Driving Miss Ely

Come on, granddad, we have to take the pink Remington with us.

As the Tour de France bikes whished through her paternal grandmother's home from home in Beaumes de Venise, in Vaucluse at the foot of the southern slope of the Dentelles de Montmirail, my extra duties in driving Miss Ely began to wind down. Ely's gran watched the riders pass by at the pointy end of Stage 12, from Montpellier to Mont Ventoux on Bastille Day, before leaving for panicked Nice and then heading back to Canberra. For the past five weeks I've stepped into the breach with additional grandchild-minding duties, as we each do our bit to try and help Emily and Danny raise baby Ely without relying on enormously expensive day-care facilities. That aside, they're doing a brilliant job as young, hard-working parents.

Granddad, the Typatune needs some ribbon.

So little Ely and I have been seeing a lot more of each other, and seeing a lot more of Canberra, as we've proudly toured about the place each week of this chilly mid-winter. It's been an absolute joy, of course.

Hands like Tangora!