On another holiday the same son found a boule - the French equivalent of the Cork bowls (the Cork ones pronounced to rhyme with 'howls', by the way).

He was pedalling full-speed down a hill, and I - in a state of transcendent terror - pedalling after him, watching as the speedometer on my bike's handlebard passed 38MPH and my naked elbows felt more and more fragile and cringing.

In his fraying pannier, the boule swayed closer and closer to the back wheel.

My screams of warning - shrieks - howls - were carried away by the wind whipping past my mouth.

Eventually, half a mile past the hill, he pulled up and turned around, grinning. "Hey, that was fun!"

I pointed, panting, to his pannier, where the boule was within seconds of dropping through - or of crashing into his spokes and bringing him to a neck-breaking tumble if he'd been going at speed.

"Shite and onions," he said. "Why didn't you tell me, Ma?"