La Route des Airs

It's the first time in at least 20 years that our summer season has not been rounded off by Jean Santandrea and friends. Instead we had Breton group La Route des Airs. A good substitute, with a lively set that would have had people dancing in the aisles had it not been for Covid. They are excellent musicians: special mention to the bass player and the saxophonist. Have a listen here. And more photos right from here. Afterwards we had a drink in the bar with them.

Earlier: to the vet with Mystère whose ear had not sorted itself overnight. Monday is not a good day to go: they are swamped with hunters who have shot or otherwise wounded their dogs over the weekend. They squeezed me in at 6 p.m., but when I arrived there were already ten people in the waiting room. Most of them with dogs, to Mystère's displeasure. But only one of them was peppered with lead shot, to the tune of a 200-euro vet's bill.

We eventually emerged at 7 p.m. with antibiotics and, unfortunately, a Cone of Shame. Mystère has never worn one of these; the last time the vet tried it a few years ago, he managed to extract himself from it during the 15-minute drive home, so I decided he'd earned the right not to wear it. This time he failed, so he spent the evening bumbling around crashing into things. Dinner was tiny bits of ham individually fed by hand, since he couldn't figure out how to eat otherwise. The vet reckons he has to keep it for a week, but I don't think we're going to last that long.