Month: April 2009

As I approached Le Havre, doubts as to its quality as the final high-point of my trip started to emerge. It seemed very industrial, and was built by Francis or some king or other to be a huge harbour town, after all. What were my other options? Jane showed me that Fecamp, a town I remember from my youth with great affection (it was there that I discovered Benedictine, my favourite liqueur), was only an extra 30 minutes further up the coast. I resolved to divert, but stopped first at an out-of-town Aldi for some shopping. Now, it is well-known that the hypermarches outside of the port towns are reasonably-priced, but the French have cottoned on to our love of, well, binge drinking and booze cruises (“for me own personal use, like, guvnor”). The prices at these massive outlets have been increasing steadily over the last few years. My thinking was this: Aldi is renowned for finding alternative products at great prices. Surely, an out-of-town Aldi in France must provide the best value in the whole of Europe [mad cackle]?! The French were certainly stocking up, and I’m pretty sure I saw a German woman doing the rounds. She was smartly dressed, and selected a huge box of jars, each filled to the brim with some herby, wuetzel mix which she clearly intended to sprinkle liberally over every dish she cooked in the next decade.

My own selections tended to centre around the red wine section, diverting from time to time back to the dried sausages (so much more reasonable abroad) and the cheeses, from which I selected a wonderfully pongy Pont l’Eveque. I also purchased some decidedly French products: vacuum packed crepe (“what a load of crepe”, I didn’t hear another man remark). Desiring to be bagless, I followed my father’s example and picked up some boxes along with my shopping, which I filled briskly, in turn filling the rear portion of the car. Off I went, Jane barking instructions like a beleaguered army seargeant on the Normandy beaches.

With a renewed vigour, I hurtled over the huge Pont de Normandie Cable-Stayed Bridge, coughed up my 5€ for the privilege and then got completely lost.

It’s the first time I’ve really got lost. It shouldn’t be possible to lose one’s way with a satnav of course, but the issue is a human one: tiredness. The time was approximately 1800 and I had started driving at 0800 or so that morning. Bar a break at 1130 for a croque, one at 1500 or so and a 1630 wander around the Lisieux Basilica, I had driven solidly. Now, you could argue that this was all my own fault: if I had spent 30€ on tolls rather than 12€, and if I had missed out the most interesting driving and beautiful sights, I would have been hours ahead of schedule. I would also have been bored and fidgety (I see some of you nodding in agreement). No, I’ve had the holiday I want! But when the satnav is slow to show your position on a roundabout, you are liable to turn off too early. I found myself in the Grande Harvre, the industrial area of Le Havre, filled with outlets, petrol stations, warehouses – in short, a materialist hell. I topped up the tank from half full (worth it when half a tank is still 40 litres!) at a very good price and pressed on to Fecamp.

Fecamp was just as I had remembered it. It is an attractive town with a leisure harbour in the middle of it. That and the front looked most beautiful in the low sunlight. I parked at first at the front, where I was able to get myself a coffee, wander down to the water’s edge and take some pictures. I also went back to the car and ate some of what I’d brought from Le Havre, which reminded me of how hungry I was.

It seemed prudent to move the car to a quiter location, and I found suitable parking for the night – not perfect – rather bright and somewhat overlooked, but I was far from bothered at this stage. I parked up, wandered down to the front, got myself a beer and took some photos, thinking about the day. A Benedictine followed, of course, and I headed back to the car: I was too tired to talk to anyone: dead on my feet. But it had been another good day. I put my head on my pillow and slept like a bladdered teenager.

The morning was cold. I shelved my economic principles and started the engine to clear the windows, run the inverter and heat the car up a little. I was presented with two choices: leave Fecamp immediately, find the municipal swimming pool in Dieppe, hope it was open and go for a swim and a wash. I could then investigate the town (which apparently is worth it for a morning). Alternatively… I could test the sustainability of my car-dwelling methods a little further. I was resolved. I would wash in the sea. It was only a couple of minutes later that I emerged from the vehicle, swimming trunks on, towel in hand and bag of toiletries in the other. I sported the shirt I had slept in, but, owing to the frigid conditions, I had opted to don my GoreTex walking coat. Glasses stowed, and goggles on, I waddled towards the front in the flip-flops that were stashed in the hitherto untouched shoe bag.

The greatest difficulties a man encounters in his life are those he creates in his head. When I had got over the enormity of what I proposed, the next step, (to discourage any temptation towards regression) was to lather my hair in Head & Shoulders – now I was committed! Barefoot, and just within site of a distant runner and a dog-walker (enjoying the morning in these more usual ways), I stepped forward and my feet turned to ice, simultaneously sapped of heat, but also crushed by my weight on the large pebbles. I should have waited until the sun was nearing its zenith, so that the shallow water and stones might have had a chance rise in temperature by a few degrees. Stepping back because of the pain, I replaced my flip-flops and marched back in. Breath-taking – I felt alive! I quickly splashed water all over myself, being sure to wash properly. I lathered the shampoo and rinsed off thoroughly. I gasped and giggled like a lottery-winning emphasemic throughout the process, but genuinely felt clean by the end of it. The experience can’t have lasted more than three minutes but it felt like ten. Grinning more and more, I quickly wrapped myself in the towel before donning the coat again. As I walked back along the wakening promenade, the drivers passing me looked in amazement (well, it seemed like amazement!) and I espied a couple, possibly British, having breakfast quaintly framed in the window of the expensive hotel with the sea views. They smiled at me and I grinned back. I was on holiday, people!

Now, how to spend the rest of the morning? I chose to ascend the hill to the Cap, the chapel and the Semaphore. So much to write, but I’m not going to – life goes on. I walked for a while, inspected the wind turbines, cleaned my teeth at the same time as another man who was clearly living out of his car (an old Clio) out of need rather than desire and took photos of the bunkers and wildlife. I returned to the town to taste the Benedictine and buy another bottle, and to plan my trip to Dieppe. The port was a mere hour and a half away by the motorway, but I had other plans…

My return to Dieppe involved some of the most challenging driving of the trip. Asking Jane to route me by the coast as much as possible, I encountered tight bends on inclines and declines, complex observation senarios and hidden obstacles, a wide variety of road surfaces and the odd navigational anomaly. I had expected to be doing fewer miles at a lower speed, but I hadn’t bargained on it being that slow, and after another dead end, I decided to get back on a main road, which by that point was still a very direct and pleasant route in enjoyable sunshine. I saw some little places which were havens nestled in amongst the fields, where children played out of harm’s way and the locals would stop to chat. I slipped quietly by in the diesel-powered observation bubble, loving life and feeling careless.

I arrived into the bustle of Dieppe to be routed round the port area oddly: one of the bridges across the harbour was being maintained. I took note of this, and used my techniques to locate handy free parking in a narrow street. Around the corner was a great little restaurant, no tourists to be seen despite the imminent ferry launch. How odd to be so near to home (physically, but also in respect of the communications: I was in the port) and yet not come across Brits? I ate well (see pics) and, with ample time, but rather less than the stipulated boarding time, I returned to the car and set off in confidence: I had asked the man the name of the problem bridge, and it was easy to inform Jane of what part to cut out of my route! She took me around the whole dock area and deposited me by the passport gate. Which was where I realised that I hadn’t touched my passport since arriving and that it could be anywhere in the car! A minute’s frantic searching solved that temporary problem and I was in.

