Messieurs et mesdames, I have lost my inspiration.

At first I found this alarming and was deeply concerned. I’ve only been blogging for about 12 weeks, and I’d already lost my voice? Then I opened Le Figaro and discovered that I was suffering from a syndrome that is sweeping the nation; everyone in the country, from Besançon to Carcasson is suffering from vacation-itis.

Today, the front page of the online edition has articles on the lovely provençal town of Gordes, the cheese haven of Rocamadour, and St Jean Pied de Port in my beloved Basque region. There are even places I’d never heard of, like Barfleur, Bantôme, and Conques. There are warnings about the Nile flu in Greece and the expected lines for lottery tickets on Friday the 13th.

With the 14 juillet safely behind us, the 15 août is now bleeping on the radar and we are all ready to set sail, fly, or hot air balloon it away, getting our sorry selves to some where other than home. Last minute, non-planner that I am, I have been getting ready for two weeks now and Mr French, the guy who usually throws his bag together an hour before heading out the door to Charles de Gaulle for a week in China, is already packed.

From the mountains, to the beach, from cultural visits in international cities to hunkering down in the family home by a swampy lake, the French are ready for a change of scenery, and I am, too.

As I head out on my morning run, I’m blind to the Seine, already picturing myself tackling the 8km loop around our holiday marine lake. At the fromagerie I futilely search out the rare local cheeses we can’t find in Paris, hoping for a taste of far away. And on the menu for dinner each night, its fish. My body may be in Paris, but my mind has gone fishing. Or rather, body boarding.