My Hero of Bergerac, Love that Nose Cyrano

It’s a grey, cool drizzly day in the Dordogne. The sort of day when mischievous raindrops aim for that tiny gap between the back of your jacket and your neck, giggling as they hit bull’s eye and trickle too slowly down the bare skin of your shivering spine. Maybe ‘shivering’ in September is pushing it; the point is it’s not pleasant.

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