Maybe the fact that I tend to smile at everyone made me a target for the French customs and excise authority… The Douane officers made a point of picking through the vehicle when I greeted them warmly, presented my ID as requested and offered that they might take a look! They clearly thought I was a nut, so poked around ineffectively rather than thoroughly. I understood later that other people had had their camper vans nearly dismantled, and a drugs dog added to the mix, so I came out pretty unscathed. I clearly don’t fit the profile of a mule or for that matter, a publican looking to save some duty on his wine.

Boarding was a fascinating experience. It seemed that one lady had been put in charge of loading both freight and passenger vehicles. She delighted, to the amusement of freighters and holiday-makers, in waving several lorry forward, only to force them with frantic clipboard semaphore moments later to attempt frightening reversing manoeuvres – a sort of vehicular ballet, if you will. We all made it on board in the end.

After making a note of my location (I’ve lost cars on ferries before, you see, and the old “wait and see what’s left” trick only works if you’re not near the front…), I headed into the bar area and scouted out a socket for my laptop. There were two in the room, and both places were occupied by faster-moving travellers. Thankfully, one couple asked me to watch their bags when they went on deck, and I took the opportunity to move to their handily located table – the better to watch, but also much nearer the socket!

In the course of these shenanigans, a young woman with a cultured, Eastern European accent asked me… you guessed it – where the sockets were – she wanted to charge her laptop, too. I was able to oblige and we got talking. Mihaela, a Romanian pharmacy student, was staying in Rouen, having won a scholarship to study there from the “Iulio Hatieganu” University of Medicine and Pharmacy, Cluj where she was completing her course. She had decided to find time during her six-month stay to visit England for a long weekend. We chatted for a while on subjects as diverse as the relative merits of Linux against Windows, the Acer Aspire One netbook she was using, and the variety of films she had lined up to watch on the crossing. As time passed, she explained that she had never been to England before, and was trying to get to a friend of hers in Kings Cross. I magnanimously offered to drop her at Newhaven station, for which she was grateful, but as there was still much to discuss as we approached the port, we agreed that I would run her to Slough, hugely cutting down her rail travel and avoiding the risk of missing a key connection. She was delighted, and it suited me fine – I was tired, and was glad of some chat to keep me alert on the M25, and I was passing within five minutes of Slough on my way along the M4. Prudently, Mihaela checked with the information desk that arriving on foot to the ferry and leaving by car would be fine. She also texted her friend so that she could expect her – sensible behaviour when asking for a life from a strange man!

And so, once again, I boarded the ferry alone and ended up driving someone else off it. The hour-and-a-half to Slough was spent discussing the curiosities of England and old London town: driving on the left (I was grateful of the reminder!), our extensive cuisine (ahem), imperialism, how not to offend the British, what to see, what Kings Cross is like (better than it was). Being grilled about one’s own people on the way home from a trip abroad reminded me that I was pleased to be British, and even happier to have some experience of other cultures. By the time I had sent Mihaela into the bowels of Slough station (with the correct ticket), I knew I was home and ready for the next chapter of my life.

THE END.

Jane is a little like a fellow traveller who is absolutely certain she knows the way, but is basing all her conviction on an imperfectly memorised copy of the 2004 road maps for the whole of Western Europe. If, for example, someone has imprudently closed off a little-used lane, or pedestrianised another, or made one-way a narrow, yet busy byway, she is oblivious to it. Various possibilities then emerge. One can blindly follow her directions in the hopes that the road is still navigable, or one can take one’s route choices into one’s own hands for a while, ignoring Jane and letting her pick up the pieces later, but being sure to avoid her routing you back to the problem road, or one can use her feature-set to the full, informing her on the fly that the desired route has been closed by His most Worshipful, the Mayor of Lisieux since 2007, due to on-going motorway building and would she select another? I prefer the latter approach, but needs must when the devil drives, and I sometimes nip up an empty lane if the village seems dead and the view ahead is good or perform an illegal u-turn in a small town when no one (who can catch me) is looking. The surveillance culture hasn’t made it to France, yet, where you can still surreptitiously scratch your upper thigh without a public servant-operative blogging about it the very same minute.

I am now on the ferry home. I must update you over the happenings of the last few days.

I had decided that I would not stay in Bordeaux after Monday night. In fact, I planned to leave that afternoon, were it not for the fact that the restaurant I’d eaten in the night before had invited me to play the piano over dinner. The piano was relatively good (but uncared for), so I was glad of the opportunity. I played from about 1330 to 1630 non-stop. It was a really refreshing experience: I haven’t played like that in a long time – a sort of musical marathon. It reminded me of some the limitations of my technique, forced me to think ahead and to perform (rather than just to play to myself) and I found that very satisfying – my brain was really humming. The music flowed very naturally after the first hour or so. It is uniquely challenging and focussing to improvise for four hours without covering old ground. I was tired by the end.

Interestingly, had I been playing in England, someone would have looked after me; brought me my drinks, or at least asked me if I wanted anything. The French staff were happy for me to fetch my own drinks! Maybe it is a cultural thing. Pianos in restaurants are slightly more common in France than in England. Maybe it is less of a luxury to enjoy music whilst you eat, so the benefits to pianists are accordingly reduced?!

When I had finished (I was hungry and couldn’t play any longer), the staff thanked me, one calling me remarkable for playing so long (I think he thought I was a bit simple!) They asked if I would come back to play for dinner, and as I had no plans, and had thought of a few jazz standards I could run through, I agreed. I slunk off for some food and a rest back at the car. I also changed into my suit – the only outing it has had, as I didn’t make it to any Rotary meetings. In short, I returned to the restaurant at 1930, then played until 2115. I then returned to the car and started the long drive up to La Rochelle.

I don’t know whether it’s Dad’s car, or whatever, but I really enjoyed the drive. It was dark, the roads were quite quiet, and I made good progress, stopping once for fuel, although I didn’t really need to: the price was compellingly good. After about three and a half hours, I arrived in the seaside hamlet I had selected to the south: I wanted to sleep near the sea, and couldn’t be bothered to play around in La Rochelle itself at that time of night. As I drove through the village, I espied a left-hand turn-off, which Jane assured me continued into the sea! I drove past some fishing huts to a wide pebble beach. This was the spot! I wound down one window so that I could listen to the waves, and my final thought as I fell asleep was that I had maybe parked up in what would become a very busy area in the morning, with fishmongers, fishermen and moule-gatherers all over the place…

I arose quite late. It was very cold – the car reported 6 deg. C. I drove into La Rochelle and located the swimming pool, where I requested entry and was denied. It was 1005 and the pool didn’t open to the public until 1030. I decided, with dread and hesitation to extract a cup of coffee from a machine, expecting the worst. I was delighted after submitting my 0€50 to hear the grinder spin up: bean to cup, baby! Of course the French have good instant coffee! Their machines don’t use freeze-dried coffee – they simply make espresso really fast! Didn’t taste too bad, either. A bit over-extracted, maybe, but it will be a long time before they add barrista discretion to the processing capabilities of these machines. I drank up and ascended to the gallery to watch the lessons. It reminded me of mine, back in the day. I don’t swim half as well as I did as a kid. I was surprised to see that several of the instructors (for there were three working with groups in the Olympic-sized pool) were German. I envisage that they were preparing for a gala against Les Canards Rochelaises. I’m betting on the Germans. They’ve conquered the French before without too many problems. (Is that pseudo-racist? I’ll leave it in until I get a negative comment, then I’ll take it out like the coward I am).

