Buster, a fellow river rat, has been in the wars whilst I was away. He is a friendly enough old chap who makes a living doing work on other people’s boats; I believe that at one time he was an examiner for the Certificate of Compliance (formerly known as Boat Safety Certificate until too many people complained that it contained totally illogical conditions with nothing to do with safety; damned bureaucrats). He has been treated badly by life in general and has a few scars to show for it. Now he has a few more…
Firstly, he lit his oven but didn’t and then went to fill the water tank (and did). On his return he thought the oven didn’t sound as if it was alight; it wasn’t. Unfortunately he pressed the ignition as he opened the door – and raised his eyebrows to a far greater height than would have been possible had they still been attached to his forehead. He then, in short order, knocked an extremely sharp knife off its rack and, not knowing what he had dislodged, reached round to save it, thus severing the tendons and nerves in his right little finger (he is a sad and forlorn looking chappie, with right arm slung high and restrained). To complete his little tale of woe, he suffered a heart attack one night and needed to enroll the aid of another resident to call for medical attention. He was surprised at how many (quote) big, burly ambulancemen managed to crowd into his boat. Without too much in the way of empathy I said that at least that was all three and now he could relax; apparently that was not an original comment.
My well-known neuroticism regarding low fuel levels in vehicles had marred the drive to the ferry. I had been running the tank down so that I would, hopefully, manage the whole route on one overfull tank and be able to put in a sensible amount . Thus I declined an offer to visit Cathy in her new house. I had used the bike on Friday to attend the Juillet Quatorze celebrations in LRB and returned with two blobs remaining on the fuel indicator (the third had seemed to vanish in very short time) and then only done the Chatelain’s bread run until loading for the journey. Imagine my absolute horror! With bike on its sidestand (the only one it has) only one blob was showing; zut alors, non and merde! As I drove away I was on tenterhooks regarding whether or not I would even make Redon and a garage.
Juillet Quatorze and, on the left, the masses enjoy their moules frites whilst, on the right, the next shift queue to pay for their forthcoming pleasures. Whilst, further along the quay, some local, folksy, yachties entertain…
and others are entertained. It would not be Brittany (which it most definitely was) unless someone started an impromptu dance, which they did. Breton traditional dancing is not for the easily bored – it entails linking little fingers and taking dainty little sidesteps accompanied by the minimum of arm swinging and, sometimes, when passions are really running high, going up on one’s tiptoes between steps! I presume it dates back to when women wore silly, high, lace bonnets which would have fallen off without too much exercise.
After all that excitement it was a good job that the fireworks were spectacular. Following the attack in Nice on Juillet Quatorze last there was a discreet but firm police presence – both ends of the quay were blocked by police and council vans and pedestrian barriers but no over the top dampers on the enjoyment such as prowling, heavily-armed security forces. It is sometime since I have been to a public fireworks display so it may be my memory at fault, but they were quieter than I remember; there were none of the earth-shaking, feels like the artillery popping by, mega loud ones.
Damned low high-tech. For all the electronic wizardry in modern vehicles fuel levels are still measured using what is in effect a cork and a piece of string. The float is obviously on the high side when the bike is on its stand and as I drove off the next blob reappeared. I filled up at the furthest garage (ie, closest to the port) and filled it until the tank cap was floundering out of its depth. By halfway (and my regular pit stop) only one blob had disappeared but still, the middle blob had vanished in next to no time, so I refilled just in case – and got to the port with four out of five blobs still visible; damned neuroses. The whole return journey was completed and still the one, flashing, get petrol now or die blob has not been left on its own – and I have ridden to within 20 miles of the French total route length.
According to the technical specifications I should be able to do it. Bonne Courage, I need Bonne Courage; aye, right – just not when it comes to running out of fuel. At least I know for next time. In honour of Brian the Bactrian Bike and its noble efforts I include another photo:
On the bright side, I could even mount up without the former indignities of holding what should have been my swinging leg and hopping towards bike like a knight of old jousting. I have not shed years and stiffness of joints, just got a bike with a lower mounting height.
In the spirit of Bastille Day and the whole of France making whoopee (its USian meaning may apply but I mean this in its UKian sense), for Saturday I had been invited to lunch with the British neighbours for whom I have become a Hobnob runner – and a pleasant lunch it turned out to be. We (the male of the couple) and I adjourned for a post-prandial game of boules – he has had his own pitch installed (and that attracted an interesting story but for another occasion) and for our second game were joined by another Brit, who seems to have a predeliction for Russian women and was somewhere in Siberia as I was travelling through earlier in the year. The first game was a close run thing – it went to the last point – but I faded badly and was a poor third in the next. As I went back to LTC my (French) neighbours, who also have a private boules park, were in residence, with Dominique, Nanou (his wife) and JoJo and Christienne (his wife) all sharing a wee gargle over hot boules.
Part of the not using the bike over the weekend was that invitation and me hosting ‘High Tea’ for the other Brits from the next hamlet. My vice is revealed – they arrived bearing Cahors, Chateau Latrine, various vintages (all in one bottle)! Oh, it was a grand way to spend an afternoon. And then I packed. It was a recipe for something to go awry and it did. As I pulled in for my pit stop I realised that I had forgotten something… Banksy’s bread was still atop the microwave (and so was the rest of mine). One person’s loss is another’s gain, I have e-mailed that couple and told them where the secret key is currently hiding and invited them to rescue the bread.
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