So the curtain is coming down here in Bolsena. The weather is on the turn, several kilos have been gained and thoughts are turning to the return journey to Normandy.
As usual I've stuffed myself with pasta and pizza, and now my mind is turning to simple food in the comfort of my home, 1,600 kilometres away.
Once we've made it through Mont Blanc next Friday, what joy will overcome us as we stop at the first service station in France, where we will eagerly consume a fine French sandwich of ham and cheese, with not a strand of pasta in sight.
And then onwards, through the rain and fog, already dreaming of next year's holiday.
Vive les vacances, for life is too hard without a stay in the sun, where the poodle limps on, the bichon chases flies and where I get fatter.
We are strange, aren't we? Never really happy here, and never satisfied at home, and dreaming of motorway service stations, because we want nothing more than a decent sandwich.