Rohort went to France
Robin Young
Rohort Went to France
Copyright 2016 Robin Young
'
This ebook is for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you wouold like to share this book with another person , please purchase an additional copy for each recepient. If you're reading and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Table of contents
Rohort went to France
A Snowstorm in Featherston
The Night in the Cemetery
Lottery Town
Teront
The search for the Father
Hombo
Scattered in the rubbish.
Justice?
About the Author.
Rohort Went to France
Rohort went to France. He took two bicycles, a tent, a one burner stove, some money and a woman. And when it was au revoir, their journey over, France behind, he took what he had brought, still some money, his equipment, but he was armed, France had brought ideas, the lifeblood for a book he would write again and he was with the same woman.
Rohort’s career was in tatters, his finances in shreds, his uniform a replication of his status. Leather would no longer be the encasement for his feet, clogs hacked from wood would adorn them.
But France was affordable. Its hotels were clean and always with a bidet and the prices were at times an inspiration. There were camping grounds they were frequent, their prices were tres bon marche, cheap and the hot air that filled his mattress was free.
Rohort had been a successful crime writer, so successful what you and I enjoyed he measured with contempt, few could fake or could hope to imitate his lifestyle.
But this had been changed by some experience in the field. Instead of writing about crime he’d tried to solve it.
There was a spate of burglaries where he and his Cohorts lived Rohort had seen this as his moment.
The police were deemed unnecessary, he ruled them out, it was unthinkable him in need of help, his image would be damaged, his stature compressed, instead of being in the corps of the elite, he’d be just another shrunken shriveledged.
His most influential best seller Buy, Sell and Swap had been a boost for police recruitment, but what should be realized some worked, there was honest money, not everything that was traded had been stolen.
But the burglar was elusive, his activities remained unchecked, they ended with a break in the weather.
The crimes remained unsolved, the offender unpunished, but there were rumblings at police headquarters.
Recruits had sought his autograph for their manuals of instruction, such was his reputation
Not all were pleased with his elevated status, his diminution gave them a weapon..
An edict was issued, all police training manuals were called in, Rohort’s autograph was to be expunged from each and every one of them.
This was humiliating for him, his autograph in the manuals gone, but there were rumours and they were damning.
The mantra became it was a homeless man the culprit would dwelt in a culvert. This conduit for water was near Rohort’s house, but a dry spell enabled another purpose.
But the sun said farewell and it was hello to the rain, but more came than was welcome, there was flooding.
But the inundation was not due to detritus in the drain, it was blocked by home, its rudiments and bottles.
Rohort was surprised, each and every one was drained, not a cork was to be seen, all were empty.
Did he not realize the purpose of the thefts or that the contents passed through someone’s stomach.
The size of the blunder would have made military intelligence gawp. His lack of comprehension was unbelievable.
At first he did not give up. This was understandable. His career and its success had commenced at school. When the other boy’s parents were wondering how they were going to pay for his coeval’s education, his problem was which sport’s car and which girl tonight.
Money was a burden, it camouflaged the trees, but the branches were now bare, it was winter.
Rohort was unable to transcend his circumstances, his writing became repetitious the words budget and scarcity filled the pages.
He’d reached a crossroads. It was signposted. Dearth and Money Worries was one route, inescapable for many, for most the soldier’s maxim held ‘Never Volunteer’.
He gazed back at the path from whence he’d come, traveled by the few, he was no longer in the company of the privileged. He looked back, it was a tantalizing cornucopia and as he gazed it shrank and became like the contents of his pockets a vast empty space filled with nothing.
He looked once more at the signpost.
One board was blank there were no directions its purpose was for wishes. It was a darkened mess, blurred with much smudging. A pen hung from it and a sponge, both were worn and the sponge was discoloured by the wiping.
But Rohort could see two words, they were discernible, they’d been much written they traced an outline.
WIN LOTTERY.
The remnant of a bale of straw lay nearby, much was scattered, strands lay everywhere.
Clutching at straws he mused, such is the strength of hope.
His first reaction was the pen, but he saw the straw, hesitated, then retracted.
He had considered the Lottery as a theme, the leitmotif, he might write about it, he’d done some reading. Dossiers had been compiled on the lives of many winners. But there was a space, a glaring gap, the histories of the multitude that had never won.
He was lucky, he may not have won the Lottery, but his research was now a bonus, he’d learned about probability and understood the theory and knew about the bulging unfilled Gap.
He ceased his musings he turned once more to the signpost the fourth board resolved his dilemma.
NOTHING TO LOSE.
And nothing to salvage, salvation would not come from convention.
The orthodox would no longer serve.
The past would no longer guide.
Rohort wrote in his diary. ‘CHANGE’. It was repeated several times.
He described his landscape, its bleakness its size there was nothing to be seen but the same unending view.
It became his passion to shrink the world, he wished to glimpse beyond the confines of his life.
“Why cannot it be compacted”? He asked.
This urge to miniaturize extended to his reading.
Darwin was examined, evolution was explored the fossils he found, the large creatures that were once, their replicas he saw, they were living but they were miniature.
But the exigencies of his situation would not tolerate delay. His clothes were wearing thin more layers were needed in the cold.
He confided in his diary.
‘If I am ever to write again I need to know my subject. CONTACT. There must be CONTACT.
The last word was heavily underlined.
And so he decided to reside with the subjects of his theme. But in a house, he did not relish residence in a drain.
Rohort sought advice. Expertise was soon forthcoming.
But first came unexpected attention to his clothing.
“But look.”
And he pointed to what would soon be tatters surely his wretched raiments would suffice.
Worn perhaps but they were too well fitting, the last gasp bin at the op shop was not their provenance.
Then came a warning. He was alerted to the Locusts.
“Locusts.” He repeated.
They would be the other occupants o
f the house.
Never open a packet of cigarettes in front of any person and, if you are asked for one, you have always smoked your last.
Rohort did not smoke, but he drew in the information, his drilling about money was only brief.
But there was one item that was safe, vigilance would not be needed, no one had heard of thefts of soap.
Where he now lived revealed his desperation. He was the sole occupant of that house not paying fines. The owner was exempt, but not without absolution, another branch of government was his scourge.
There was one particular boarder that brought the visitation rubbish was the man’s obsession.
It was in suitcases, tied in bundles, it pressed against the ceiling his room was filled to make space for more he used it as a bed.
This place of collection was known as the overflowing Tent, the fire department listed it a danger.
There were inspections, reports and endless correspondence it created more paper than the rubbish in the Tent.
But Rohort was mystified that the man should be paying fines, exclude rubbish and his behaviour was exemplary.
He was now having misgivings.
Why was he living here? How long could he last? And would the denouement be a continuation of his career as a crime writer?
But Rohort was unaware he was to add another strength, the publication of a where to say guide could be an option.
He was to learn that municipal munificence extended beyond drains, there was choice, the infrastructure was versatile, shelter was a facet for its use, the occupant of ‘The Tent’ had been discovered living at the tip, landfill a 44 gallon drum had been his residence.
To discourage others, the man had been prosecuted, he was fined the worry was the tip would fill with people.
Rohort lingered in that house, but with increasing uncertainty of its purpose. There was no drama and certainly no glamour, there was nothing to inspire ideas, life in a tent would have been more instructive.
One night he was awakened by the sound of chopping, to reach the toilet he had to pass through the kitchen.
There was a beast on the table and a crowd gathered round, there’d been a successful night’s stealing, tomorrow’s agenda would be eating.
There was some attempt at cleanliness in that house. Had this not been so, ‘Tent’ the former occupant at the tip would not have stayed and loved it.
Why park in a drum, when a warm room will do? There would be no yearning for the tip or homesickness such was the state of that house.
