No waves, no seagulls and no stories. Not a sign of that wounded gull and Bodean has been going out of his mind - this was the adventure to capture the image perfect and the seabirds had either been stone dead and ten days rotting in the wet sand or flying high and free. Yeah maybe there had been the odd funny story, maybe a stoush of inspirational verse here and there, even an intriguing tale about a lost Raj in London, but Hellybutt realised all he had was more crap poetry about demi-gods and Jack Nicholson movies scribbled down on napkins. Del was ready to lift the caravan, ready to ‘pump the jam’ so to speak and believed there to be salvation in the deep south - in the Basque, and so he roused the dejected and made calculations and plotted the road from Biscarrosse to Hossegor. Phillipe waved goodbye to the three cycling off in the rain with feet pointlessly mummified in bin bags.
The rain drove down like never before and it sometimes felt good because there was nuthin’ left but to go for broke. Everything was now wet and those greenest pharmacy signs read 6 degrees and on the road went. As it got too dark to ride the caravan had done over 80 kilometres and all’s any of them wanted to do was sleep. After being rejected by a crow eyed campsite owner, the caravan met some canadians in a white van - they were equally lost and so everyone laughed about it and one of them had a most heavy accent - but they suggested some side forestry spurs. And that’s where the caravan slept on that night.
Hail the conquering caravan. Let us wake and roar amongst the raining pines like that dying Gaul at the feet of the cunning roman Rex. Nothing to stop us now, here was the desperation and joy for the destination. Loaded and wheeling out of the spur in more heavy rain. Southwards into the wind and the abuse of the one-eyed pensioner - “You’d better drive straight on down to Spain old man!” - or the beginnings of constant passing ‘murphy the surfys’ who beep and yewl! and that lifts everyone riding.
Into Hossegor! There seems to be some sickly looking birds drooping on the groynes and the best stories suddenly become explicit. This has an aura of satisfaction, this place.
Here the caravan will pitch its final stand. And so it goes, but O’ great ironies! To arrive on Remembrance Day and forget that this was that day and that this day is ferme anywhere in jolly old France. But we are here now and the Bourgeois Bicycle Caravan is expecting some fair trade.
