3
Their ship Pride of Le Havre might have rolled and swayed all night but these two landlubbers never felt a thing. Once they had adjusted to the echoes and the faint rumblings, they simply cast off and drifted to and fro. Then, in what seemed like no time at all between catnaps, the slap and thump of feet along the corridor told them it was time to shake a leg.
France, almost dawn, and Le Havre, hushed and grey and dull. They'd arrived like hyped-up school kids starting their holidays glad to be away from home, and before they knew it they were on the continent circumscribing the ronde-point outside the terminale and taking the second right exit along the Rue de Paris and on and on through the city as though they'd done it all before. Kevin opened his reference guide and cleared his throat, 'Sacred Blue! Le Havre means the port. Well, well,' he said, then closed it again.
At least it was still very early and quiet enough for Ben to make a one or two admissible mistakes while adopting the knack of driving on the right. Europe is a big place but south is south and they felt fairly confident they wouldn't get lost. And apart from almost writing off a Renault at a right hand turn and gliding through a few red lights at fifty, Ben thought The Zorbus coped pretty well. On down through Rouen with Kevin reading from his Fodor, which usually gave them plenty to disagree about.
'It was in Rouen where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake in 1431.'
This time no wisecracks.
Evreux, then Dreux but they didn't stop until historic cathedral city of Chartres with its landmark spires, air of celebrity, boulevards, beautiful people and very lovely ladies.
When you pull up in a city after a long, draining drive and your nerve ends are assaulted by all the unfamiliar sights and sounds, you need a moment's silence and the most convenient place to find silence is in a temple or cathedral. It settles the mind, offering a perfect release where you can sit and not think. A place where you can park and be calm, allowing the mind to be empty, expecting nothing, just sitting in the stillness of space. So they parked outside the Art Museum just across the way from the Cathedral main entrance and, since Kevin preferred to doze in the van, Ben went to church to see what he could see.
Once before, when Ben was returning to the UK from Crete, he was escorted by his friend Bee who was taking the opportunity to do a little busking in the city of Iraklion. They arrived with a couple of hours to spare so they split up for an hour leaving Ben to wander. Instead, he took a look round the sixteenth century church of the Monastery of St. Catherine to enjoy the calm and heady aroma from the incense and sit for awhile in a sort of passive awareness. By the time he stepped back onto the streets, he felt revitalized but calm and totally conscious, ready for the next part of the journey.
But there in Chartres the building seemed cavernous and dark, if not gloomy; an empty enclosed space of shadows and stone and coloured glass, a place of worship invaded by whispering tourists and grumpy beggars. But still, it was a great place to sit and wonder and consider the most famous example of fine art in stained glass which is The Rose Window. Then it was time to rejoin Kevin, have a cup of coffee and a lounge before raggling on down south to old Orleans.
'You've been there before, haven't you?'
'A few years ago now,' said Ben. 'I went with some friends on a sort of motorhome holiday just to see how far we could go but after three hours driving we pulled up in Orleans and somehow it became our base for a couple of days.
The setting is dreamlike. It's such a prestigious, elegant city - and right in the heart of France. It's settled on the banks of the Loire with beautiful stone bridges that make you want to walk across to the other side. You look back at the cathedral and obviously think of the famous Hunch Back. The river is wide and swirls along and you can image all the history that it's seen. And down near where we parked was a large public swimming pool and next to it an hotel with the most amazing breakfast omelettes I have ever tasted. In fact, whenever I have omelettes now my mind goes back to the Hotel Sauvage in Orleans. We must go there. Its narrow streets and country town squares have several museums, amazing bars, restaurants, countless Jeanne D'Arc statues and advertisements for the castles and chateaux decorating the banks of the beautiful curving river all over the place.'
Kevin raised his hand, 'OK.OK. We'll go there and get you a job as bell ringer.
Sacred Blue, mon Capitaine!'