The tide of untidiness and the repelling ambient was held back partly with the assistance of a boarder. He wore rubber gauntlets, nothing else would be safe. His rent was shrunk for his efforts.
The man was leaving the toilet he held a large cloth, its purpose was for cleaning, he raised it close to his nose and sniffed a deep sniff, so intense the sound was clearly audible.
Audible perhaps, but visible too, Rohort could face no more.
His intimate knowledge of crime would contribute nothing to his writing. Criminals were supposed to be exciting, not people beset by hunger and afraid of using soap.
His diary was blackened he could no longer glimpse or even peer into the past would yesterday breed and be a plague? Would it become an endless tomorrows?
Suddenly he wrote.
‘I must leave or I will become one.’
There was a break and then in bold capitals he wrote...
‘ANOTHER OF THE LANDLORD’S HANDPICKED LUNATICS.’
He abandoned that palace, but its uninterrupted gloom pursued him. His ill fitting uniform he cast away and crime as a reservoir for ideas was torn up, it was rejected.
Rohort became as a survivor, a static object somewhere in a void, he was directionless, without purpose.
His dejected state was conspicuous it threw a wide net his Cohorts feared contagion.
“Why not write about travel?” Suggested one, it was obvious enough such was the extent of his wanderings.
The Cohort had known him for many years, he was almost a friend. It puzzled that his fictional characters never traveled.
Rohort brightened, perhaps an exit from the toils then he remembered the inconveniences at airports.
“There is France.” The Friendly Cohort continued. Rohort’s passport often bore its stamp.
A chunk of gloom fell from him like the launching of an iceberg France inspired a warm and welcome glow.
Merci for France he thought.
“Vive la France.” He exclaimed in tones barely comprehensible to a native of the tongue.
His French was sparse, thin, toute de suit, San fairy Ann then a dribble. But he had been a visitor many times, St Emelion his favorite destination.
The ancient city on the hill, the steep narrow streets, the medieval walls. But the compulsion to return did not arise from the relics of the past, history was not the addiction.
It was the product of the pays, district the especial flavour in the bottle, fine hotels and degustation, wine tasting, in the country side around.
The popularity of Rohort’s travels would be beyond denial, there was fascination with how those weighed down with money lived.
So certain was the subject, so alluring the appeal, the Cohort had his present packed and tucked up in the past.
But Rohort could not retrace the life he had once lead, even the luster had gone from his girlfriends. The most serious problem that he faced was the cheapness of his bed, creaking bed springs became part of his love scenes.
He had reached the nadir.
If he could not describe simple things like making love, then what was left?
Crime, the past and advice from signposts had to be packed and shipped to somewhere and somewhere had to be nowhere he would visit.
Rohort would write again, he was determined, his Cohorts saw his strength as travel.
They talked of the explorers and the strictures of their journeys, what mattered was to go there and be there.
‘Go there and be there.’ Became his mantra.
But then he wondered how would he get there.
“By air.” The Friendly Cohort still had advice.
For most economy was the mode of travel.
He had heard about thrifty in the sky, planes were flying canneries, people airborne fish.
So Rohort had got there, but how would he move there?
Straightforward use terra thrifty.
Did this mean a tractor would he be riding on a plough?
The Friendly Cohort took him to his stable.
He expected straw, hay and the steeds of noblemen and kings instead he was in a shed filled with bicycles.
He wondered why so many bikes. The extra were for the occasional odd friend.
He had faced many changes.
He had vaulted from a childhood bike to a smooth fast car, from bed time stories read to him at night to companions who strode through the night without sleep.
And now the leap was to childhood and back to the hard narrow seat, propulsion again by pedaling, he’d welcome bed, he’d sleep.
But now he had an ally, he at last had a friend there was encouragement and many journeys.
But there was the wind and the hills, the continuous up and ever up and the shedding of effort, the moment of descent, it was tenuous, it was brief.
Rohort quickly understood the appeal of four wheels, but he remained steadfast to his steed without stirrups.
But his body was the same as any other, fitness was not exclusive to a coterie of few, the down hill rush was not preceded by a crawl, bunched contour lines were not a place to detour.
A rivet in his mind now snapped, his reveries were no longer filled by gradients.
France was now a little closer he might sometimes meet the Cohort’s occasional friend.
But that category of person was not to join them on their journeys an unanticipated interception would preclude it.
Toni was not occasional,
nor was she odd, nor did she indulge in borrowed bikes.
Toni’s body was molded to her steed, no glue or fusion could grip tighter.
The tireless movement of the clouds, the slow procession of the scenes no better montage could be devised for stimulation.
Nor could the heat or the hot summer sun deter and thirst so compelling it would reach and wrench and in the night would force an exit from the bed and demand liquid as ransom for slumber.
Toni did not rattle in the comfort of a rut if there were cleats she would have slung a hammock in the sky, home and house were merely ranked as shelter.
The Friendly Cohort had never liaised with Toni, coincidence and steeds not found on pasture were the link.
Rohort was introduced, the new recruit for cycling, his vision was to make a tour of France.
Immediately that geographical location filled the conversation, all else was swamped, banished, nothing could intrude nothing could compete with Vive La France.
The Friendly Cohort was surprised by the vigour of the interest, had homework brought Toni’s cartographic grip?
There’d been no secret study in the cover of a mai mai, duck shooter’s hide, her Alma Mater was the Tour de France.
The name places rolled like the passing of the milestones Frejus, Toulouse, Carcassonne.
Rohort made a contribution. He’d seen the ancient city, La Citee, he’d seen it on his travels. His eyes had fixed and joined the gaze of many.
He talked of the waterway, the canal that passed through it. The canal de deux mers, the link between two oceans, that too was old and at its summit, at Le Segala, it was high, 220 meters.
Historic France it was engrossing. Go there and be there came echoes of the mantra.
They talked and talked, Rohort had to reach, stretch perhaps steal a ship and sail the intervening seas, whatever it would take he had to get there.
Toni knew France would not remain a cartographer’s projection on a map nor would they be bisected from it by the ocean.
For Toni had traveled, had traveled many miles, stayed in barns, tents, bivvyed under buildings, a refugee from rent could take a lesson.
The Friendly Cohort was surprised by the bonding of the pair.
Was it France? Or ou la la or even both?
The excursions continued, they talked of nothing else but France, the topic money was parked in freeze and find.
Rohort was now launched, the Friendly Cohort retreated his spot was now a place in the background
The background had a tenant the foreground was always France they would go, they would go together.
Together they would go, prepared they had to be, was Rohort’s body ready for the miles?
And so they set out for the wind and hills at home with the adjunct of the hot summer sun.
They would always break their journey in the sanctuary of the shade the shadow would rest their eyes from the glare. Often and frequently Rohort thought of rain, anything to dilute and damp the heat.
But then came the warm and soothing waters from the ground, thermal they took the tiredness that would not yield to sleep.
Rohort was deemed ready, faraway lands would now come next, but would a tent, a flimsy apparatus suffice for home?
He had misgivings. It was to be a long journey and an unaccustomed abode. He confided in his diary.
First he discussed his literary career. It would be an experience, definitely, ideas would follow, there’d be many, a multitude would want his pen.
But this was the crust, the peel around the mass that was the core, the thoughts that swam and took shape in his scribblings.
They were brief, but revealing.
Toni had and would make France possible. Without Toni there would be no France.
And as he wrote those words he saw a gap, a space. It was a void he did not wish to enter.
He wrote of their intimate experiences together. Her tight gripping muscles, a heart and lungs that barely stirred during those moments of making love.
