Within three hours of landing in France Martin's poor command of the language has resulted in him placing an order for a microwave oven.

It's a long story and it starts with the unsurprising news that a one a half hour flight with Ryanair has resulted in an immediate visit to the bike shop where an unusually helpful Frenchman tried to fix my saddle.

"Ah, Ryanair!" he said knowingly, thus confirming that to be "Ryanaired" has become so common that the word has entered the English (and the French) language.

Ironically, Martin's crap-heap of a bike has come out seemingly unscathed and he has even put the thing together himself, ie without my assistance, and is at this very moment crowing about it over a glass of Kronenberg.

I will reserve comment until I have seen the knackered old contraption in action (the brakes are sure to fail at the very least).

After that it was down to the post office to send the bike bags onto Portugal.

This necessitated a visit to a supermarket to acquire a couple of cardboard boxes where the Goat's inability to communicate in the local lingo turned a simple task into a farce.

"Avez-vous une box like this one?" he asked pointing to a box containing a microwave oven on special offer.

There was much excitement followed by a tannoy announcement and the manager of the store rushing to greet us in the mistaken belief that she had at long last flogged the last of last year's duff models to two English idiots.

It was, of course, left to me to gently lower the manager's expectations and explain that we only wanted the cardboard surrounding the appliance and not the appliance itself.

Nevertheless, it was difficult to come to terms with the obvious disappointment that she felt as she watched us walk away with our free booty.

Back in the hotel the Goat summed it all up by tipping out the contents of his panniers, examining his smalls and declaring, "That's two pairs of pants that won't see England again."

I have to say that that is something that the folks back home should be celebrating.

Don't let anyone fool you about the gastronomic delights of France - it is 4.15 in the afternoon and after searching for something to eat all over town we have finally secured a small bowl of peanuts.

I can see where this is going - another tour with nothing much to eat and plenty to drink. But at least I don't have to worry about looking after the expenses this year.

The Goat has taken this over as he has long suspected that I have used my accounting skills to fiddle the books.

"Either you let me do it or you will see yourself in the Daily Telegraph next week," he said.

"Please yourself," said I hiding the receipt for the duck island.