save for a few straggling tourists, taking in the peace.

* * *

Contact from home as Mel receives a text from her dad. If it had started with 'I thought I'd lost one of the chickens today' it would have been fine, but it said, 'Lost one of the chickens today'. Thoughts turned to fox visits, but it turns out he simply couldn't find one of the new girls, despite shaking a tin of corn for her. Turns out she was parked on the wall at the back of the garden. Seems all of our animals start acting funny when we're not looking after them - we've never had the chooks jump up on the wall, and apparently the cat wakes him at 5 every morning. Odd.

* * *

In the evening, with Mel in bed, I finally get round to entering the cross season series races. Five of the seven, but only just over a week to the first non-series race of the year. Not sure the new bike is going to be ready, sadly.