It is hot in Foix. So hot the journalists stick their legs in the river, above which dangle the little goalposts used in canoe slalom. The foothills are bald and dry, the weather miserable, driving all clever animals to seek some kind of shade including us. It’s cooler outside than inside. A breeze brushes over the river and sends so…
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to derailleur to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.