Woke to a rather pleasant woman bumbling in with a jug of good but cold coffee which Richard ordered last night. Weather looked dark and had rained during night. Checked out, leaving the Loire Valley behind us and heading into Puy area.
We decided to book a motel in Clermont as we had had our fair share of luxury. This was our cheapest at €59 for the night. It was a simple drive to Clermont which is a huge industrial town in the volcanic Massif Centrale Area of France. It is here that many spas such as Vichy are close to, and Volvic water is bottled here also.
It is also the home of Michelin and the portly mascot of Bibendum is everywhere you look.
The hotel was pretty depressing. An air conditioned box providing just enough comfort to stop you rioting and barely worth the nightly fee. It felt like it had been designed by accountants.
Weather by now was awful and absolutely throwing it down. Feeling rather down, we skyped Adam who we would be staying with for a week on Saturday. He said it would be fine if we were to come earlier which we immediately leapt upon and it cheered us immensely.
Into the town centre. We were determined to avoid French food as it is too much every night. I spied upon a Mexican restaurant that seemed pretty popular on tripadvisor. Parking up we eventually found it, to be told that they were completely booked up. A Mexican restaurant fully booked! France in some ways never seems to bow to market forces. There is such a demand for international food but it isn't catered for. Privately, I rather admire it's stance though, however, it can't seem to resist Macdonalds as they are everywhere.
In the end we found an Italian place which was heaving but had a spare table. We just went for a main of veal in marsala sauce with pasta which was very good, as was the wine. Service was poor and waitress would not slowdown her French so that we could understand. At the end of the meal she said a long phrase to us in French and walked away. Richard asked her to repeat it slowly. I was aware of other tables eyes on us at this point. She repeated it marginally slower, turned on her heels and left. Richard though it was something about how we pay. Too embarrassed to ask again, we waited to see what other tables were doing. French being French they were making an evening of it, lingering maddeningly over every mouthful. We simply couldn't sip water any longer so we asked another waitress for the bill and we managed to pick out her saying the number 61 and downstairs. Putting the puzzle together, we realised that we needed to quote our table number downstairs to pay. Phew! You really can feel stranded in France.
Wandered back to car looking at some of the buildings which were built from the local volcanic stone but also smoking black from the industrial activity.
Back to the motel and wrestled with my single pillow to try and make it comfortable. Speed down to the south tomorrow. Yay!