As our train emerged from the Channel Tunnel yesterday, the first words I ever uttered on French soil were: “Can you smell garlic?”
Don’t ask about the loos on the overnight train from France to Italy, though. The dirty, dirty bastards. I’ve finally worked out why the French are such a miserable lot: permanent constipation.
Anyhow, hello from Florence, Italy, where I have just eaten a pistachio ice-cream, and watched egrets and kingfishers next to the River Arno.
Where does a chap get a decent cup of tea round here? (We brought our own, you know.)