French Fried

So it's not actually a myth. The French do speak French. It's now become a matter of pointing, smiling and hoping someone takes pity on me. Oh, and some highly comical hand signals.

But I'm managing - if by 'managing' I mean reserving my train ticket by pointing at Nantes on the map, then Tarbes on the map, waving my Eurail ticket around and saying, 'Oui', to everything even slightly pitched as a question.

I just hope there haven't been any marriage proposals... then I'd be in trouble.

I arrived in Nantes with very little trouble, even managed to smuggle out some Irish sand for someone special back home, and was met by Antoine, my couchsurfing host for the night.

Antoine and Virginie. Wonderful people. I thoroughly enjoyed my stay with them in the countryside on the outskirts of Nantes. I went for a walk through the forest, along the river, saw a chateau - a proper one - for the first time, and was chased around by a guy on a lawnmower (no, seriously, I was).

Then, Antoine, Virginie, the moon and I, sat outside in the French evening air. :)

Nantes, France