He felt compelled to write, he must, nothing could deny his urge for publication. Did all that went between them have to lie buried in the dust? There had to be better than a worn and tatty diary.
But what of their relationship? Those moments undisturbed together could not be laid out on a slab, cold like a fish from the water. But then he saw an exit, he need not remain a fixture in the toils, he would write and with effusion, he would exhaust the urge and publication it would follow, but posthumously.
He’d go to France, its fields would give repose and unfamiliar weeds would prop his pillow.
For Toni France had never been a dream, not even a shimmer or an outline in a fog, but now it was concrete, immutable.
And so it would be France, the south and in the spring where hopefully the weather would be warm.
Rohort’s first letter to the Friendly Cohort described the journey in the air, its strictures, the long hours encased within the confines of a seat. He wrote of migratory birds, their passage and the five f’s; frequent flyers, feathers and of course flying fish. There was movement around the planet mankind was not alone to travel, but the discomfort was a challenge to its wisdom.
They had slept when first in the air, but were interrupted by the arrival of food.
The letter ran thus.
‘Not even a feast for soup kitchen mice.’
But they were people, not rodents anxious to be slim and the impact on hunger would be minimal.
The passage of the food did not decompress the tank of unfilled hours and to fill the stomach was definitely not its purpose.
Then came the slow unwinding of the clock, sleep, any, perhaps scattered would be welcome.
And for Toni it was particularly hard. Her energies tied up within an airborne box, the options were sitting or standing.
Talking was not permitted, colloquy was banned and laughter would probably have caused the plane to crash.
There were those, the fortunate, who flew asleep, their journey filled with dreams, the voices would have unreasonably roused them.
It was then that Rohort thought of life alone and in a cell.
‘Has soliloquizing yet been banned in boo, prison?’
But the journey in the air was replaced by the arrival of the ground there was a brief stop and then the final plane to France.
Toni knew she was in a foreign land, English was still spoken the habiliments were identical to those at home.
Rohort’s comment in his letter.
‘The provenance of what’s worn here’s the same as ours its China.’
The Friendly Cohort chuckled when he read the lines.
He mused.
‘You’ll see it in the check out queue, it’s the same at any airport, the universal uniform they churn it out in China. Its worn by apparatchiks, it cloaks the dimmest stooge, examine any boarding lounge, spy on any cadre, the whole lot’s in the kit, a mirror of what’s worn in old Beijing.’
But what was different and not like home was the unmistakable smell of tobacco.
It could be smoked, there was an area for its purpose, but any nostrils, not just a dog’s could detect it.
But despite the odium of the odour Toni had an interlude of sleep it was twenty minutes on the airport bench.
Their flight over France revealed the terrain that lay ahead there was snow, much up, but little flat.
Rohort shrank at the dimensions of the contours it was the inverse of a whorl of many lines upon the map.
Finally there was Nice and instead of hills the ocean, the contour lines did not reach the beach.
There was aqua below them its detail increased with their descent, there was also liquid with them on the plane. Some was in something, somewhere above them in the luggage and some of it was about to reach them. The mode of conveyance would not be a glass, nor was there an announcement of its coming.
The call came to fasten seatbelts, there was absolute compliance, greater exemplif
ication of attention to airline safety could not be wished. Then commenced the dripping, provenance was the luggage, Rohort and another were its target.
The flight staff did not attempt to help them in their plight there was no attempt at extrication.
The extract from his diary ran thus.
‘Most inconvenient what was I to do? Take it or take a bollocking.’
Sparse and Spartan was their wardrobe for the journey, they were cyclists, solitary, not travelers, cosseted with an escort on safari, weight and space were the determinants of what they wore.
Need and discomfort became the fuel for propulsion Rohort forsook the putative safety of his seat.
The other recipient was similarly propelled vacant space superseded that once filled by bottom.
They may have dodged the dripping and what would have been a wetting, but instead of liquid there came another menace sound.
A shrill voice from whence it came there was no doubt and where it went, its target, was obvious.
Rohort did not wish his emails to be electronic burdens, his missives tomes of gloom. He wrote of what had happened and anything salient said.
The barrage in the plane he précised thus.
‘During landing bodies were for seats, none but the desperate risked the aisle.’
The Friendly Cohort read the lines, he snorted.
‘And none but the fluent in the lingo of the native would wish to be searching for a laundry.’
He faded for a moment, but his thoughts were kept on track. There was a gentle ringing, it was from his washing machine, its cycle had finished.
Next the Friendly Cohort knew the sequence he was near the shadow of his clothesline.
But France would not be rinsed and washed away, somewhere without identity in the suds, it stamped his next pronouncement.
‘Dhobi wallahs they would not teem and swarm in France.’
There was a light, France had brought illumination it lit up the dungeon of detergent, the immediate was forgotten, the washing line abandoned, he was back again with Rohort over France.
The voice had ceased, the dripping didn’t they remained fugitives from it in the aisle.
There was a bump, the tarmac had arrived, then the terminal, this was France, it could be nowhere else, it was the only place on the planet for the uniforms.
A further reinforcement of their changed geographical location was the widespread use of tobacco, this was definitely not home.
They left the English speaking world behind with the passengers on the plane, within the geographical location of France all was French.
This bestirred an entry in the Friendly Cohort’s diary.
‘Soliloquizing would not be interrupted.’
The weather was a topic much on many minds its extremeness was the reason. Bathfuls had become the calibration for the measurement of rain, but there was daylight so thus there was the sun, the totality of cloud could not exclude it.
This cauldron filled with rain and hate and every little nasty was far away, not where they were, but its implications were clear and without equivocation. Pleasure and its cohort fun would cease, priorities rearranged, staying dry would be intertwined bracketed with eating. But there was one worry missing from this list of woe, habitation in a tent would not be envied.
Advice on avoidance was sought from a traveler on the plane stay south of the Loire was the prescription. An obvious point of reference, it was conspicuous in the cartography of France, Toni was unaware it was a river.
To reach this line of demarcation took five weeks of pedaling, but instead of rain the low barometric pressures would bring wind. Air from the bellows might feed the flame within the forge, but forced against the nostrils was big minus, headwinds took, they subtracted. There were moments of respite on the downward side of hills, gravity took, but gave back.
The discussion was concluded they were reunited with their luggage, next came a putting back together of their bikes. There had been a minor disassembly to fit them in their boxes a removal of some parts had shrunk their size. A request brought a place for this minor reassembly, spacious was the area assigned.
Planes came and went, the terminal filled and emptied, they were left unhurried to fulfill their task. Toni was learning in France time was not a metered item, measured out and divvied up in fractions, haste did not dwell within its borders.
Finally they were finished, they were quickly through the customs, scrutiny did not bring a pause, there was no inhalation in the haze, the tobacco smoke rose on up interrupted.
A space now appeared in their preparations. The mantra was go there and be there, ancillary, but unsung, what do you take there? Clothes were an item found on any list, they had brought propulsion, shelter and implements known to scullions. All this had come in four cardboard boxes, peeled away, deposited, their logos incomprehensible to handlers of French trash, their luggage had transmuted into rubbish. The space that appeared was its absence in their saddle bags, there had been no measurement of the volume of what they’d brought. The recycling station might be a place for cartons brought as luggage, but cyclists with too much gear would have to pause.
What was needed was found, a post office in the airport, but it was the Mediterranean, a two hour closure for lunch had just commenced.
They decided to wait but there was a lingual problem, fundamental and could not be ignored. Eating meant cooking, for this they had a stove, unknown was the French for its fuel. English was spoken at the information centres, the young lady in Nice had not heard of meths, methylated spirits.
The consumption of food wore away the time at the airport, the post office reopened, their business done, they left.
