My daughter and her companion went to France for a few days to stay in a château and stomp grapes with a few friends (apparently, while a neighbour attended the event, playing a harp).
Cor, I said, bring back some
fromage while you're there.
On the way home to the south of Spain, they made a brief detour and passed through Oporto in that small but agreeable country over to the left of us.
And here we are, enjoying a very ripe lunch of various different cheeses (that thing that looks like bread in the middle of the photo was the runniest and most pungent of the lot - I swear it winked at me once).
And with a bottle of port to help wash it down, the three of us had a very jolly lunch.
You can say what you want about the French, but when it comes to cheese, no one else comes close
They let me take home another bottle of port that they had bought for me along with a very ripe brie - which - for nothing better to do, I consumed a couple of days later while watching the sublime Amélie on a video.
Which brings us to a verse I wrote the following morning:
I feel queasy,
I feel cheesy,
I feel wheezy and breezy inside.
I feel ghastly,
Like something crawled in me and died...