“Shee-it!” drawled Bodean, “We’d be dying on this one”. And it was true. Outside the click-clacking windows Brittany had thrust upwards some severe andulations.
The 5.13 train to Quimper chugs to a stop and that means everybody off. The tracks had run as the crow flies and moved Del, Harold and Jimmy to rethink maps, hills and T.I.M.E.
Del led the way through the town - nice and old yessir - madames and monsuiers on their way home from work, beeping going crazy at Bodean and Hellybutt in the rear. Yeah keep your goddamn hat on. Swerving back at the cars. The caravan gives just as good…But where the heck is Del?
Tonight we go easy on Del’s insane navigations, cos’ it’s his birthday and he doesn’t know Quimper. So, were his days a quarter gone? a third? a half! Who knows how long a real man can last in these times.
In the council camp site the caravan eats a slow cooked beef stroganoff and cheap red wine, and there is laughter and dirty jokes. Then it rains and rains and rains.
NO! The birthday dinner has made the gang a little sick. The “offre speciale” sausage is plundering the caravan around morning time, and the whole of Brittany is a storm water drain. The afternoon lets up enough for a visit to a giant sports store - and aside from a whole heap of necessary things, there are three one-piece 80’s ski suits for 12 euros - total. And now we are the best dressed bastards in town. Standing around in our suits in the rain, it seemed the experiment was losing it’s way. We needed big rollers. Natures action and La Torche was our place. Bodean had heard of a great ganett rookery there too. It was time to ride the real hooters.