Nice was abaft, Antibe ahead, they were following the green boards to St Raphael. The day was sunny the road along the water flat, Antibe was reached in two hours without effort.
Some traffic lights brought a realization there was more than sun and views in France, there was a beggar he plied the waiting cars. A plea on a piece of cardboard was suspended by a string around his neck, manger, to eat, was the only word they knew. The well dressed Frenchmen took no notice, the lights turned green, they left they were not accosted.
In Antibe it was shop and a fortunate encounter with someone who spoke English and knew of meths. It was an older woman probably retired she’d had three years residence in England. It was not sold where they were but in another shop, as well as instruction in French there were street directions.
Their routine at the shops was one in and one stay with the bikes they wished the French for steal to remain unknown and in a book.
The motor camp was slightly back along the road from which they’d come, on their way they’d passed a works depot. The gates were being locked, it was the closing of the day and examination of school curriculum French came next.
They stopped, they spoke to the man attending to the gates, he grasped their need they sought the camp. Was this a triumph for the classroom?
He would have seen many laden cyclists pass this way before, this may have been clearer than their stilted French.
Language was now needed to direct their way to wither, gaps were found in the learning. Street directions had not been part of the little learnt at school, inculcation would come in the field.
That field was the interval of separation between where they were and their place of residence for the night, language would support the bridge to close it.
The roundabout was circumnavigated by a circulation of the finger on the palm but straight through was part of much unknown. It was never in the books at school, was it to the right? It took some weeks in France to clear up that one.
Then came some counting, not in the head but on the digits, which exit was it from the roundabout? Une, deux, trois, it was the third. Toni was trying, the French man smiled.
They said thanks, in French, that came straight from the text book, they remounted peddling was a rest from struggl
ing French.
They passed a shop, was Antibe a necessary detour? But would meths have remained a problem unresolved?
They reached the camp first it was the office, their details, money and passports for I D. The man showed no emotion, they were just more of many, a tide across his door and he the resemblance of a railway ticketing machine. He was polite, they had a billet.
It was Toni’s first day in France, but there was to be a second first that day, their tent was new, unused, slumbers within would commence on shores beyond its provenance of purchase. Toni’s tent was old, there had been occasional repairs, problems were not wanted far from home.
Rohort had fallen from the apex, the nadir had been reached, France had arrived, his letter bore the postmark it would be the leitmotif that day in the Friendly Cohort’s diary.
His writing was difficult, a scrawl, barely intelligible, had a spider fallen in his inkwell? Had it fled across the pages?
The entry commenced with a sketch, it was clear and clearly a construct unassisted by insects.
The scene a seaport somewhere in France, elephants were being disembarked from a sailing ship, the habiliments of the sailors were unfamiliar, they were from a bygone era.
There was a caption, it read thus.
‘Replacement for a woolly mammoth missing somewhere in France.’
The graphics ceased, the narrative commenced.
His opening gambit was brief.
France equals liberty.
Rohort’s letter from France was an injection, an infusion filled with vigor, the revolutions of his clothesline ceased to be the warden of his thoughts, there was a stretching of horizons.
The merits of detergent were discussed, discarded decisions were not needed, he was the equal of which or what to use. He wrote Egalite.
His symbols dived, had he filled his pen with mud? Guessing and a search for clues found this.
‘The fraternity of suds will lose a member.’
The ramblings faded then fizzled out, but not so the fizz in France, the travelers and the journey became central.
Rohort’s missive continued.
Their camp was on a hillside, its contour too steep for tents, terraces had been formed for that purpose. They were of sufficient size and adequately spaced, but waste there wasn’t.
This intense use of land was to track them on their journey. France was vast, uncluttered, people did not swarm, the era of the throwaway had come, the peasant past remained modern France could not discard it.
Then came erecto time, up went the tent, cooking, mastication, simple fare perhaps, but hunger felled and quelled, simplicity also extended to seating.
Luggage restrictions brought priorities, which or what to take, a hat for the sun, yes, but what for the bottom? There was furniture in one camp, in the remainder it was park the bottom on the ground the exception was also the cheapest.
The entry in the Friendly Cohort’s diary read.
‘An unexpected inversion, little money, best comfort, the hard wooden seat a luxury.’
This lack was never mentioned in the tourist guide Best advice for cyclists in France, scouring the chapter ‘Hints on Saving’ found nothing.
The Friendly Cohort wondered at the omission.
The entry in the diary finished.
‘At least something for the budget traveler.’
Go there and be there may have been the mantra, but some comfort found its way through the squeeze. Their tent was for extreme conditions, snow, wind, the cold, but by the measurement of any tent it was warm. It was snug, it was cozy, the hard ground did not intrude, mattresses filled with air were the buffer.
It was early in the season, tents were few and people so to match, but later there would be an inverse of what was now. Dense would be the occupation, voices inescapable, such would be the rationing of space.
Their first day was nearly over, rest imminent and welcome, their dreams lulling, not filled with gibberish, a metamorphosis of jabbering French.
The sun may have slithered from the sky, but France was still qui vive, its repertoire of tricks was not yet finished.
France was modern, water ran through taps, the contents of the toilet went where it was expected, but a collision with convenience came in the shower.
The outline and the resemblance was the same as any previously seen, but what was different and missed the roll call were the taps.
They were explorers in a foreign land, discoverers of the previously unknown. The pipes, the conduit for the water, finished at a button, they were entering new ground they’d stumbled on the tap. It was large, chromium, a press brought water the flow was from where it was expected.
Gracias, but the relief was too soon. There might be running water, but there was not a running out of tricks.
The direction of the flow was right, but the duration wasn’t. It would be for an interval of time then would cease, to maintain it took more pushing of the button.
Showering became an endless alternation, the soaping of the body then the dabbing of the button.
Cleansing the cranium created employment for its contents, thinking became essential. Soap in the eyes can be painful, avoidance can bring moments without vision. At a critical time the water might cut out, there’d be a desperate groping for the button.
The mantra became for ablutions in the shower. ‘If groping is essential, facing the button is a must.’
The Friendly Cohort had read the arms code. Identify your target. There needed to be a showering code for camping grounds in France, identify the location of the button.
This was the routine in all but two camping grounds in France. The second was reached after several weeks of pedaling. It was still very early in the season the camping ground was not completely opened. The usual ablutions block was not yet in use. But there was a shower, this time with taps, but the crimp was not entirely gone. They were issued at the office with a token, there was a slot box in the shower for its insertion this would bring the flow.
So there were buttons, tokens and in one camping ground a lever, to which there was attached a chain. This artifice was the tap, pulled down and held brought and kept the water, once released the flow would cease. French plumbing had now reached an unexpected level they would recommend a short course of training for its use. The possibility of guidance from another in the camp was precluded by the technicalities of the language.
So it was hang on to the chain and don’t drop the soap.
The Friendly Cohort confided in his diary.
An ideal place for French commandos, highly suitable before exercises in the desert, a drilling in the use of scarce water.
This was to be the most expensive camping ground during their stay in France. It was right on the beach, probably world famous, St Tropez.
The Friendly Cohort wondered about the fame and its cause. Seventy million foreign tourists came to France each year, would less challenging plumbing have brought fewer?
For their first four days it was delightful Mediterranean weather, endless sunshine and warmth. There was wind, always from an unhelpful direction. Showering and the dhobi were concomitant. Clothes hung out would dry overnight, such was the balminess.
The weather changed and with it the routine for drying, instead of hanging from a line it was parked under the stretchy, the cord for securing luggage on the back of the bike. It worked.
The next day the route took them through Cannes it was a long, but flat and seemingly unending. Lunch was taken by a small park some children were playing in it. A baguette fortified, cheese was for strengthening, humus and tomato a culinary assistant, simple but the flavour was such they could overlook French plumbing.
