Breakfast on the road.

 

Breakfast on the road always tastes better. 

Some days, up early with a cup of black Earl Grey, I'd plan out my route and then drive until I found a suitable boulder or bench or wall to sit on. There I would boil the kettle and rifle through the panniers. If I had happened upon a patisserie I might have chosen something sticky and nutty, otherwise I'd put together my own sticky and nutty: slightly stale bread, under a golden drizzle of honey, sprinkled liberally with roasted peanuts and sliced banana.

 High above a town in the Lozere, buzzards mewed, a dragon fly rustled its dry wings and a bicyclist zipped past calling out "Bon appetit!"

I straddled the wall, pulling at the elastic bread with my teeth while peanuts rolled off, clanged onto my blue tin plate and bounced to the ground. 

Ants, alert to the scent of food, meandered and gossiped before marching off their spoils.