I swam for an hour. No one questioned my shorts (hooray!), which was good, because I expected to be using the pool again tomorrow. On returning to the car, I noticed something that made my heart sink: the sidelights were on, but only dimly. I found myself praying, “Please crank, please crank”, but I lost all hope when turning the key in the door wouldn’t even activate the central locking! I remembered Dad saying that he’d had some concerns about the battery, but that he had purchased a conditioning charger and given it a good belt and that everything seemed ok. Of course, though, I have been putting additional load on the battery with the inverter, so I shouldn’t be surprised that I’ve been causing a net discharge over the course of my trip. Thankfully, my paltry French combined with waving the curiously dainty jump leads Dad had left for me (and worryingly so: the ones I keep in my car could jump a truck), a kindly French man, who looked a little damp himself reparked his Renault saloon in front of the stub-nose of the intracontinental cruiser and I was running again in minutes. I took care to run the car for a while before driving it – a stall would have put me out of action again, of course, and I didn’t want that happening in French town traffic! People really have been helpful.

The next job on my list was my washing. I didn’t have to do it, but I’m trying to judge the sustainability of in-car-living, and keeping your clothes clean is all part of it. I was delighted to have spotted a self-service laundromat so a few Euros and an hour later, I had two large bags of clean and part-dried clothing. Here the fun began. I’ve discussed at length the versatility of the giant car. Little did I know that with some tying of straps, I might be able to dry an entire wash-load within the confines of the vehicle and still have space to sit and blog!? By opening all the windows (including the roof and tailgate) and the rear side doors, it is then possible to hang all the shirts and a towel on hangars from one of the roofrack bars, which of course becomes accessible. Stretching the rear seatbelts across the rear portion diagonally provides loads more drying room. After an hour of blogging, I was able to pack everything away into the cases again! Delightful! I’d hazard a guess that with a little work, I could probably also smoke fish, run an internet cafe and possibly a GAP sweatshop from the car, although all at once would require some planning.

Now, I had been in touch before leaving England with an old friend from uni days, Clotilde, who has been a resident of La Rochelle for 10 months, having moved there from Caen where her parents live. Sadly, none of our communications have included our new telephone numbers – we’d only used Facebook, which is most effective in areas of internebiquity. I didn’t know that she’d replied on Sunday afternoon asking when exactly I would be arriving – I didn’t check my messages until the evening in La Rochelle, when I realised that she might only check her e-mail once a day: I had no idea where she lived! There was every chance that we would miss each other. However, in a Matrix-like moment, I called my dear sister Amanda, who was in front of a computer as we often are these days. She attempted find a number for Clo and failed, but she did post a message on Facebook, and Clo got that and called me, just as I was finishing my starter in a restaurant near the Quay. 15 minutes later, she turned up! We worked out that we had last seen each other at uni in 2003. We had written to each other for a while, but that had petered out. The passing of time had done our friendship no harm and it’s great when you can pick up where you left off. We finished dinner, walked back to my car, then drove over to her place, resolving on the way to start e-mailing again, she in French and me in English, in the hopes of improving each other’s comprehension.

Some of you may have seen Les Miserables. If so, you may have seen, or have imagined the hotel run by the “Master of the House” character – exposed beams, high ceilings but an air of dilapidation. Clotilde lives in a flat within such a building. It was a wonderful evocation of old France – the building dated back into the 1800s and each subsequent landlord had taken less care than the last. The staircase within the flat would not have been permitted for use in a rental property in the UK: one climbed it with difficulty and descended with some of the ease associated with falling. The flat itself was fine, although lacking in light. We had an early night, as Clotilde had to prepare for a presentation the next day and I slept very well indeed. After a breakfast of biscuits and tea, we left the house at 0750 and I drove her to work in Niort, a smaller town with a large prison (its distinguishing feature), about 50 minutes away. From there, I started my long run, deciding at first to return to Chartres as I had first thought to, but then wondered whether driving further (and further north) would make sense as I was fresh and starting early. Accordingly, I decided that I’d break my toll-road rule and try them out. Jane sent me to Angers, where I stopped at about 1115 for a croque monsieur and a coffee. I pushed on, taking the toll road again. They are long and smooth and very unsatisfying to drive on. At first I thought of them as fairly unregulated in terms of speed: after all, they are owned and run by private companies, and I thought that a gendarme would have to drive up behind me to catch me: he would be obvious (a clean car, for starters!). I decided on a rev limit to conserve fuel, rather than a speed limit, and found that the car would bowl along at something like 98mph without exheeding 3500 revs, which is impressive for such a large (and somewhat blunt-nosed) car. After a while I realised with a chill that someone had told me that the tickets, being timed, give away the car’s average speed, and if the time taken on the road is too short, the fine is immediate. I slowed to the perfectly acceptable limit of 130km/h. On my way I did see a Gendarme car and the passenger had what looked like binoculars, so I assume one of two things: 1) it was a speed camera, but the idea is that speeding vehicles are pursued either immediately, as they would be in the UK (I was not pursued), or they were binoculars and the police were looking for a particular car that was expected shortly. I must say that compared with our officers, the police in France seem a somewhat cavalier bunch, egocentric and non-procedural. They seem to be universally disliked, and that dislike borders on fear. They leer from their vehicles at the general public or stand and chat loudly in groups, and demonstrate disdain and pettifogging rather than service, as our officers are trained to. Peel himself said that an officer was merely paid to do (full-time) what was expected of all citizens generally, but of course, the French don’t know about Peel.

I forget exactly where I was on the road, but I inadvertently left the toll section somewhere in Normandy. I didn’t mind, but I had yet to decide on a destination. At that point, I resolved to go to Le Havre. It was a place I didn’t know and thought might be worth a look, and as I was only a few hundred klicks from the coast, I thought it might be satisfying to make it there. As I had time on my hands, and was enjoying the driving, I told Jane to take me via the shortest point-to-point distance. This can be amusing over, say, 30 miles in England, but over 150km in France? I shouldn’t have had regrets. The route took me through beautiful villages, smart towns that had banners proclaiming the flower awards that it had won, and by swift-flowing rivers and over their bridges. This was some of the most challenging driving of the trip, presenting narrow lanes, steep inclines, farm tracks and tight bends and turns, but it was very satisfying to be stretched. At one point, I came across an impressive estate car towing an even more impressive caravan. The driver had stopped to take navigation advice from a local, who was discouraging him from driving down the very lane I required. Where this might have caused me consternation in a different time or another place, patience reigned over my leisure-drive and I was delighted to see a cider farm signed ahead, so I went to poke around this most rural of enterprises. Overcome with tourist delight, I spoke to the lady and resolved to take a bottle of Calvados (I tried some there and it was wonderful), some cider and some pear cider. I checked my wallet and to the consternation of the proprietress as much as to me, found the contents to be deficient by one Euro. Not to be discouraged, I ran back to the car, which I had parked on a charming turning circle, where a less charming but no less earthy farmer was navigating his tractor with deliberation and inexorability. Sure enough, with my swimming and washing things was the Euro I kept for the lockers! Grinning (as I have with considerable continuity), I exited the shop-den with two bottles of the softer stuff and one of the hard, to continue my journey on to Lisieux and the huge basilica there which certainly deserved the photos I took of its exterior.