But by the time they parked the Villa and strolled along its boulevards they saw Orleans had grown. Gone was the open-faced, floral, Lautrecesque, amoureuse, river-side festival it once was. Gone was the je ne sais quoi normality. Now it was brash and bland, wearing cheap make-up, badly dressed and far too smart for its own good. Now it was flashing for customers. People squashed onto its boulevards as they do in shopping centres all over the world. Where was le chic? Where was the coy maitresse?
Back at the Villa, they sat on a low wall that ran along the riverside and contemplated their next move. A couple sat close by, clearly eavesdropping on their conversation. The woman strolled around the van looking it over, even staring through the windows. The man looked a little embarrassed. They could hear her tutting, shaking her head and muttering, ''Vagabonds, and crazies!' as she moved about the bus. She opened the door of a small house nearby and disappeared inside.
They climbed into the cockpit and started the engine. The old chap came over and stood apologising for his wife and telling them he understood how they lived and what they were doing, 'You know, my friends, the most dangerous risk of all is spending your life not doing what you want on the bet you can buy yourself the freedom to do it later.'
Then, to their astonishment the lady reappeared, handed them two thickly packed cheese baguettes, 'For the journey,' and returned indoors.
The man grinned and nodded, 'Ah, cherie. Adele, Adele,' and followed her inside.
Cheered and optimistic, Ben and Kevin took a rapid tour along the main drags then crossed the Pont George-V, glad to be away across the Loire and once more pushing south.
It was late afternoon and they were both drained. 'Look, unless we agree on a daily cut-off point for the motoring we might find ourselves in danger.' They decided on every afternoon at three to pull over and rest until the following day. It made sense. They could enjoy local food and drink, stretch their legs and see the sights.
Their first night in France they spent in Vierzon. They wandered into a small restaurant in a square bordered by stumpy old trees. There were faint strains of music coming from what sounded like a romantic old gramophone recording. It was quite early and there were no other diners except for a young lady across the aisle. She was deep in thought cherishing a glass of wine and slowly turning the glass round and round in her fingers. She didn't look up when they sat down or when they ordered but she did glance over during dinner. They nodded and exchanged smiles a couple of times and introduced themselves. She told them her name was Rolande, and since it was clear she was not waiting for anyone, they invited her to join them.
The conversation became one every lone traveller to any foreign country will know by heart. Where are you from? Are your parents alive? Have you brothers and sisters? How many? What do you do? What do you earn? Do you like travelling ? Which is the most fascinating country you have been to? Is it true there are no oranges in England? No grapes? No olives? Which do you think is the most difficult language? And the richest? Their laughter echoed in the room and they bought drinks and Rolande was chatting away in very good English and eventually asking if they were gay and upon hearing they weren't, she proudly declared herself lesbian and left-wing politico. She said she was an archer with a touring circus and very hungry. She wondered if she might finish any salad or bread they couldn't eat and asked in such an honest, open manner they began making little sandwiches of steak and frites as they ate which she wolfed down without any pretence or innocence. She was refreshing, intelligent and funny. At one point when Kevin went to the toilette she leaned forward and told Ben he had a nice open face but she thought Kevin 'still has mother problems', whatever that meant. Actually, they got on really well, even flirted with each other and before they parted in the square she put her arms around each of them in turn and kissed them warmly on both cheeks and whispered, 'Au revoir, mesamis. Prenez garde.'
They parked the bus in a lane of trees and houses in the suburbs of Vierzon after discovering the local campsite was closed. Dropping off, Kevin mumbled, suggesting he include Rolande as a footnote in his Fodor, because he wouldn't be surprised to find she lived in Vierzon and made a living from befriending travellers passing through. Ben wondered if Rolande really was lesbian or maybe simply playing safe by deflecting advances from wandering strangers like Kevin. The slept soundly.
They woke in an enchanted early world of flowers in gardens, tiny floating things, sheep in the dusty lanes and old ladies at their cottage doors A world of fresh green valleys and simmering pine forests on the hills. Orchards of oranges overhung the pathways. Yes indeed, a pure, fragrant farewell as they departed and just as they gathered their intentions for the coming day, Kevin had a revelation, 'You know what? God must be French because he has designed a country that has it all. Mountains, plateaux, rivers, beaches, art, theatre, music, exercised intellect, humour, beauty, riches, who needs to travel?'