Before they left France they were to take a solemn vow. A bread knife would become an item on the shopping list, they would renounce sliced bread, to eat or even consider it would be an affront to France.
The Friendly Cohort took note, they might not c
ome home masters of the language, but they’d bring back a little of France.
They were through the city and would be on the coast all the way to St Raphael. It was flat at first then became hilly there were endless views of the water. The ups and downs were all the way to Aix.
There were no formalities at the camp that night, no questions, find a spot, sleep tight and pay on departure. The payment was quick and equally informal, from hand to hand to pocket. There were a few other instances of the rapid paperless transaction, but their needs were fundamental a berth not unwanted clutter, I.e receipts,
it would add nothing to their comfort or improve the quality of dreams, but there
was an increase in their knowledge of French. Money was the rivet, it fixed the focus on the banks, their appellation crossed borders, French or English, in both it was the same, a bank was a bank in both languages.
They were to learn that in France some German could be helpful. There were problems with a tyre, the ride was uneven, bump, bump, bump. A bike shop was sought and found. There was an examination and diagnosis, the tyre was deemed to be Kaput.
They reached St Raphael which became Frejus, there was no break, the one became the other, but the passage was flat and not of excessive duration.
When they first left the city there was a brief encounter with an odd unpleasant man. He was on foot, traveling their way, they called and waved it was a friendly gesture, but the response was unwelcome and unexpected. There was yelling and shouting and gesticulating, fortunately he was on a causeway separated slightly from the road.
Their load and the headwind slowed their speed, the man hastened, a lingering menace, but they had the wheels, the technology for movement, eventually he was behind them.
All was not always peaceful in France.
It was flat at first when they left the city, then came the coast with the hills and views. The descents were brief, a headlong rush to reach the bottom to begin again the slow uphill.
Cyclists may dream of other, but theirs is the same as all, they are living in a gravitational field. But the road was well graded, the ups might be lengthy but were not steep, it was always possible to ride, dismounting and walking was not necessary.
The summits would arrive and bring a pause the views deserved attention as did the body, a snack perhaps or a liquid intake. The downhill might be thrilling but it could wait.
The camp that night brought a one and only experience in France. A lady was in charge, she showed them to their place of encampment for the night and asked ‘vous voulez’, Si bon, o k was their answer. It was the only time they were taken to their billet, often it was ou vous voulez, where you wish.
The next day headwinds continued, but it was to be the last that was warm and sunny.
The road flattened out towards St Tropez, it was late when they reached the camp, it was bisected by the road part sloped down to reach the beach they were on the upside, they never enquired but proximity to the water may have cost more.
There was to be another one only experience in France.
The man at the office spoke fluent English with a Scottish accent. He also spoke French he was not a Frenchman who had learnt English in Scotland but a Scotsman living in France.
They had a long conversation with the man, it was restful to speak to someone again without the strains of miscomprehension, he guessed their nationality correctly they were not Australians.
They asked about the whereabouts of a shop. There was one in the camp. Did they sell porridge? He did not know he did not eat it. He gave directions to the shop. He was right about the porridge, muesli would do they were tired and did not wish to go any further.
They did a brief shop and then put up the tent.
The Friendly Cohort wondered about the criterions used to be a world famous beach.
He constructed a check list. Did any at home make it?
1. Hours of sunshine. Not quite, but some places were close, call it within orbs. Tick the box.
2. Wind, plenty of that, another dab with the pencil.
3. A Scotsman. There’d be many.
4. One who did not eat porridge, a disappointing yes, traditional eating habits eroding a triumph for foreign brands.
5. A Scotsman who did not eat porridge but was fluent in French, trickier but a round up would find something. Take the pencil tick the box.
6. Plumbing. And a big full stop, the ticking hit the buffers and a gaping empty box. There was nothing at home like French plumbing.
The Friendly Cohort sighed, our beaches were alright, but they failed the criterion, they would not make it to the tourist guide of the world famous.
From now on the weather was to falter. It was not the shining Mediterranean climate it resembled nothing they had read about. It grew colder, the winds stronger and the sky darkened and lowered and finally at Carcassonne there was snow and hail. It was not what they expected.
After St Tropez the route left the coast and went inland they were crossing a peninsula. There were more hills and at La Croix-Valmer a post office. They had a parcel to post there was a queue, it took an hour. During this time a man called out Vive La France, did patriotism ameliorate the wait? Another option might have been a rendition of the Marseillaise. They would have attempted to join in.
The peninsula was crossed, the sea again, the views, still more hills and of course the wind.
There was a stretch with very restricted outlook, they reached it later in the day, it was through high walls and tunnels, these were lit, glass topped the walls. It was a troncon, cycle track, wide enough for bikes, the terrain not flat, but easier. It was eight when they reached La Lavandou, much later than their preferred time for stopping. They had passed a camping ground earlier in the day, but there were no more till La Lavandou. There was daylight till ten, but it was gloomy through the walls. In places there were trees, they further drained the light.
At the office they were asked if they were Germans, another surprise in the land of many. Their provenance was explained.
The Friendly Cohort wondered at the error. Was it poor guesswork or was their attempted French affecting their diction?
The next day the route took them inland, it bisected a large promontory the coast was rejoined at les salins d’hyeres. They were on a troncon right on the beach. It was straight, flat and went for many miles, marvelous for those travelling in the right direction, i.e. with the wind abaft, unfortunately it was not so for them. There were few cyclists but many skaters all following the wind, a quality experience thus the volume on skates. They saw a car pull up two young girls got out booted up with skates and away they went.
At the approaches to Toulon they were arrested by the image on a very large bill board, it dominated, it was inescapable. A man dressed in a suit and a collar and a tie was crouching, his trousers pulled down, his intention obvious. There was a string of words, obviously a direction, use the plumbing not anywhere on the ground. They were to see this use of anywhere many times in France. Cyclists were few, motorists many, this advice was caused by and was for the benefit of the many.
This was a further mystification for the Friendly Cohort. He searched the travel brochures, magnification was sometimes needed, but no matter how far or where he looked there was never a mention of need or the absence of French plumbing.
Maintaining the commissariat could be difficult shops did not abound and were not easily findable. So if supplies were needed the routine became never pass a shop. The next one could be anywhere and anywhere could be somewhere and somewhere could be anywhere wherever that might be.
They passed a huge hypermarket on the route through Toulon. The car park was surrounded by a large grass verge.
Toni went in, Rohort sprawled on the grass. Lying in the sun and resting was beautiful, it was marvelous he could have lain there forever. Then a small car pulled up, the driver a man got out. It was not permitted to lie on the grass
. Rohort tried to explain there were two of them, he pointed to the two bicycles he was waiting whilst his companion was shopping. Did not matter, he could not remain. The man took one of the bikes to a small wall where it could be propped, Rohort followed with the other. Rohort sat on the wall. That was not permitted. He could remain there, that was allowed, but he had to stand. So thus it was that in the supermarket no form of rest was possible, it was for shopping and nothing else.
The Friendly Cohort shook his head, was France a land of tyrants and many torments, persistent headwinds, forbidden rest. He had looked forward to the missives from afar, but now there was some dread, he feared their contents.
The shopping was finished without further incident, they were through Toulon and were back again on the coast and made camp at Sanary sur-mer.
There were now some seriously long hills. Easter was approaching and lilies were being sold in small bunches in celebration. The day into Cassis, the Thursday before Good Friday, consisted of two long hills, each took an hour to climb, the descents twenty minutes. There was absolutely no flat, it was up or down and that was the cycling for the day.
