Wow. When the guidebook says that Diego is sleepy, they weren’t kidding. Which is possibly a good thing as my cold has reached its zenith and I feel like some nasty monkey has replaced all the air in my lungs with snot. The last thing that I wanted to be doing was attempting to sweet-talk yachties into taking me to the outer islands of the Seychelles. But I didn’t have to. There were a sum total of two yachts in the bay. There were a couple of fishing boats, but that’s about it. I spoke to a few people, got Thierry to call up a few French-speakers, but it didn’t look promising.
It wasn’t until the end of the day that I got a message from Thierry saying that he had spoken to a guy named Francis who might be able to help me. I called Francis and he suggested that we meet in the morning. This is very good news and with some luck, he might be able to point me in the right direction. Or at least put me on to somebody else who can.
Later, I returned to the Belle Vue and met with Russ, the lively (and well-travelled) Canadian that I got chatting to this morning over breakfast. He’s a typical Canuck – he knows his stuff and he takes great delight in ragging the French. Hoorah! We went out on the lash (why the hell not, eh? It’s less than a quid a pint!) and before too long, I found myself pulling ridiculous shapes on the dance floor. And can I proffer a cure for the common cold? Beer. Seriously. I didn’t blow my nose all night.