Today everyone has dried out, almost to the point of cracking. And then some think what will be the use of drying out when the weather is set to rain in from the Atlantic for a week and evermore, but they don’t pass up a seat around the fire. Silly pessimists.
Jean-Yves is a chilled out bloke, once tied in with the seasons, now set to sit on the island for abit with plans to go rummaging around french roofs to fix wires and dim the lights. Sarah has moved from Old Blighty, for a life style change and looks pretty comfortable, they got a real love story going on too.
Sure is idealic out here. Wake up to go and check the nets, galooping across the mud flats and there is success as John untangles the mullet and tonights main. And then if we didn’t go-a mushroom hunting in the forests then i don’t know what you call it. Ever since La Torche and the sight of a man and a basket and the shouts of “Champignons? Mushrooms?”, all Hellybutt has wanted to do was go fosic for those earthliest of delights. The local man showed us the killers, the not so tastys and the panfried deee-licious butter soaking fellows and into the basket they went. Bodean was picking up every purple time-traveller this side of the Pyrennes and wanting to put it in the basket. “JUST EAT IT!” screeched Hellybutt from beyond the oaks. Sarah saying “absolutly not” and thus saving Bodeans young life. How indebted have we become?
Then on a much discussed surfing expedition we went. Sarah and Jean questioning each other, Jean often sighing and smiling as only men can do. The waves turn out okay on the push of the tide - fun, winding lefts across a flat reef with half the island looking on, then the whole goddamn island jumping in the water with us.
At night it’s nice to drink the wines and the beers and finally sample Kerouac’s one love of cognac, and talk about words lost in translation and exchange annectodes about differences and similarities. But it is dangerous to become accustomed to such a life of warmth and good food, the caravan by nature must toil on, ever south and into the unknown forests. Jean-Yves tells tales of wild boars - tusks and all - which stalk those dappled leafy floors, prompting Del to get up and sharpen his blade. The next day the trailers are packed and the chains greased.