Cassis was on the beach at the bottom of a hill. They discovered the camp was further back from near where they’d come. The small climb back up was a deletion from what faced them the next day.
Toni went down later to the town, on the way back a car stopped some people from the camp saw her and gave her a lift back up. It was welcome, she was tired and it was a steep.
There were many staying in the camp, the holiday was coming. There was a slight annoyance that night. It was not caused by the French but by foreign tourists, Swiss. They arrived late, put up their tent mallets were used to drive in the pegs the ground was hard, this was unavoidable, but there was the accompaniment of an endless commentary, was it necessary? It seemed unreasonable. The next morning the occupants of that tent did some enforced listening.
The decision was taken to cross the river Rhone at Arles. Marseille was the other option, but it was a large city thus a long traverse, it would take most of a day also there would be serious navigational problems with an extreme likelihood of getting lost.
The next day Good Friday was their hardest in France, it commenced with a long hill, the vertical height was 700 meters, then a brief free wheel then some flat then a four kilometer hill with a short climb beyond the summit then a long and easy descent into Aix.
They had lunch at La Bouilladisse. During the day they had an encounter with French Ants. They passed a large patch of flowering thyme Toni wished to be photographed surrounded by the blooms she sat for the pose, unknown was the hidden swarming host. The Ants were large 10 millimeters long. The tiny creatures were just sociable, they did not bite, but the crawling horde was unwelcome, the pose was just long enough for the camera.
The Friendly Cohort wondered what France had next, there were Ants that did not bite, but French Wasps, would they be friendly?
There could be long hauls between camping grounds but they never free camped, fees did not involve a visit to a bank for economic aid but suitable places were scarce, trees for concealment, water and no prying eyes, there always seemed to be someone around. It was the inverse of their experiences at home no people, shops or camping grounds instead accommodation to suit the slimmest budget, there was no regimentation or charges amongst bushes by a river and the peace would not disturb the lightest sleep.
There was a camp on the road they were following into Aix, day’s end they were going no further. It was a major relief, finding a camp was not always so straight forward, first there was the visit to the office tourism to find its location, the office would be situated in the centre of town, it was signposted and reasonably findable, then would come the journey to the camp, this could be some distance, also there could be some navigational problems, once they were given misinformation.
The camp in Aix was four stars. The woman running the camp was taking her daughter through the office routine. The mother was fluent in English. They were told the fee 130 francs. Rohort fumbled in his wallet, out came a 100 franc note, the woman was quick, that would do, the money was taken there was no paperwork they were given a site reference, their place to stay.
Four stars the camp and twinkle twinkle in the shower, the buttons to press remained, but there were longer intervals of flow, it was hot, soothing, an enticement to remain, not a rushed rinse to flee the tepid torrent.
They were told some heartening information there were no hills beyond them after Aix. It was almost true there was a long one as they left the town. There still remained the wind.
The next day they reached Salon in the afternoon, the office of tourism was not signposted, how would they find a camp? They passed a bicycle shop there was a crowd of cyclists in it. They went in. Vous etes perdu, you are lost, was the greeting. They knew they were somewhere in Salon, what they did not know was the whereabouts of where they wanted. There was a lengthy discussion amongst the young men then one of them volunteered to pilot them. This was one of many kindness s’ they were to receive in France. Their guide was a teenager, a competitive cyclist he had won prizes he had aspirations for international competition. When they reached the camp they shook his hand thanked him took his photo and wished him every success for his future. They were very grateful for his efforts he’d taken them five kilometers.
Accommodation found, tent pitched then shopping. Rohort remained in the camp directions to the shop were obtained from a nearby camper they even offered to take them in their car. This they declined, the shop was two kilometers away, to reach it on an unladen bike would be a cinch.
They reached Arles the following afternoon, the camping ground was vast it was a large field, the reason for the extensive space was self evident, there was the sun and also much to see.
The town was situated on the Rhone, a large river. It had been important in Roman times, there were many remains, including a well preserved amphitheatre, the painter Van Gogh had been in residence and some of his work could be seen.
They were tired and sightseeing had to wait till the next day.
Tomorrow came and they went and looked.
There was a huge crowd gathered near the amphitheatre. This creates opportunity and need. Security guards were numerous and they found this reassuring; cycling pants mightnot have pockets to pick but there can be other problems. So there was law and order and food for the hungry, the crowd was thick and packed near the stalls selling food, it thinned, dissipated and became no more with distance
An enormous stew was being prepared in a vast dish shaped piece of hardware its volume was many multiplications of the humble kitchen dish. Instead of spoons a boat oar was used to stir it.
This inspired some verse from the Friendly Cohort.
Multiply the few gathered round the kitchen table
The answer is a multitude this multiplies the cooking.
It was believed the Friendly Cohort had stood out at arithmetic at school perhaps these few lines were confirmation.
The arena in the amphitheatre was surrounded by stone seating, used by the Romans, but not by the French, for them it was not sheer and cut from stone French bottoms sat on shaped and molded plastic. This modern contraption for comfort not aesthetics was suspended on pipes above the stone ones, white was its colour.
The Friendly Cohort wondered about the anatomy of the French, changes may have come since the time of Rome but French bottoms were not attuned to rock.
They spent the morning in Arles and had an easy afternoon’s ride to a camp near Vauvert. At the entrance a sign stated English was spoken. There was no mistaking the accent the owners of the camp were English. But there was an omission from the notice, there was no mention of a dog. Toni’s reintroduction to the English speaking world was a sharp nip from the owner’s small dog. There had been no provocation, fortunately there were no unpleasant after effects it just hurt for some time. At th
e camp the origin of San Fairy Ann was cleared up. The French equivalent from which it came translated ‘It makes nothing’. The British soldiers, the Tommies, fighting in France had Anglicized it.
The next day they were back on the coast they stayed at Palavas.
First there was a near miss with food. They reached a supermarket, it had just closed, Toni was quick she shot through the door from which shoppers were leaving.
The Friendly Cohort had just written his shopping list, a useful addendum, a guide for what to take but it won’t pay for what you’ve taken. Time did not allow Toni scribbled guidance, entry alone was barely possible.
The camp was vast, filled with static mobile homes. There had been difficulty finding somewhere. They had gone to one camping ground, but it was motor and static homes only, no tents. This endeavour had failed, next stop the office of tourism, a phone call and they had somewhere for the night.
There was a large dog at the camp and every time it saw Rohort it would bark. It never failed. Proximity and distance and familiarity made no difference, visual contact would bring unstoppable barking. It was a mystery. The camp at times would swarm with people, they would be legion, the dog would see so many it would be accustomed. Toni was exempted. So it was not the language, English was allowed, it could be spoken, this was not the trigger. There was no explanation. Provocation was not the cause it had not been near them.
The Friendly Cohort was as baffled as the travelers, there’d been tyrants in France, much wind, a dog that bit and now one that barked. He hoped there wouldn’t be a third.
The next morning the answer, the enigma resolved. They were paying at the office, the young lady was talking effusively they heard chien, dog, then later chapeau. It was his hat, it was camouflage and wide brimmed, they’d brought it with them. They’d seen nothing like it in France and nor had the dog.
Provence was very sunny, hats were not widely worn it was an unexpected absence.
The Friendly Cohort was relieved, the mystery cleared up and hopefully no more problem dogs.
Dogs were permitted in camping grounds there is a fee, they are a hazard for those cooking in the open. Their culinary efforts took place on the ground outside their tent the smells could bring a sniffing dog. French dogs like all dogs like food.
The next day took them inland away from the coast, there was a hill to climb and of course the wind. Did it ever give up? There was a succession of trucks passing them loaded with boulders, each truck carried few such was their size. But the road as ever in France was wide there was no sense of squeezing.