My line-of-sight route seemed to cause Jane a few problems. I found myself parked in front of three cones at the bottom of a long, rough country lane, which the Mayor of Lisieux had installed (or his rough-shaven, hi-vis-touting agents – who is to know?). I had it in mind to move them, as I’d passed what I know realise was a works vehicle coming up the other way and knew that the route was passable. My civil disobedience mentality was put on hold when I read the very nice letter with threatening undertones attached to a nearby sign, the Mayor’s seal quite visible if photocopied. It was clear that motorway works were the problem. Heavy-hearted, I reversed, turned around and made my way down Jane’s next suggestion. It was with a leaden heart that I came across the works themselves. I signalled to a healthy-looking hi-vis touter, in the hopes that he would move some bollards for me and let me on to said motorway, but with the best will in the world, there was no way I was going to get my vehicle, now dwarfed by the yellow earth-movers over the huge piles of ballast. I was advised to follow a lorry which was headed back to Pont l’Eveque (a few klicks in the wrong direction, but my other options were few). It was grudgingly that I set up in the huge truck’s slipstream, but I was glad he was surveying the oncoming vehicles for me. One van he presented with no choice but to mount the bank. As the van driver passed me, he made fingers-to-the-temples indications, expecting me to agree with him. I found that I could not: this lorry was leading me to my destination! How could I curse his driving machismo!? I grinned and proceeded unabated.

Next: the Le Havre leg. Stay tuned my dear readers.

Firstly, my apologies for not writing since Saturday afternoon. Blogging regularly is only a really attractive proposition if one is availed of wifi and hasn’t anything better to do. Really, since my last session, I have passed through both states of being, but never at the same time. I like to blog from the car when I’m parked up for the day/night. I haven’t (until now) taken the laptop out of the car!

So, whilst some of the boring detail of the last few days will have left my mind (I hear you rejoice!), I feel more than able to update you as far as the tail-end of Saturday and Sunday are concerned.

For the amusement of those with a preference for real-time data, I’m currently using the wifi of a nearby hotel, with 50 mins of battery remaining. From my bar table (on which there are some dry-roasted peanuts and a flutelike glass of local white wine), i can see the inner harbour, the castle and the church. The weather is fine, fair weather cumulus (about 3.5 octas). I’d make the temperature about 19.5 deg C in the shade. I’m on holiday, baby!

On Saturday afternoon, I acquainted myself with Bordeaux. There’s never any harm in trying the state-funded tourist points, so long as it doesn’t prevent one from getting to meet the people and relax as well. I opted to obtain the best visual overview from the bell tower, right next to the West end of St Andrew’s Cathedral. This tower is an awesome structure, dated later than the cathedral itself, and built to support the huge bells, isolating the main building from the considerable vibration of their ringing. In exchange for 5€, I would be able to climb the 230 steps to the top. Armed with the camera, I approached the desk, proffering a 10€ note. The kindly gent refused to accept it when he realised I was 25. Strictly, he should have taken it, as I broke the age limit by a few months, but he probably pitied me: his build was not conducive to such a climb, and he clearly thought it would cause me as much bother as it causes him.

Man, I’m unfit. I didn’t stop, though, until I reached the first floor, I would say about 190 steps up. Here the people of Bordeaux had installed small signs around the rail, indicating the key points in the city; mainly the buildings. Sadly, these plates were sand-cast, lacking detail and were very much artist’s impressions of the buildings in question. in addition, unlike a normal view point, the plaques gave no indication where in the vista the particular point of interest would be found. Some were frustratingly near: the observer might find himself looking over the top of it for a minute or two. Others were so distant as to become mirage-like in the haze. Some plaques were repeated on two sides of the tower, which might lead a less experienced techno-traveller to assume that the Bordelaise have a penchant for architectural duplicity.

I took quite a few photos, but very much missed the panorama feature of my old Canon Powershot, which fixed the camera’s settings after the first shot and assisted in aligning the frames prior to stitching on the computer.

I continued my ascent to the near-pinnacle of the tower. The view from here was simply a more dangerous and less informative version of the view a few metres below. Nevertheless, the adrenal release of satisfaction made it worth it.

My descent was inhibited by a large group of loudly-spoken people of Hampshire. I greeted them, adding them to my limited tally of English voices. I have yet to see one British number plate since leaving Dieppe. The joys of being out of season.

The rest of the afternoon I think of as my first low-point of the holiday. I was resolved to stay in the city, of course, but felt like I lacked the emotional energy to engage other people at that point. So I decided to be French. I would sit outside cafes, read “Sud Ouest” and some magazines and let the world go by. It was through those few hours in the cafes around Place de la Comodie and Gambetta that I aquianted myself with the local wine (I’ve eschewed formal tasting – it has occurred to me that I’m not actually interested in wine very much!), drank excellent coffee, smiled at my neighbours, relaxing in ones, twos and threes and got on with enjoying life.

I compromised my evening by missing lunch and eating at around 1600. I couldn’t bring myself to sit down to dinner as well. As a result, I realised with dismay that I had missed my usual opportunity to meet people over a meal. Slightly dejected, I walked back into town from the car, which I had positioned a 20-minute walk from the centre, and spotted a bar at the city end of Rue Judaique. This is a road I know quite well, as the municipal swimming pool where I make my toilet is half-way down. The place, called “Cafe Juda” or some-such was a tapas bar, and as it was quite late, was starting to buzz. I sat at the bar and ordered wine and tapas, and was left to my own devices by the seemingly surly proprietor and his guests, which included a couple of women in their early 30s and some worn-out looking just-pre-middle-age frenchmen. There is something about the weather and food, I suspect, that makes women age well and men age badly. They are seldom fat, more often in need of more care and attention. They are often badly shaved or not at all, and sometimes have a whispy decrepitude about them. I find them often wearing slightly worn teeshirts and leather jackets. Their teeth are of variable condition, and as the champagne flows and the conversation gets louder and less sophisticated, these teeth are revealed in laughs and wide grins. I am envious of their evening vivacity.

Finally, when her friend had trotted to the loo, one of the ladies greeted me. We exchanged the crucial particulars of my solitary, transient displacement, and I was introduced to the whole group, who took me completely under their wings. In an orgasm of conviviality, I was offered wine and cultural norms were demonstrated, explained and analysed: one lady of African descent spent a good 10 minutes in explaining, with examples, the process of transitioning from “vous” to “tu”, and answered many questions with the confidence of customary experience that transcended any textbook I’ve read. We imbibed a considerable quantity of wine and champagne (which seems to be opened on a whim without even the fabrication of a celebratory purpose), during which time, a half-Vietnamese woman – wife of one of the descheveled men – took a liking to my skin-tone and general condition, in the process taking time to educating me in the variety of ways in which approval of physical appearance can be conveyed in the French tongue. I assisted her, whilst all the while maintaining a considerable level of British reserve and detachment to acquaint her with the word “hansom”, in lieu of which, the French appear to use somewhat feminine alternatives. At the very least, it discouraged her from describing me to her friends as “beautiful” (something I am not). At my insistence, and to encourage a gap in the now less appreciated repartee, she attended to her husband who, after her encouragement shook me warmly by the hand and explained jovially that I wasn’t to lay a finger on his woman. It is important, dear readers, that you do not misinterpret these exchanges as anything other than witty and convivial parlance between two men of the world. In any case, he was welcome to her!

