Before pulling out of Quimper, we go to the town square and get some coffee from a cafe in the square. It’s exspensive. Next to us french Quimper ladies “hawww-hawww” and double kiss and they was beautiful and did that Eurocentric fashion-stare and glare at passing femmes and gents. We did not register a blip on a such a severe radar.
“They look down on us” said Bodean. They probably should, thought Hellybutt who was covered in pastry and looking at Del who was spraying icing sugar everywhere. But they are the Old World and we the New. If we had some social problem or built up rage - we can go out into a paddock and shoot in the windows of a broke down truck, with nobody to hear for miles. And so it goes. Bodean sure nailed a nice shot of a Grandmother in red, carrying granddaughter infront of french church. ‘Sheer Quimper delight’ he called it. But it weren’t no bleeding albatross and there was no la plage or big, blue tubes. Onwards! To La Torche, into the rain and head winds. Westerly fronts came rolling over us from mother Atlantique, and for the most part it was drip, drip, pour, as we ducked into driveways and under big pines and hedgerows for shelter. It was a long 30 kilometers.
Out of the elements we got and Claudine - a landlady who can talk at you and wants kisses always - well, she rented us her house right by the beach. Like holiday rentals from Bundoran to Ballyhoo, there’s homely pictures and figurines that make no sense all around. You know and feel that strangers have been making it happen on the couches and kitchen tables, it’s about holiday mode, isn’t it?
Whatever - suddenly quiet, null and void is the driving rain, put a beer in my hand and let me stew - in my aqua one-piece big enough for two.
Yes! Today the Bourgeois Bicycle Caravan surfs! It’s not all about France.