They rejoined the coast again at Sete. It was on hills around a harbour, it reminded them of where they came from, the capital at home. They stopped in the middle of a spaghetti junction to take a photo a pedestrian on the nearby pavement asked them if they were lost, they were o.k. The descent into Sete was steep the traffic thick, like all cities the navigation required concentration.
What was needed was found a shop that sold scarves some local guidance was indispensable. Next came the search for the exit from the town and the route they had to follow. They asked a motorist stopped at some lights.
He pointed to the signboard La Corniche raising his hand up and down, his arm pivoted at the elbow to the accompaniment of toujour, toujour, toujour, always.
They were soon out of the town, the road was straight, flat and right on the ocean, it was bounded on both sides by water. There was a camp at the end of this causeway, Marseillan plage, beach. This contained the shower where the water flowed unhindered there was cadence it was novel the unimpeded lathering. It was still early in the season, the main facilities were closed they were issued with a token for their ablutions.
The next morning they left to an accompaniment from a bystander in the camp tous droit, straight through repeated till they were out of hearing. More encouragement, there had been much, bon courage was frequent. The French respected their endeavors, in France cyclists had status.
The weather was deteriorating. Where were the 310 days of Mediterranean sunshine? The clouds were lowering the temperature dropping something nasty was coming.
They left the coast immediately the route took them through Beziers. It passed just inside the edge of the town. It was very old, the streets narrow. Once Toni climbed upon a wall to take a photo, they examined some of the buildings. They passed a huge rail marshalling yard.
They left the town, crossed the Orb River and took the more direct route to Carcassonne, the other through Narbonne was longer. There was a camping ground at La Croisade but it was ferme, closed, it was 6.15 when they finally stopped at Mirepeisseet. The wind as always was in their faces.
The next day the weather was almost at its worse cold with a gale but dry.
They wore coats and an insulating item inside their helmets, a wrinkle they’d brought with them to France.
The Friendly Cohort’s summation. ‘Brought inside their heads for use on top of their heads’
The road and the Du Midi canal were now following each other, it was to take them all the way into the centre of Toulouse. The canal ran from the Mediterranean to Toulouse and was joined there by the Canal lateral a la Garonne this ran to the Atlantic, it was known as the ‘Canal des deux mers’, the canal of two seas. The Du Midi is 241 kilometers long, it was the 17th century’s biggest construction engineering project. It ran through many wine growing areas, this added to their French the word degustation, wine tasting, was ubiquitous. For days they were to see the word, it was brandished at them everywhere, but it repelled, it was too close a resemblance to the English word disgusting. There was no trying of the product of the pays, district, they were travelers, go there and be there, look, see, absorb not through the mouth but through eyes, the priority was to get there.
They had done some prior reading by a cyclist who had traveled this section of their route, a fortunate miscomprehension had occurred. Somehow they believed the high point La Segala was 2,200 feet not the 190 meters that it was. Toni knew altitude can bring cold this brought a revision of their kit warmth became an essential.
This altitudinous error was discovered subsequently in France. The correction came from a French cyclist. He’d cycled in the area, he knew the canal and the accompaniment of the wind on this last point their reading had not failed them.
The Friendly Cohort pondered the error and its outcome, he classified it a good mistake.
They stopped at Trebes, they were still 10 kilometers from Carcasssonne. The camping ground was close to the canal.
The next day worse weather was to come. A path on the canal took them into Carcossonne. Unexpectedly a most thrilling vista appeared. The ancient city, La Cite, it was elevated as always all ancient settlements were, this was for reasons of defence, it was distant.
There was soon an abrupt change of priorities, snow and hail driven by the gale. First the office of tourism, a glossy brochure, there was golf, tennis, an airport, a hospital and four cemeteries.
The Friendly Cohorts comment.
‘Carcossonne had all bases covered.’
Their next base was a bus shelter, its purpose a dry place to eat. Bread and cheese were the victuals.
There were others in the shelter, Bon appetit was the only comment heard.
Municipal munificence was the Friendly Cohort’s comment.
The camping ground was found, the tent erected, it was designed for four seasons, within was warm, without seemed like season number five.
They then made a tour of the La Cite, the ancient city.
The next day there was an improvement in the weather. There was still the wind. It was two days to Toulouse. It was a gradual climb to the high point of the canal at La Segala then 40 kilometers down on a troncon, cycle track, into Toulouse. But despite the downward gradient effort was still needed the headwind did not give up.
They stayed for two nights in a hotel, there was a tiny bathroom.
The Friendly Cohort’s comment, perhaps not suitable for honeymooning couples.
They met Marie in the post office, she heard them speaking, she approached them she was a lecturer at the university. They were taken on a brief tour of the city’s churches. In one was a black Madonna. Marie had lived in Australia to improve her English, but was homesick and the food was not familiar, and definitely not French.
They followed the Lateral canal out of Toulouse. There was still the headwind. The word Peage, toll appeared on the sign boards, they had never seen it before there was an explanation they reached a very high bridge, it enabled shipping to pass beneath it.
There were toilets on their side of the bridge Rohort vanished into one then a cry came from within. The sight of the bridge and the heavy traffic caused catharsis, ablutions equipment was needed.
This was successful but less successful was to follow. They were approaching the prune capital of France Agen. Prunes in many forms were on sale their choice was with them in croissants.
The diet was unaccustomed there was dislocation in the night.
It was not dreams of heavy traffic or of a high frightening bridge, but rumblings in the tummy and a mad, scrambling dash, but at least Rohort got beyond the tent.
They slunk away the next morning early.
Their duel with the wind was nearly over. They had two more days, but after La Reole the wind was replaced by hills.
Sauveterre was entered through an arched portal. It was to be their cheapest camp in France and the only one with outdoor furniture.
There was a large party going on nearby, but it did not penetrate their slumbers.
They were approaching St Emelion, there was advice on signboards of an ancient city
But a mention of its name in France suggested another purpose. The hand would be raised as if conveying a glass was St Emelion France’s capital of grog?
Prune croissants may have been acceptable but they had no wish to be rolling drunk, the product of St Emelion they abjured.
Later at home they mentioned St Emelion, their interlocutor’s knowledge was unknown and unexpected. He spoke of the unique nature of the country side and the very special flavour of its wines, St Emelion’s reputation was widely known, not so Agen and certainly no passionate interest.
There was heavy rain in the afternoon the day they reached Blaye, there had been navigational difficulties in Libourne it was cold.
They took a hotel there was a radiator in the room they dried everything out, they warmed up. They were on the Gironde river estuary. They viewed the old citadel in the town.
The next day it was dry but a there was a gale, this time behind them.
They chose the verte, green route it was an old road not well graded there were some steep climbs.
The bonus that day was at Talmont, an ancient walled town founded by a thirteenth century English king it was on a promontory overlooking the Gironde its church was right by the water.
It is sometimes known as one of the capitals of hollyhocks.
The following day they reached St George de Didonne early, it was a brief ride. St
George is a watering place, they took a small studio and stayed for four days.
It was a new experience sitting at a table and eating off a plate with a knife and fork, a
time of relearning.
At Le Phare, old lighthouse, there was a memorial to an expedition in 1942 by British commandos. Five canoes paddled up the Gironde estuary to blow up ships in Bordeaux harbour. The raid was tragic, ten men set out, two survived, one went missing, hypothermia claimed one and the rest were captured and executed by the Nazis.
Was this the expedition that prompted the movie the Cockleshell Heroes they wondered, at the local office of tourism this was confirmed to be so.
There was also a 100 kilometer memorial walk way that traced their journey up the estuary.