It was with some hesitance that I accepted an offer at about 0001 from the African lady-educator that some of us might accompany her to Monseigneur, the local hotspot, for further drinks and some dancing. I would not ordinarily attach a timeout to any invitation, but, when 0200 came around and there was no evidence of movement toward to door, I made my apologies, said my goodbyes and trotted back to the car, where sleep beckoned like a mist-veiled lighthouse in a safe harbour.

Sunday came around, and was as slow as the Saturday afternoon, but for different reasons. I proceeded unabated, in any case, equipped with (nay, gripped by, for now I truly feel like I’m on holiday) the laissez faire attitude developed in the proceeding day. I drove to a spot I’d found on Friday but had deemed unfit to sleep at (too overlooked, bus route, busy), although pretty central. I selected it for its proximite to the pool and the availability of wifi. Feeling suitably clean, I drove the 20 minutes south through Leognan, a beautiful wine town, surrounded by chataux (not all of them castle-like) and their accompanying vineyards. The weather was fine, the road smooth, fast and satisfying, the diesel purred like an old cat, tickled by unbooted foot of a retired upholsterer (there’s something analogous in the tap water around here). I was destined for the airfield, where I knew I would find a gliding club as a result of my research in Chartres.

I’m quite familiar with airfields. I love being able to see so much sky at any one time – they are a place where the clouds at long last make sense of the textbooks. One thing has always confused me about them, though. The man made features of the field, so apparent at 1000ft are utterly invisible from the ground. The location of the strips is only deducible from the direction of the landing aircraft. More seriously, though, I was oblivious to the existence of a perimeter road: most airfields of this size that I know do not have access from more than one side. I could see distant gliders upwind, ready to launch (weirdly, for you would normally launch into the wind), but knew that it would not be appropriate to walk around the field as I might at Booker, as the runway was active and I was off home turf. I walked to the general aviation hangers, and talked to two men there, who endeavoured to explain to me how to get to the gliding hanger on the other side of the field by car. One had no English, but seemed to be unwilling to speak French, prefering to gesture uselessly. It is assumed that the English won’t understand, but I understand much, much more than I can say. He started by saying, “can you see the cars on the road?”, then sent me back to mine to drive around to the gliders – I assumed by means of the main road, him having pointed it out! I dutifully exited the aerodrome, and turned off where I expected to find the edge of the field. The gate was locked. Espying a turn-off to a large château, I decided to change my plans, and ask the proprietor to let me taste the wine. Fate conspired against me, though: this particular château had been converted into a convalescence home!! I continued back to Leognon heavy hearted, and tucked into a patisserie whilst deciding on a course of action. I thought to return to Bordeaux, then realised that I would be giving in by doing that. I returned to the aerodrome instead, sure that I had missed something. Sure enough, within the aerodrome complex, a weathered sign, the arrow of which I had understood to take me further down the road on closer inspection appeared to point between the GA hangers! In short, I found the perimeter road I needed over 30 minutes ago…

The sky was greying as I took the steps up to the clubhouse. I was greeted warmly by the other pilots, all waiting for a reappearance of that patch of blue that would mean we could all fly. Only one had got away that morning, and was still up there. The membership was wonderfully young. They didn’t all seem super-rich judging (as you never should) by clothes, cars and sunglasses, so I think it is a reasonable place to fly. One of the balding keenees that all clubs benefit from helped me comprehend the ATC zones around Merignac airport, which took considerable time, but all made sense in the end. I read some magazines for a while with some of the others, before descending to the hangar. Now I know why the club members didn’t look wealthy. It was all in their aircraft. The club owned a selection of solo and training aircraft, but, pride of place in the middle of it all was the ultimate training glider: the duo discus. There’s one at Wycombe I’ve never flown, either. You could fly it solo in competitions against single seaters and still win.
As we couldn’t fly, I helped out in the hangar, covering gliders, testing radios and packing things away.
Across from the large hangar was a smaller one, with fancy electric doors. Therein contained was a Dynamic, a gorgeous two-seater, single engined plane, the owner of which decided to take for a spin, dashing up through the rain to the distant blue, north of the field. It began to rain heavily. A storm broke out, but we all hung on, as these apparently pass quickly through the region. By 1600, though, it was clear that we’d experienced a no-fly day. I thanked everyone, was encouraged to return, and then I headed back to Bordeaux.

After my spell at the airfield, I took the chance to select a new place to park up on the other side of town – Rue Boyard, just off Rue Mounyera did the job, about halfway down from Place de la Republique. It was nearer the centre, maybe a cheaper area, judging by the need for maintenance. I walked around the town for a while, stopping off to take pictures and drink coffee. By the time that dinner time came around (always earlier for me than any Frenchman) I felt comfortable in the place, as I do in my old shoes. It was with hesitation that I selected a table outside a restaurant claiming to be one of the oldest and best. Against it were the rather ostentatious fittings and slightly nose-in-the-air table service. In its favour were the reasonably large number of French people eating and drinking there, and the wonderful view of the cathedral in the orangey light of dusk. There’s something quite special about the afternoon lull in these cities: kids (and the not-so-young) on their monocycles, practising by the West door, tables of happy friends, some live music from the adjoining cafes. There is much less pretention and greyness than in cities with big financial centres like London. In its place is a sort of continental subtlety. I think I may have misinterpreted the seeming dilapidation of the town-houses and their occupants as a sort of poverty of pocket and pride. Instead, I think the French care more about other things: meeting their friends; manufacturing culture; eating; trying their hands at being philosophical or revolutionary; being political – all these places are littered with messages which become part of the background scenery: they would be removed immediately in London: handwritten leftist political slogans are copied and sellotaped to lampposts. Students wear sandwich boards which challenge the very purpose and stucture of their university. Comments are often contextual: messages about litter and social housing written on wheelie bins. Graffiti with a cause. In England, we’re all used to coming across public notices on BT corner cabinets and the like: “Post no bills”, and “Bill posters will be prosecuted”. There must be a cottage industry in producing the fine, ceramic tiles with “Defense d’afficher” on them: they are everwhere: in between the street-side windows of private houses, yet each seems to be there because of the behaviour of another citizen at another time, on that one piece of wall, not in preparation for the worst: there are lots of places where posters are stuck and never removed. There are even public poster boards, with many layers of printing effort, each only obscured when the political rally it informs us of has passed, or the youthclub show we’re advised to see has struck its set.

Anyway, I sat down outside this restaurant (are you still with me?). I selected a seat affording the best view of the cathedral, ordered wine and a copy of the menu, which I perused leisurely. I’d also brought some magazines so that anyone taking their seat near mine would know that I was alone and not waiting for anyone. In short, that I wanted company. I caught the eye of a sunglasses-wearing Frenchwoman who was supping wine on her own. I gave her a cheery “Sante!” as I started my wine which was returned with a smile. I placed my food order (Magret de Canard, a point at a few euros too much), and asked across the table whether she too was holidaying alone. She explained that she was a resident, and I was reminded that to eat and drink solo in France is much more commonplace than in England. The town-houses are small, and maybe they have to get out a little for the sake of sanity?

By and by, I invited her to join my table: there seemed little point in drinking wine together apart, with a conversation that was developing nicely across the tables. Nazaire (for that was her name), discussed the wine regions with me, linking the area I’d tried to fly in that day with the wine in her glass, which made a nice connection for me and a grounding in reality. We discussed our origins, she pure Moroccan, me, mongrel mixed race once removed. Time passed with the gentle bonhomie of strangers in deep conversation. She had needed to get out of the house, because her boyfriend’s slightly overbearing and demanding mother was over for the weekend. My hypothesis was correct.

