10:18am — 14th November 2009 •
The road is now straight and flat, more or less and give or take, except the suddenly most inconvenient Bassin D’Arcachon. Couldn’t the Germans have filled it in during the Second Great War? Or why not you, Boney? You lazy Corsican ladder climber. The caravan does really enjoy a good ferry crossing, but it is also that damnable time of year in the Southwest where anything of use is closed. No one around to ask apart from hunters and soes Del approaches an ol’ digger armed to the teeth - but he had and empty bag and tried to make excuses in sign language that there wasn’t anything to shoot. He was a nice man with no idea what the hell was happening and we hid from him, then once emerged from the bushes the caravan went in the opposite direction to his gracious yet bewildering directions, so as not to offend that morning sharpshooter. This day is great and glorious as the sun really shows the damp what for and makes warming apologies to those wet animals and if Hellybutt doesn’t quit trying to relive Dylan’s back catalogue then someone really will steal his flute and that won’t be very cute.
Cap Ferret has the jetty with the necessary ferry and Del sleeps in the sun on a rock wall and he looks so warm and rested. The ferry man is a nice chap - he has to be because otherwise the caravan has to ride back near 50 kilometres and what great story doesn’t have a metaphorical ferry man in it? None dear readers! Again the French just stand there when bicycles and trailers and boards are struggled up a skinny landing ladder, Hellybutt has lost all diplomatic sense and cusses when they not only fail to help, but stand in the “goddamned way and somebody’s gonna get a gosh darn punch in the mouth if they don’t move”.
Soul is soothed on the afternoon road into Biscarrosse, the cycle path was a set of piano keys, golden ground evenly spaced with pine shade. The caravan whistles into town, and then it starts to get cold - below 5 degrees, so it was guessed - so some wheeler-dealer called Jacque sends us shivering to a beautifully white palace and a man named Phillipe takes us in. He smiles at us and we go to the Rio de Jeinero room and try not to get anything dirty. Impossible, we be the filthiest travellers travellin’.
