A rest day, in Gruissan.
A weird sort of place.
Belle has organised a picnic on a rocky outcrop, overlooking the sea.
Fishing boats bob up and down in the water.
Nice view, says Vello, sitting down on a rock. O-ow!
Here, have this cushion, says Belle.
Is there one for me? asks David.
Sorry, says Belle. If I packed two cushions there'd be no room for food.
So you packed food? asks Vello.
I did, says Belle. Delicious food. Black pork, Tarbes beans, onions and spit cake. And red and white wines. Madiran and Pacherenc du Vic Bilh.
Can I have some spit cake? asks Terence.
What will you do with it? asks Belle.
Spit with it! says Terence. Me and Sweetpea can have a spitting competition.
Yes! says Sweetpea. I can spit a long way. I bet I could spit my spit cake right into that fishing boat.
I bet you couldn't, says Terence.
Spit cakes aren't for spitting, says Belle.
No, says Sweezus. They're cooked on a spit. That's why theyre called spit cakes.
I'm enjoying these onions, says Gaius.
He has eaten two already.
Have a glass of Pacherenc, to go with them, says Belle.
Nicolo appears, late as usual.
Sit down there, next to Sweetpea, says Belle. Have a cold black pork cutlet.
Thank you, says Nicolo. He takes it, with a glass of red wine.
Can I try your wine? asks Sweetpea.
No he can't. says Belle. Don't give him any.
Bad luck, bambino, says Nicolo.
Sweetpea begins to cry.
Or he may be pretending.
Give the child some spit cake, says Vello.
Me too, says Terence.
Terence and Sweetpea run to the edge of the rocky outcrop. with large chunks of spit cake.
I'll keep an eye on them, says Nicolo.
No, says Belle . Not you. Not after what happened to the pobblebonks.
Yeah, says Sweezus.
I feel bad about the pobblebonks, says Nicolo. It was not my intention to harm them.
Sure it wasn't. says Belle.
Nicolo is a philosopher, says Vello. No doubt he had his reasons.
More than that, I had a plan, says Nicolo.
Are there any more onions? asks David.
Sorry, I ate the last one, says Gaius. Have some Tarbes beans, they're delicious.
The plan? says Arthur. What was it?
It no longer matters, says Nicolo. It was devious and thus inappropriate.
Yeah, why? asks Sweezus, looking at the spit cake which Gaius eyeing.
You people are not devious types, says Nicolo.
I object to that label, says Vello.
Ha ha! laughs David, pouring himself another glass of red Madiran wine.
The picnic dissolves into tipsy good humour.
The spit cake is eaten (and spitten).
By the end of the picnic, Terence and Sweetpea have scored a few bullseyes.
And not fallen into the sea.
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