And the Zorbus eased down through Bourges-le-chateau, Riom, Clermont– Ferrand, 'famous for the chain of volcanoes', according to Captain Kevin Fodorman. He had taken to preparing his extracts in advance but even with her romantic name, Clermont was really just an industrialised mound and they never got to know her well at all. She was no more than a petrol stop for them. Even Issoire couldn't hold them because they took the day early and the fire was there to motor on and on as far as Brioude and its graceful arched bridge over the Allier and le Puy-en-Velay. It was within this spirit of curiosity that things seemed to go wrong.
As Ben adventured up a promising route as far as Langogne, he began to wonder if all directional signs for Montelimar were camouflaged because he couldn't recall having seen one for over an hour. This suggested either he was on the wrong road or the French Highways Commission had forgotten to erect a few of the road signs, instead littering the area with directions for Mende by mistake.
Captain Fodor was not happy, 'Mende's at least an hour away up in the mountains which means third gear, extra travelling time and therefore extra knackerdness. Perhaps if you kept your eyes open and aimed for Mende, we might find ourselves there.'
They were both as grumpy as hell and could hardly stand the sight of each other through the wall of silence. In fact, they might easily have parted company there and then and would have happily rolled on apart. Kevin, he hadn't spoken for over an hour when, in a burst of anger and frustration he crumpled the map and threw it out of the window.
'OK! Drop me off at Avignon because if we continue with your navigational skills we'll be in Spain soon and I want to go to Italy.'
'I thought the idea was freedom - no plans.'
'And I thought you said we were aiming for Italy. Spain's a new one on me.'
'Kevin....'
'Hang on! We were aiming for Mende. After le Puy, I told you to watch out for the left hand fork to Montelimar but the moment it appeared you carried straight on, ignoring all the signs, even all the ones announcing bleedin' Mende, now here we are up in the bluddy mountains when we should be down on the bleedin' Rhone! I don't mean to criticize but I thought you were the driver and I was the navigator, you know, the one with the map! The one with the information to stop us being killed! Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm just ballast! You know, a passenger after all, nothing more!'
Why was Kevin being so waspish? Ben assumed Kevin didn't really take to being a passenger. He had to be controller, the captain, or at least the co-ordinator or the co- pilot. He knew this because he was the same.
It was at least an hour later before they fell out of the van to stretch and yawn in Mende. Kevin began muttering, almost to himself, but more in a stage whisper, 'This sense of freedom effects people in different ways and having no responsibilities and no property, as such, brings with it a weariness and a tinge of panic because of all those who drop out, there are those who find themselves extremely far out and it is they who fall prey to drugs, alcohol abuse and overindulgence in sex and can't drop back in again but fortunately we'd fallen prey to all those things long before we dropped out so there's nothing left for us to fall prey to.' He sniffed, 'So Ben, are we mates again?' They both crumpled up with laughter. Kevin shook his head in mock despair and coughed. He'd mended the day.
They chanced on a sad little cafe in which to have dinner and calm down but they were totally washed out and even with Kevin accepting Ben's apology and heartfelt promise to pay more respect, they could find very little with which to restart their engines, and apart from the Zorbus dribbling down a one-way street looking for a camp site, by the time they crashed out, once again in the outskirts at a run-down, The Camping, they were delighted to have a drink, park all consciousness and anticipate the morrow.
They woke to a grey predawn, saw it, mumbled at each other, sniffed and went back to sleep. Condensation had misted the windows and there was a dampness in the air that took them to its heart. The Camping rested in an isolated dip between two mounds on the edge of a dense forest. Kevin wound down the window and shivered, 'Natural beauty for breakfast, Ben.' Then he tapped Ben's arm, put a finger over his lips and pointed out two deer busily drinking and grazing quietly beside a narrow stream. They were utterly overwhelmed. Too astonished to breathe. Ben sensed a half-remembered natural calm, a simple distant memory of what he did not know, but it was enchanting.
