Well Oiled

We gave ourselves an easier day, and left Harry and Route 66 around 10, planning to peage it pretty much all the way to Rennes. So far so good. It started raining around Le Mans, where we hurriedly stopped for lunch. We clambered into our raingear and headed back into the fray. 16 miles later, amid bucketing rain and stormy winds (very violent vents. Again), my oil light came on, overtaking a truck at 120 kph. Panic stations. I pulled over, sweating and swearing, and explained to Lynn in a rather small voice that my oil light was on. I limped the 30km to the next services with petrol, worrying like mad, and cursing the fact France seems to believe in services that aren't. They have frequent rest areas, which are signposted like services, but only have toilets and picnic tables. The services sold oil, but not the right type. I called the recovery service who told me to call the dealer. The dealer told me, after a false start with the parts department, which of the available oils would be the least problematic. They also told me it might be oil pressure rather than amount. I checked my oil. It was fine. I called the dealer back, they said don't ride if the lights on (this is 114km from Rennes and the nearest dealer). I called recovery. They put me through to the international office once they had established, after 10 minutes of hold music, that I wasn't in the UK. I had said this first thing, but never mind. International involved another 10 minutes of holding, 5 minutes of completely arbitrary recorded messages and options, and finally, eventually, just when I thought I was getting somewhere, a message saying all English speaking agents were busy, pick another language or leave a message and they'll get back to me in 24 hours. Hm. In the meantime I what? Drink espresso and twiddlemy thumbs? I called my mechanic. He listened to my sob story and said: it's probably water shorting out the light cable. Ride to the next services, and if the engine sounds normal and happy, ignore the light. I followed the instructions and behold! The light stopped flickering and the bike purred as usual. I am changing recovery services. We made St Malo after about 40 minutes looping through villages looking for petrol, found the hotel and parked up. Or I did. Lynn hit a bad angle and a loose brick simultaneously and had to either slip several discs or drop the bike. At least I could help pick up the bike. St Malo is a very pretty little port, and we wandered around for ages until we found a menu we could compromise on. In English, too, which is convenient. Tomorrow it all ends. Here's hoping that includes the rain.