The Bourgeois Bicycle Caravan

Sixty kilometres went by and by and by. France seemed to be caravan friendly, lovingly straight roads and respectful motorists give panting foreigners a wide berth. Bodean’s ride began to make the concerning ‘death of a wild animal’ sound midway, but there was nothing to be done with the little tools in the leather satchels.

The Intermarche is a swell place. All the beautiful French mothers and French monsieurs with ponytails, who know everything about everything and would push their French boys and girls along the aisles, and fight anyone at the fruit and vegetable weigh machines. Weeping Jesus! It was too much. Out of here with mushrooms and pesto and get the caravan out of town. Oui! Chased all along the coastal hamlets of Argenton, Melon and Lanildut by dogs that heard only French - they loved to bark and gnash at the trailers, wild with fear and the chase.

“I don’t care for sunset’s no more” and with this Bodean had surprised Hellybutt beyond all belief. Bodean never passed on the final show of the day. But it was a beautiful place on those Brittany rocks. Del and Hellybutt were floatsom fisherman on surfboards failing to catch mackrel which had surely finished running for the year. The grass was so soft too, and everybody dreamed about Lily Allen. Who ever the hell she is.

The caravan was pushed south, through Saint Renan and then on to Brest. There was hope of navy tattoos, and maybe some bar room brawls down on the docks, but in the end waves and adventure urged everybody on. So it goes - the caravan got no new ink and everyone kept their teeth. However, Del did acquire a fandangled new trailer, Bodean silenced the dying animal between his pedals and all this time Hellybut nearly finished The Slaughter House Five.

Oh yes. We just caught a train. Allow me to explain from the township of La Torche.

Del da Foster is showing us his 18 speed bicycle. It lies back on a sand dune in the town of Dossen, and the sun shines glorifying its beautiful yellow tone. All his belongings - skateboards, porcelain cats and three flying wall ducks - are arranged to defy physics over the back wheel. “It does instant wheelies if you pull up on the handle bars” he pulled upwards every so lightly. And the bicycle reared back like a stallion. “Cool” we all say. Del is a nice person - plain and simple. He is also a Portuguese merchant grandmother - never to throw anything away. Hellybutt admires Del’s chinese gold-prospector moustache then looks over at the Ile de Sieck - which was once a bustling sardine fishing station (so says the marine biologist from Roscoff), but something happened out there on that island, something nobody was willing to talk about - and the place was now deserted. The morbid mystery of North Brittany thinks Hellybutt. Then again you could walk off the island at low-tide, so maybe the inhabitants got bored and left for better t.v. reception on the mainland. Nope no story in this town. And Bodean said that all the sea birds here looked too healthy - no photo opportunities either. So after a day of rest and feasting on delicious razor sharp baguettes the caravan packed up to move further west. Heading to somewhere called Ploudalmezeau.

The ferry wasn’t going all that fast - flocks of seagulls would fly on ahead, sit and watch me and Bodean float past in the dark, two heads in an endless row of port holes. Sitting up in there in ‘Le Bar’, a name which seemed to smoke of irony considering the surrounding English passengers, or maybe it was the French just being Frenchies. Then the boat pulls up in Roscoff, North Brittany. And so it goes… There’s old Del da Foster patiently waiting at Le Terminal - and shit! that bicycle of his (bought from the Swedish Patron Saint of Second-Hand Transport) is loaded right up. Big grinning between us in the late morning sunrise (damn French ain’t invented day light savings) and it looks as if there’ll be plenty of old fishing tales here for any story teller to make there way. But first Bodean always wants coffee and so the caravan shifts away in earnest and the trailers twinkle through town towards a cafe. Anyone would do. In, in! We three trip over each other and the patrons look up. It sure was clear and cold outside. The local marine biologists walk over and politely interrupt coffee, map consultations and pretty t.v. weather girls. “What a nice couple” says Del da Foster, and they pointed us in the right direction, which was West and to the beach.