Behind a tree to answer nature's call, a swipe of dew from the grass to clean the hands and since the little camping office was empty, a brief 'merci' note wedged in the door jamb. The Zorbus climbed away out of Mende through the scrub covered Massif across the mountain and on to Florac.
Florac is one of a dozen hamlets sprinkled over the prefecture of Lozere, and Ben was first to say the panoramas between the Cevennes, the Gorges du Tarn and the valley, five hundred feet below, were simply dumb-striking.
''Florac is a working, nineteenth-century, merchant outpost set among water springs, trout ponds and chestnut forests, lying close below the cliffs of the Causse Mejean,' it says 'ere,' read Monsieur Kev.
It was clearly an unusually busy centre for the crafts industry. In and around the colony were workshops of sculptors, wood-workers, painters, builders and in fact artisans of every type, along with usual traders.
'It's full of arty-sans. Must be The Left Bank Holiday,' said Ben's travelling comedian. As the road shook itself free and started to mountaineer, yellow roses and yellow lemons spilled over garden walls. The place buzzed and smelled of apples, of orchids, of violets, donkeys and water and stone. The older houses had scantle roof slates just as they do on the seventeenth-century cottages in Cornwall. They liked Florac and the Massif colonies. They liked the mountains and small valleys, the bordered footpaths, the brooks and rivers covered by millions of wild flowers. Spring had covered the mountain with the gold of flowers and the sun was lost in an infinity of leaves. The whole of region made them feel they had never seen those colours before, or smelled such air, or heard splashing water since their first childhood. They could have stayed a long time on that mountain.
Yes, they liked Florac.
Day broke calm and pure. It was Friday and they were gliding along through rustic somewheres in the South of France. Ha! Such a sixties ring to those three little words. There was a time, when that phrase would conjure up an image of sunglasses, palm trees and rock stars, film icons, has-beens and wealthy poseurs, but after their visit they preserved a picture of two naive, semi-glazed Liverpool vagabonds wondering which way was south. And although the surrounding hills may have provided a refreshing taste of reality and relief from the parade and display of the towns, the surrounding area was pretty grim, especially at the beginning of the holiday season.
The roads were lined with billboards, garish commerce and neon signs. The route national N98 between St Tropez, Ste Maxime and almost to St Raphaël is a long narrow parking lot. As you sit in traffic overheating, you have a view of other cars and trucks, pedestrians, people vainly trying to cross the road between campsites, cyclists, signs and hordes of other tourists.
The Zorbus was making her way to Les Issambres and the house of Barbara, Ben's ex-employer and wife of Derek back in the Fish Restaurant. She lived on the Boulevard des Nymphs and the van actually sailed right up to her gateway without too much bad reversing, swearing or mispronunciations from Ben.
Barbara's door was open. They called her name, not quite positive it was her house, but nothing. Then just as they were about to turn back up to the Zorbus, they were greeted by a startled Nancy with an equally defensive Isobelle and a Grandma Mischa in tow. Mischa exploded in a cascade of announcements, tidings, warnings and general chatterings directing them to the restaurant where Barbara worked, saying how delighted she would be to see them. However, once they tracked her down Barbara was far too busy to be more than brief in her welcome, yet nevertheless she handed over her house keys, told them not to waste money on food and next day to move into the kitchen area, which was as big as the lounge area and just as comfortable.
In the evening, once the girls had gone to bed, they had several drinks on the balcony overlooking the Mediterranean Sea and gossiped. They gossiped about the Falmouth Barbara had left behind, of her separation from her husband Derek, and about her two girls who were as excited about everything as two young girls who have just moved to a foreign country and learning a brand new language and making new friends, could be.
'Two flies on a hot car windscreen,' muttered le poete.
Kindly, Barbara asked Ben if there were any tales of him working in France himself and it didn't take much prodding from Kevin before he proceeded to send everyone to sleep after another glass of the very special Chateau Saint Baillon.
