Gasping for refreshment came across loads of tipper trucks parked outside a small grey village just north of Millau on a wind wet grey day. Aha, where are the drivers. No signs up but one shop had old net curtains and steamy windows.
Took a chance and poked my head in. There they were, all noshing away with half carafes of red win at their elbows. Suits me Sir straight in. No one took a blind bit of notice of a miserable, wet , wind blown cyclist.
Which was nice and totally different from the Brits on the return ferry who looked you up and down as if you were something unpleasant on their shoe. Dratsabs.