France does not forget.
There was also a small repair job to Rohort’s bicycle. There had been a persistent noise coming from the sprockets. There was no need for diagnosis, they understood the problem. The Friendly Cohort had recorded the sound. In his stable for bicycles he had a large cardboard cut out of a Dinosaur it held a large piece of partly eaten toast, next to it was the Friendly Cohort’s impression of a prehistoric toast rack. A switch would bring the power. The Dinosaur would raise the toast up and down towards its mouth and at the same time a recording of the worn sprockets would be played, some clever lighting displayed the caption.
‘The sound of a Dinosaur eating toast.’
The repair done, their brief holiday over, the journey recommenced.
Their route was inland to Rochefort then it was back on the coast to Chatellailon plage, beach there was a long promenade and a choice of several camps. They found one and spent the night.
The next night was in Lucon in what a novelist might have described as a seedy hotel, but it was clean. They had passed it on their way through the town they saw nothing else and had returned.
They entered through a bar, were directed to a room and parking was found for their bikes. There was a crowd in the bar most were sitting, when they left first thing the next day it was unchanged, they did not know if they were the same people or the arrival of another shift.
Rotation perhaps. Was the Friendly Cohort’s quip.
When the Friendly Cohort saw the cost for their billet he labelled it Double Budget. It was tres bon marche, very cheap.
They were now approaching Nantes, a large city.
It was to contain an answer to a mystery that had dogged them since their first days in France; the location of a famous battle Agincourt. They had asked many times but the response never changed it was always the same no one knew anything about it. The French had been vanquished, driven from the field, the Friendly Cohort wondered if this was not a clue. Much time had passed since the ignominy, but the ignorance and its universality raised doubts, could it be, was it possible, it seemed too improbable, but could the French still be smarting from defeat?
Today brought the answer. A logo for Australia adorned the door way of a map shop the owner, a Frenchmen, had been a resident there for fifteen years. He was fluent in English. They asked him about Agincourt. He uncovered the mystery, brought resolution to the puzzle, they had the spelling wrong and of course the pronunciation, it was Azzincourt. The Fench were not hiding from disgrace.
The triumph may have been on distant soil, but Azzincourt the French spelling was too foreign for the English, too difficult, something easier for the tongue was applied.
On the embankment along the Loire, the river running through the city there was a brave admission of a dark and sinister past. There was a record of black birders, slave traders that had sailed from Nantes. Each ship was represented by a tile set in the pavement in the embankment.
The Friendly Cohort shuddered.
There were other reminders of a best forgotten past.
In Saint Nazaire a nearby port there is a huge and ugly building, concrete, rough with no adornments, there was no attempt at beautification. It is as it was when its purpose was finished. Nothing more basic could be imagined, a German submarine pen.
The submariners, the sailors had a life expectancy of one hundred days.
The commentary continued.
Many Frenchmen living in the port were killed by allied bombing. The intention of the raids was to stop the U Boat menace.
The Friendly Cohort wrote in his diary.
The reasons to Wish for Peace.
In Nantes they picked up a canal, it was to take them all the way to Dinan a town near St Malo where they would embark on the ferry for England.
The canal took them to Redon then they followed La Vilaine, a river that was made navigable by a system of locks and weirs. This would take them to Rennes where they followed L’Ille et Ranche another river made similarly navigable. The journey was much easier, no hills or wind.
Sometimes nuclear power stations were near their route. They were a lingering vista. Rising steam would be seen, then chimneys, at first distant, then nearer, then distant again, till they were no longer an interruption on the skyline.
But once their route drew them right in, it abutted the perimeter fence.
“No nearer.” Said Toni.
Rohort concurred. It was ground on which they did not wish to tread.
Then two other cyclists stopped. They were Swiss, they both spoke English.
A discussion on the merits of nuclear power ensued.
“The problem.” Said Toni and continued.
“We all want to live like rich Americans.”
To people living in a tent and traveling on a bicycle it seemed like gross extravagance.
Central heating, air conditioning, large cars, were there limits to what the planet could absorb?
Then followed a prescription for the ills.
“Don’t improve your knowledge of the English language and never watch a movie made in Hollywood.”
America was not hated, but its example had to be eschewed.
There had to be a rejection of much that many wanted.
They rode bicycles, was this sufficient? Did this exempt further effort?
But no Hollywood, the sacrifice, the two Swiss men cringed.
Would the demands and the curtailments ever cease?
The tall chimneys of the power station towered above them.
Destinations had to be reached. The Group broke up it was now the turn for the two Swiss men to run the nuclear gauntlet.
They were following the canal into Rennes, there was a vacuum in their stomachs and a deficit in their larder. Action could not be deferred.
The small shops in rural France had sufficient to keep them rolling, but the burnishings and titillations to enliven their cuisine were only obtainable in the larger towns.
“Look.” Called out Toni.
They were approaching a place of replenishment, a supermarket.
“Need a map and compass in there.” Said Toni.
Its size and range of products was overwhelming. But is it possible to tell from the shape of an onion if it will induce more or fewer tears from the eyes?
“I would suggest a hand held electronic pilot.” Added Rohort.
Then he looked up and pointed. A large and solitary word was above the entrance Flunch.
“Its Flunch time.” Said Toni.
So they bought its ingredients and Flunched and definitely without sliced bread.
In Rennes they briefly split up.
Rohort encountered some Australians.
One had gone to night school to learn some French, but it had not been very successful. There were lengthy discussions on their travels.
Rohort discussed their accommodation and rudimentary cooking arrangements.
“But it did the job.” Cut in one of the wives.
‘But it did the job.’ Repeated Rohort to himself. The so familiar language. Rohort felt emotion. It had been a long journey almost over they were only a few days out from the channel port. But those so familiar words, not heard for so long made him realize how far he was from home.
They were to see more Australians on their travels. In England and finally outside Raffles in Singapore. The familiar accents Brisbane, Sydney, Melbourne.
Toni turned to Rohort.
“You’ve gotta wonder if anyone in Australia is doing any work.”
Then came the final night, the camping ground in St Malo.
There was a young couple next to them and like most people in France they were French. The man could speak some English, his companion none, both were of an appealing appearance.
Rohort was inflating their mattresses his lungs the mode of compression. The air inside was the intermediary, the buffer from the brick like ground. They were comfortable by the measurement of camping perhaps not lulling like your goose feather bed, but for tired cyclists adequate.
Achieving suitable compression was for lungs drilled by effort, cyclists and others athletically inclined. Many were the huffs and numerous the puffs such was the effort needed.
The young Frenchman was watching, his companion had her hand on his shoulder. He enquired about the mattresses.
“It improves your performance.” Said Rohort.
“Then perhaps I should buy two.” Said the Frenchman.
Rohort could see there had been a misunderstanding.
The improved performance was not about Ou La La or activity in bed without pants. But the benefits given by a good night’s rest, the freshness on waking, the banishment of reluctance, the readiness for a day on the velo, bicycle again.
Explaining this to someone whose knowledge of the language was limited was going to be difficult. He was sufficiently lucid and unfortunately too successful. There was an instant sadness and a sudden gloom.
“I’ll have to somehow have to manage without those mattress’s.” Said the Frenchman and he turned and gave his companion a kiss, but there was a conspicuous absence of something.
Rohort was worried. He’d slipped, his grip was gone. This is not how he should be leaving France. He had to do better, there must be an atonement.
It was back to the mattress’s and more air. Difficult, doable and he did it.
The Frenchman was watching he now had a smile. Rohort gave him a wink. All was well Rohort was ready for the ferry. He could say good bye to France. The final stretch was reached.
A Snowstorm in Featherston
