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!