The chasse lunch began at 12.30. I wimped out at 5pm, after courses of salad, salmon, veg, barbecued boar, boar sausages and there is still cheese and pud and Christ knows what all still to come. I have handed on my tombola tickets to deserving patrons. It’s queasy making stuff, but awfully ethnic and fuelled with rather dodgy wine that is served in lemonade bottles. The winners are the local dogs as I have learned to bring a vast cool box with me to fill with the quantities of pig that are left over. Cato is comatose for a couple of days afterwards.
The local clan runs the lunch since they are the chasseurs supreme. There are domestic upsets within their ranks and, to add to their problems, senior daughter wrote off her car on the way here last night. I am about to serve coffee to refugees on the terrace. It’s cloudy today and not much more that 80 degrees
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