Hmmm...Is that you?

Camembert seems to defy the basic evolutionary premise that something is made to smell disgusting in order to avert us from eating it. If anybody has found a meal to match a baguette smothered in the ripe stuff accompanied by grapes and glass of wine I want to hear about it. But there is no denying it. It stinks. So as I tucked into our first night’s repas I chose to ignore the not-very-nice aroma, placing the blame firmly at the good Monsieur Bert’s door.

Yes, I thought as I looked around our hired surroundings, there was no denying that the apartment was basic. Nevertheless, I consoled myself that with only a week in Normandy I really wouldn’t be spending much time looking at the scuffed paintwork, chipped bathroom tiles or faded picture on the wall.

When the smell continued despite the fact that I’d double wrapped the remains of the indomitable cheese and placed it in an airtight container on the balcony, the search for other suspects began in earnest.

Well, the crossing had been calm, but perhaps someone’s digestive system was still going up and down?

The search included an impromptu game of ‘Match the Fart’ initiated by my son, (as always), who ended up the sole contributor to said game. And, with my judges hat on, I can categorically say that, in this event, he didn’t come anywhere near.

Everything was revealed when I opened the door to the Master Bedroom – a room just big enough to accommodate Barbie and Kens' double bed.

Anybody who has studied science will tell you that a gas is a gas because the atoms lack the cohesion to form anything else. Anyone who has ever smelled raw sewage will confirm that this particular gas can hit you full in the face.

(Raw sewage? Why do we call it raw sewage? Has anyone ever experienced the cooked version…?)

Anyway. I digress.

Of course, this discovery was made, as all discoveries of this kind are, just as the apartment caretaking staff were themselves heading for the delightful Pays de Rêve.

So, a restless night spent on the sofa ensued, during which I tried to forget about the suspicious stains I’d spotted on its rather worn cover earlier in the evening.

And as I tossed and turned, I suddenly remembered The Amityville Horror and the smell of excrement that apparently accompanied every unearthly incident. Don’t be so silly I told myself. But then I thought I saw the doors to the balcony shake. Phantasmagorical apparition? Or the Camembert? I shall never know.