The evening took a turn for the strange. Nazaire informed me that a friend of hers worked at a local bar with good music and atmosphere. She asked me to consider it, because it happened to be a gay bar. Now, I’ve been to the odd gay pub. I’ve played rounders against the Nag’s Head team in Wycombe in the sunny summer sunshine on the Rye in Wycombe. When I got to this bar, though, I was bowled over by the gayness. Wow. It was beautiful. Appealing and well-selected music thrummed from the high-quality sound system. The walls were solid mirror, such that the room appeared to be four times the size. Those unmirrored parts; columns, etc. were affixed with steel plate, which had been polished to a shine. The bar was glass, spotless, and surrounded by well-dressed men with quiet voices. On a large screen above the door, members of the male sex, carefully selected for hairlessness and leonine physique, cavorted in a very soft way in what appeared to be a simulated shower environment. As I looked around I took in that very location. In the corner of the room, a mirrored shower with shampoo dispenser presented itself. It was thankfully not in use: had it been, I would have left as I would have in the case of pole dancing women, etc. Nazaire and I amused ourselves with cocktails. I was delighted to note that she received much more attention than I, although I made pains to jokingly inform her (received with hilarity) that it would be her duty to defend me with sharp-tongued French should any predatory males wander over and make advances in my direction.

At 2330, we headed for the door. We made our fair-wells and chose not to exchange details, instead leaving our next meeting to serendipity. She may come to London next year. She may look me up and I’ve said I’ll show her around and make her welcome as she did for me in her city. I’m not hard to find, after all! After a 15 minute walk back to my car, the night came to a close.

Bordeaux is a great town for the practised “nomad numerique”. It affords its budget visitors with a huge density of relatively dark and quiet residential side streets, quite close to the city centre. I have developed a technique for locating appropriate night parking which will cause the minimum of disturbance to the permanent residents.

• Drive straight through the centre of the town as soon as you arrive. This gives you a good overview of the busier parts, allows you to judge the level of traffic, so that you may better adjudge what a “quiet” street might be. The best way I have found to negotiate the cities themselves is to always have somewhere to go. This may sound odd, maybe akin to the flight plan that all controlled aircraft must submit in advance of hitting the runway. In fact, it makes perfect sense: A traveller, lost in the desert could – at his risk – advance in what he believes is a straight line. But a small inaccuracy in judgement or maybe bodily imperfection (one leg longer than the other?) will result in our victim taking a circular course: far from desirable. He ought to fix his eye on a distant point and walk towards it. The technologically adept sojourner may “set his Jane” on a particular target, as well, to avoid the effect of multiple “ronds-points” from sending him around the ringroad. A suburb on the other side of town, maybe 1.5km from the centre will do nicely as a first target. There he can breakfast after his 100-mile run and plan his attack where parking restrictions are not yet an issue.
• Locating appropriate parking places is the true black art. The optimal parking space; the holy grail of in-car living would be a quiet, one-way side street, within a 10-minute walk to the town centre and a 5-minute walk to a good bakery. The perfect space would be halfway down the quiet road, not on the ends where the occupant can be readily observed. It would not be opposite any windows, and would not require parking half on the pavement. The street would be at best completely unlit (they do exist in villages), or at least the street lights would be spaced to allow for parking between them, such that the seats and tailgate of the vehicle cast a shadow over the interior. I use the following technique with great success.

Finding “that” space

• From your suburbian perch, point your Jane in the direction of a tight network of roads about 500 to 600m outside the dead-centre of the town, or 800-900m in the case of a city. This is the beginning of the quieter residential quarters (I find this to be almost uniformly correct.
• As you approach this point (within 250m or so – consult the Jane), survey the roads. Be opportunistic, but never stop driving: that is, always ensure that driving consumes the bulk of your mental effort. French drivers are somewhat compromising, but suffer no fools.
• Look down roads as you pass them and check for spaces and the nature of the restrictions.
• On espying a possible place, turn down immediately if possible, or Jane it and go around if you think it worth it. Alternatively, continue to the pre-selected point.
• If your destination doesn’t please you (too noisy, too bright, too overlooked), take heart and Satnav yourself to the next group of dense narrow roads, surveying all the time.
• Within only a few iterations, a good spot will appear.

Please feel free to comment on my approach. This seems to work for me, but I will refine it as I think necessary.

Dear all,

I would normally only write later in the afternoon, but I am precipitated to do so now due to the availability of wireless, and the potential absence of it in another location, should I choose to move the car. I also don’t want to forget anything that has happened which might be of interest to you, dear reader.

I left you wondering whether the seemingly ugly town of Angouleme had anything to offer the prowling budgeteer. I will admit to being at that time a hair’s breadth away from telling Jane to head for the nearest village, and calling it a night. Thankfully, those anonymous internet forces of good had blogged extensively on Angouleme’s charms: it seems that you should never judge a French township by its sprawling urban environs: remember that there is likely to be an old town in there somewhere, if one can just poke around, then tweeze it out like a surgeon extracting a particularly ill-placed kidney stone. (I promise to never analogise again…)

So, giving Jane coordinates for a not-quite-central close, I set off for the 10 minute run back into the centre. Here is what I should have discovered about this place a long time before: everything on the flat is ‘orrible, but the old citadel, with walls still preserved is very high, like the Acropolis, only French-er. Nestled in its mid are two sizable buildings: the Marie and a reasonably compact cathedral.

I began my search for food, emboldened by the comments of internet travel-sages, that the place, whilst architecturally unsophisticated from a purist point of view, did have a rather busy little restaurant quarter. It was easy to find: the cafe-cultural laughing of the street-seated youth was delightful, and I felt able to wander and blend. I started looking for a typically French restaurant, and found the perfect one. Clearly not short of business, though it was relatively early, I perused the outdoor menu boards, made my selection, noted it mentally and boldly burst in, garbling in true wince-inducing style my request for a table for one. I was to be disappointed. “We’re fully booked”, he said, with a tone of dissapointment for me combined with the glittering eye of the self-satisfied restaurateur. I stumbled back out into the street, somewhat dejectedly, but bounced in my usual way and took a trip around the block again. A very empty Moroccan beckoned (I refer of course to a restaurant, not an example of the race) and the prices seemed reasonable for food in general, as I wasn’t particularly familiar with the offerings. I was encouraged to enter on seeing the lively proprietor chatting to the only table of two in the place.

I was not disappointed with my choice. The gentleman was in his mid-30s and spoke little English, but had an opinion on everything language-related. He tried to tell me that French is a more challenging language than English, because it relies on tone much more. I countered with my view on the subject, explaining that the parts of English speech were much more demanding and there is far more nuance in meaning, word definitions being highly contextual. I should have explained the word, “set” – the definition in an English dictionary runs to a column, usually, mainly due to all the phrasal verbs that you can build with it.

