Didn't think the coincidental happenings on holiday were overly strange. Had all but forgotten until I woke up in the night thinking - odd?
This was a lovely place, very warm friendly lady of the chateau, likewise her cat (dot in bottom right) which follows you everywhere. There were also dogs, horses and a moody white-blonde Dutch family we shared a table with for dinner. And a good library, which is where I ended up after dinner, on my own, looking at the family's photograph albums (I know, but the were on display. One of their ancestors was a rugby champion they're rightly proud of). Then I picked up an old Paris Match magazine from the 1950s. It was full of macabre photo-essays: holiday snaps of happy people on a boat that was about to sink, and a very 9/11-like story about the last minutes of a man's life as he waved for help from a burning building, then jumped, then CU, dead, after he'd jumped. The date of the magazine: 27 August - 3 September 1955, the year and week I was born. I made a note of his name - Warren Hayes.
Then with our friends one evening in the kitchen talking about wine, as you do in France. I mentioned a long ago lunch, wine buff guest brought a very special bottle of wine that was opened with much ceremony and left in centre of table to breathe. As I was laying table I did the unforgivable and knocked it over. Woops. Fortunately everyone was at the other end of room and I could grab it before too much was spilt. Back to France 2010, later that day I picked up an old magazine left beside the barbeque for firelighting and there was a picture of wine buff guest I'd been telling them about (a journalist writing for the mag). I showed it to my friends. Look! And there he is! When we got to Sancerre and internet connections discovered he'd just died. So, so sad. RIP Robert.
Bye bye, thanks for visiting, come again soon.