disbanded
The bourgeois bicycle caravan bulges in the hot Capbreton afternoon and the streets, parks and beaches sigh in the easy aftermath of the Atlantic storm. The trailers are full, the side bags are full, every holding point is weighed down. Del is whistling, Bodean is making an inventory of his booty of film and Hellybutt is attempting to roll his r’s, because someone has just told him a story in spanish. Once the trailers are hooked to the bicycles and the surfboards are strapped on tight, the caravan pulls out of the small town like those days before.
That ol’ T.I.M.E. has come about when we are to be heading south to the first true basque city of Bayonne, then each of us part ways to home or further on and on. The final ride has the trailers brimming with all them treasures and it feels good and strong, and the dogs (for once) move aside when we come bouldering through. And the thoughts are probably about how nice it can be, to be ramblin’ in such a way and about the loot to be taken home. Del is away first - he is off to try and claim a hefty inheritance somewhere in outback Portugal. He said he may have to enter into a traditional style knife fight to exercise his right over the family manor. Jimmy Bodean, with lens so clean, has just received a telegram from Sir Howies Dukem. It describes the location of a puffin rookery, somewhere near the welsh quarter of buenos aires and according to Sir Dukem, “all the birds look rather grey around the gills”. As for Hellybutt - well, all he wants is to be drinking gin on the beach, with a pretty girl and to be writing a few more of them american haiku’s for nobody to listen to.
And so it goes…it sure has been swell, i suppose, and the caravan got a decent roll around the french countryside. And it doesn’t really ever end, does it? The search for the perfect picture, or a good tale - it’s all food for the mouths of us, we the hungry human babes.