I asked him to select my dishes for me. I wasn’t being lazy, but he seemed to know what he was talking about, and I’d only have shot in the dark. He brought me bread, a carafe of water, a demi of fairly local red and a very fresh salad, with the tomatoes, some herbs and something else pureed on the top. It was delicious if a little… damp. That must be the culinary style, then. The main dish was what he called couscous. I’m obviously familiar with the grain product, and when he recommended it, I was a little disappointed, expecting a bowl of taboule or similar to work my way through. I was wrong (again – why do I set myself up for disappointment?!). There was a large bowl of plain couscous – the lightest and fluffiest I have ever eaten. There was also a tall container of soup-like sauce, with big pieces of soft-boiled veg in it. There was also a large plate replete with meat products: a kofta kebab, nicely spiced, of very tender lamb mince, a fat chicken leg, boiled, I think, and a long pork sausage. He explained what to do with it (couscous onto plate, sauce on couscous, add some meat, eat at leisure). I was very full by the time I ordered sweet, fresh mint tea and a little fruit salad.

About half-way through my meal, the wisdom of my restaurant selection became apparent. The place started to fill up, building to a crescendo of delightful eating noises. Some of the visiting gourmands engaged the proprietor with discussions as to the origin of the meat, the freshness of the veg and the style of cuisine. His answers were encouraging. A few more tables entered, including a large one of 20-somethings. As I supped the last of my wine, I waited until their mains were served, and then made my request in wholesome, farmer French. “I’m English, holidaying all alone. Can you recommend a bar or nightclub for the end of my evening.” I seemed to stir some amusement, such as might be engendered by the first utterances of, say, a talking dog, or the tentative steps of a 5-year-old in a crowded supermarket isle. I was delighted when they responded with three options, including an open-air concert with, I quote and translate, “free beer”. I responded to this with the predicable English adage, “There’s no such thing, etc., etc.” that met with further amusement. The ice was firmly broken, and I joined their set, discussing in a mixture of excellent English (them) with unpredictable French and interjectory English (me). The topics of the day were the financial crisis (how dull), the working hours of the French (rather less dull) and the musical and artistic talents of the locals around the table (fascinating). One man was a rock and jazz harpist, having eshewed the well-meaning pressures of his classical teacher at age 15 (“we had a disagreement”), another was a, by all accounts, excellent artist of the “bande desinee” style in which the town enjoys international focus. The musicians in the group were part of a movement to combine art, music and drama in live, outdoor and theatre performances: something that seemed to run in the veins of the place. The artist would use a Wacom touch tablet or a camera fixed above a piece of paper, and draw during the course of whatever music was playing, matching the style and the lyrical content. This, he said, put him under pressure to produce in the four minutes or so that the track might play. What an amazing talent.

We all left the restaurant together, and headed into the main square. I explained to one girl, (an expert in the turntabling scene and musical genre, by the way) that the atmosphere, of a weekly occurrence in Angouleme during the summer months, was matched only on Fireworks Night in most UK towns. She laughed, as if what I said confirmed the street-cultural dearth in my homeland, but was quick to agree that during the day in even the larger French towns, most people seemed to be indoors, only to emerge at night. We seem to suffer the opposite in England.

Sadly, the concert was something of a disappointment, Marie, introduced above, gave me a commentary as the DJ got to work, explaining that he was copying (and inadvertently parodying) the music of a well-known French duo. Apparently, he continued to make unoriginal mixing references all night, and made a caricature of himself. The show did also comprise excellent graffiti art, a beer tent (our free beer came from backstage, I discovered), and a projection show. There were no police to be seen. The place was busy, and lively, people were well dressed (no top-off male nakedness as might have been expected at a UK outdoor concert) and there was no appreciable drunkenness or misbehaviour. Transplanting the scene to say, Reading, a town of I would say, equivalent proportions, would have become a matter of national security, with the mounted section being brought in.

As the evening drew to a close, I asked one of the crowd which direction was south, and started wandering back to the car. The knotted, descending streets quickly threw me into a miasma of disorientation, and I was glad to have Jane in my pocket, the GPS location of the car having been stored as a favourite on my arrival. She plotted an excellent walking route and I wandered back to the car.

When I arrived at it, I was pleased to see that all was well, but surveying my chosen location in the dark quickly indicated its deficiencies. The street, although blissfully quiet, was very brightly lit, quite unlike a side-street in England. The lights gave off a startling, bluish radience, which I knew would not be conducive to sleep. I walked past the car, and surveyed the closes on that road, quickly spotting and unlit, garage complex just off the street, next to an allotment. Although it was overlooked, but this time, I reckon it to have been about 2330, so I returned to the car, taking it the 50 yards down the road and parking it in the wonderfully dark spot. After a quick chat to Clare, I made my bed, set the alarm for 0700, and fell asleep.

When I awoke, I was delighted to see that everyone else was still asleep. When sleeping in the car, one of my greatest concerns is upsetting a local, either by blocking him in, or causing some other distress. I dressed, swigged some water and set off for my 100 mile pre-breakfast run to Bordeaux. The trip passed uneventfully until I made the classic continental driving error – I ended up on the wrong side of the road. Allow me to explain. The streets of all French towns and their suburbs are liable to broaden to two lanes at any point. They may also narrow again, but on the whole, the warnings for both are very satisfactory. It is also easy to check where on the road one may drive by espying the central reservation between carriageways if there is one, or the bold lines that separate the two. Picture this: I rounded a right-hand bend after moving off from some traffic lights. There were no other road users in my direction. I assumed a left-hand lane position to prepare for my left turn at the next crossroads. I noted the dividing reservation, which seemed to leave a lane for traffic coming toward me. As I proceeded down the road at around 35km/h, I chanced upon a small car (for all are smaller than the mine) crawling up my lane towards me! Oh the impunity! It took me a second to realise that the separated lane was for buses only, and that I was in fact encumbering the lane required by approaching drivers. There was no danger to be had: my opponent had slowed to give me time to realise my error and regain situational awareness. Her passenger still took the time to wave her arms franticly at me was we passed, which I wholly deserved. I declined to wave back.

Notes for other visitors to Bordeaux:

• Bordeaux-Lac is not the waterside picnic village I had hoped for, but is equivalent to the Excel Exhibition Hall in London’s Docklands. It was predictably shut, and took me a long way out of my way, for no breakfast whatsoever.
• Satnaving yourself to a sideroad which looks convenient on the map may require a few repeat efforts, when one discovers that you’re in a forgotten, rundown suburb and need to get further in if you want any services at all.
• The French take any effort to parallel park, even on the smallest of streets as a direct affront to their libertie to use the road. They give you four seconds to unblock the road before they start nuzzling your exhaust pipe.

I’ll carry on from where I’ve left off ata later time. To whet your appetites, for your delectation I will chance to explain the world’s most complicated public swimming pool system, the sophisticated tram system (how do they power them? Must the occupants peddle? What is the purpose of the pantograph when there is no overhead power or catenary? Is that bell sound recorded or real), and the view from the top of the 230 steps in the bell tower.

A Dieu, mes amis de la patrie.

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Hello gang!

