The barricades are going up ...

... on the road through town, each with a sign saying parking forbidden from Thursday evening to the end of Friday.

A notice on the main road warns the route will be closed on Friday from 11am to 6pm (woe betide anyone who doesn't know what's going on and has a plane or boat to catch).

The verges are being cut, balustrades are being jet-washed, the roads are freshly tarmacked (possibly too freshly, in a recent brief heat wave some of it looked suspiciously gooey), the white lines gleam from their recent repainting.  Every small bridge now has red and white bumpers covering the railing ends facing south. The village beyond ours has suddenly sprouted new plant pots and parking bays through the centre.

And whilst France is being far less extrovert than the UK (who would have believed Yorkshire could be so giddy - yellow sheep and all) nevertheless there is a certain restrained celebratory air emerging.  On the roundabout on the far side of Miramont there are four metal outline figures on bikes sporting T-shirts - one yellow, one green, one spotted, one white.

I've an eye on a nicely shady group of trees by the T-junction at the end of our ridge.  The road sweeps up from the roundabout and quickly disappears over the brow of the hill.  Nothing that will make the cyclists slow even a fraction, but the stretch is enough, hopefully, to give me some long shots of heads down racing towards me, quick close-ups of muscular arms and calves as they fly by and then a fleeting glimpse of lycra-covered bottoms cresting the ridge.

I'll drive as close as I can and then walk the rest, camera, sun hat and rucksack with water bottle, spare batteries and memory cards, a sandwich and if room a collapsible stool .  The "caravan" passes for two hours before the cyclists, so there will be plenty to keep us entertained, but it might be a good idea to have something to sit on for the long wait.

Tod plans to wander down into the village and take up a seat at a table outside the cafe that normally is never open except late on Saturday and Sunday nights for the Portuguese who work the fields.  He may find there is much competition for that seat.

All my best photos are always in my head and not in my camera, but I hope there will be something worth posting here after it's all over.  I must confess to becoming a tad excited about the whole idea.