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.