I left you in the last instalment whilst sitting in the office component of the supermultimodal mobile command centre. I must say that my enthusiasm for the lake-place started to wane during my hunt for a cash machine. You see, I’d pictured the rest of the town to be like the lake bit…

I’d also misread the scale on the Google maps. Far from finding a nucleic village with everything a man needs in the evening (ahem), I had found myself in the attractive part of a sprawling suburb of Tours. Quaintly, I thought to wander to a cash dispenser, of which there were allegedly many in the town centre. I soon realised that the leafy lane I expected to wander down was in fact, the main D road that I had left to take up position. Undeterred, but beginning to realise that the distances involved might be somewhat greater than they first appeared on inspection of la carte googletronique, I plodded on, over two roundabouts (the French like to enter these simultaneously before their desired exits are clear, turning them into useless car parks – very amusing unless you happen to be wanting to go somewhere), and then further and further. The light fading, and the sprawl of dodgy bars and chain hotels seeming to be unending, confirmed the extent of my error. By analogy, if I had I under-calculated by this degree in command of a 737 to Sicily, my fuel plus reserve would have abandoned me in the Med. Thankfully, feet on the ground, I located one of the cash points, surreptitiously withdrew my fonds and started my search for what the morning would require: a swimming pool, of course. One local, with pushchair and clearly not far from home, responded to my request offered in perfectly pronounced but utterly garbled French that no such thing existed in the town, and I would have to go to Tours in the morning to fulfil my intentions. I thanked her, then set off back to the main road, noting as I did the very signs which would in due course lead me to the allegedly non-existent piscine couverte…

Deciding to divert to check it out, it was with angst that I noted on the front door to this particular township’s degrading swimming facilities that they were only open over lunch and after work on weekdays. With a heavy heart, I continued my walk back to the lake where the Tardis was parked. I needed a new plan.

Alas, on my return to the lakeside haven, no bar was to be found: what I thought was a resort was in fact merely a few hotels arranged in a group. Whilst there were restaurants in each, none had a bar, and in any case, it was late for food. I entered the foyer of one and requested a beer, which was duly brought to me, though I had to sit on a very uncomfortable seat (deliberately uncomfortable, I wonder?) and read some leaflets, which served little purpose than to cause me to conclude that (a) a volunteer railway did not exist in the vicinity (to my displeasure – when one has the urge to play with the trains, the TGV on the main line is never an option) and (b), the wonderful Cinéscénie show in the Vendee has been made even better and more spectacular for 2009.

As the whole area was clearly empty of the life and camaraderie I desired, I wandered out to take some pictures in the pitch darkness of the lake area. These were a success, and a great lesson in 30+ second exposures at small apertures. trial and error, combined with knowing roughly what the buttons do is all that contemporary photography requires of the newcomer. I will deal with the photos in due course (when my feet touch the ground?) and let you seem them on Google.

I went back to the car for a delicious sandwich dinner of chorizo, bread, saumon fume, yoghurt, etc., then moved it out of the street light, down the service road of a huge country house very nearby. I resolved to move the car very early in the morning, lest I was moved on by police or residents, and set my alarm for 0600.

I awoke to the cold morning, still dark. I had slept well, but felt my hours had been cut short, so I moved the car to a close near its original location and fell asleep again. At 0830, I rose again (classic Easter behaviour, I assure you), dressed and reparked near the guest house. The lady at the desk dearly wanted to allow me to pay-per-swim, but the insurance prevented members of the public from doing so. I was resolved to drive to Tours after all: I wanted a shower and I had loads of time prior to my flight at 1100.

My experiences in Tours took a turn for the unexpected and undesirable. Arriving at another pool attached to the municipal sports centre, I discovered to my chagrin that the opening hours were the same as those in the suburbs! I was thwarted, but undeterred. I mused that any sports centre of the municipal variety must have a gym with shower facilities. I would pay to use the gym and make a beeline for the washroom.

The “centre sportif municipal” was really just a huge building filled with… Judo dojos. At least three, with a large, stadium-like ring for spectators. I espied the showers, but the doors to the dojos were locked. Enquiring at the security point in the otherwise empty building, I explained my plight in delightfully lilting francogrunt. Thankfully, in my cas exceptionel, they were prepared to allow me to shower in the judges’ changing rooms! I therefore enjoyed for free some reasonable facilities, hot water, etc. I washed, shaved, put on fresh clothes and walked out with a wave of thanks to the security staff! Yes, effectively, today I washed for free! Cost of accommodation and toilet? 0€! The holy grail of slimline living!

With a soppy grin, I returned to my vehicle via a conveniently located patisserie, to discover that I should have paid for parking, failed to, but had no parking ticket! Double cream! I was a mere 30 mins from the aerodrome, so I set off, to arrive there rather early. Although I offered to help, they seemed to have a team of mechanics, and all the daily inspections of the aircraft were complete. Accordingly, I sat comfortably, greeting mes amis pilotes as they arrived, and reading seeming endless back issues of info-pilote which were stacked up in the corner. My knowledge of French aeronautical terms has improved, not least to a glossary explaining the meaning in English of the various parts of a runway, indicated in French.

Finally, my first pilot friend, Remis, arrived a little late, bringing bright sun and fair-weather cumulus with him. I counted him out the money as agreed, then we got going. No formalities. Nothing to sign. No discussion of my air competence. Wonderful! Almost all my hours are on simulators, anyway, and don’t really count! He and I got along in broken French, and we even shared the odd pun. Before long, we had gone through the checks, me explaining and confirming the terms he used in English, then we were taxiing toward the runway. We held short, then tested the engine, each magneto separately. All sounded good across the rev range. We were off! I asked to follow through on the takeoff, and he didn’t seem to care what I did. We rotated at 110 knots (it was a four-seater, after all, not the two-seater I had actually paid to fly, to my delight) and climbed briskly to 2000 ft, where I assumed control, basically for the whole flight. He took back the stick so that I could take some great aerial photos of some of the chateux on the Loire that we passed (within 1100 ft at times!) and he was always happy to give back control, crossing his arms to make it clear that I should be flying. We laughed for a lot of the trip, just keeping an eye out for any Mirage jets from the nearby MATZ. I asked if we could fly a circuit before landing, which he duly allowed, and he helped me find the field. I coordinated all the turns, including the long final approach. At no point did he take back control, although he gave me advice on correcting my glide, and when to deploy the flaps. But it was my landing. The whole thing was very exhilarating. The 200 knot cruise speed (about 230 mph), the turbulence, the noise, the radio chatter, it was all great! When we landed, he would have done it all again if I’d coughed up the cash. My taxi back to the parking was challenging: the first time I have ever taxied in meatspace, and lightness on the differential brakes and rudder pedals seems to produce the best result, although I swerved a little drunkenly at times. Remis was Buddhist in his outlook at all times in spite of my failings, helping me in a friendly way as required, and keeping me dans le centre la voie as much as possible and tweaking the throttle when I failed to as my cockpit workload was too high at the best of times.

Remis praised my “bon pilotage”, which was encouraging. I think I will try some gliding at a field I’ve found in the countryside just south of Bordeaux. Cheaper, even more flexible and a real day out, running around, pushing the things, helping with the launches, etc. Extra hands are always appreciated.

Grinning from ear to ear (as you might have gathered I’ve done for most of the trip), I drove on to Poitiers, which, despite my initial misgivings redeemed itself with its quaint streets and lively shoppers. I snapped the cathedral (of course), and was done in two hours, ready to commence my journey.

So you find me now in an unpleasant town called Angouleme, which is rather industrial and doesn’t have much to offer me (except this free wireless from someone’s unsecured network nearby). I will google the place and its environs, and if I find somewhere that should be nicer within 30 miles or so, I’ll go there for dinner. Such is the life of a budget-concious digital nomad. Otherwise, I’ll pitch up here in a side-street and hunt for my dinner.

Thanks for reading (I’m not sure I would have bothered with this under-edited splurge), and I’ll catch up with you again tomorrow!