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.