Strolling along the Boulevard des Nymphs was almost make-believe to Kevin and Ben. Blue above and below, green all around, floral perfumed warmth, birdsong - all was refreshment, light and peace. After breakfast they lounged around the pool until it was time to stretch and try another long walk. Ben loved walking and from the balcony he could clearly see St. Tropez across the bay but if that was a little too far, St. Maxime sat a little closer. He took his leave and tramped along six miles of coastal path, a superfine place for wild flowers in their seasons and a refuge for songbirds and hares. The road leads down into the bay of St. Maxime and Kevin had said he might just meet Ben there if he could force himself to ride his mountain-bike.
An easy walk and an easy ride and once there they enjoyed the most delicious jambons and beer they had ever tasted in their lives, in the South of France, on that day.
After lunch a stroll to St. Tropez. Their first impressions were surprising. The town still seemed all about appearance; the veneer of high society, and the materialistic. Yet the place itself was no more attractive than Tenby or St. Ives, with its towered church, homely narrow streets lined with tourist shops and boutiques winding down to a pretty harbour and seafront, except that is, for the luxury yachts, super-posh cafés, exclusive restaurants, exclusive bars and expensive shops. But being the shoulder season, when the flow of visitors is at more average levels, Saint Tropez revealed itself to be an ordinary attractive place with lots of charming corners.
No doubt, St. Trop will always be popular with fans of celebrity and those who like to position themselves within the social hierarchy but the so-called jet set and in- crowd have long since left, leaving St. Tropez a coastal town, as it always was.
From the quayside they squandered a few minutes watching a coterie of the busily super-tanned noisily chattering on the stern of a rather large, white, super yacht. These were waited upon by two or three uniformly waist-coated, stern-faced, sommeliers gliding to and fro balancing trays of drinks around little white tables scattered amongst a tasteless array of two large, deeply tanned, over-stuffed leather sofas.
The yacht owner could almost be heard scoffing and mewling, 'I say. Hey! We're on a yacht, and you're not!'
Turning home gain, breezy Ben was immensely pleased with the scene from the high grassy coast road in the soft afternoon. The air was faintly salt and fragrant and he saw more nakedness enjoying the spring sunshine in one hour than he had seen in the past year and although he tried not to stare, two ladies with bodies entwined, discretely made love in shadows amongst the rocks. Ah, la belle France, la vie d'amour.
Later, Ben lounged by the pool in Barbara's garden and listened to the boats cruise the waters far below. Slowly, his eyes rested closed as he surrendered to the stillness. Any thoughts could come and go and, just like listening to music, he listened to his breathing, aware of the rise and fall until eventually the breathing was all he knew. Warmth and air touched his face and gulls called in the bay, so this was Ben at peace and wanting nothing more.
But he must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew was the sense of floating in a kind of fragile spaciousness, vast, not knowing which way was up or down, but most interestingly, not caring either way at all until he was woken by himself, snoring.
The next day began with an ominous sky of grey and occasional patches of blue, and of course, he hoped the blue would win. By mid-afternoon, Ben was sprawled on a lounger, drying off after his swim and trying to concentrate on his writing against the squealing and screaming from eleven year-old Nancy and seven year-old Isobelle as they threw bucket after bucket of water at each other, running round and round close to falling into their own private pool, just two English kids excitedly shouting at each other in perfect French.
Barbara's home looked like a hacienda and its design seemed almost out of place amongst the other stately piles. The house snuggles amongst the dancing greens of courtly pines, waving eucalyptus and shimmering beech. Its broad veranda and swimming pool overlooked another world and all seemed peaceful and ideal. There could not be a more seductive recuperation blanket after those last few days of travelling.
Saturday night and Barbara was working in her restaurant. Ben was pleased to cook and sit with Mischa and the girls around the dining table. The girls constantly interrupting and taking it in turn to tell their tales and opinions. Mischa talked about France and her French friends and for all her stern expressions she had quite a biting wit when needed. Kevin and Ben described the interesting places and happenings so far on their expedition and the girls yapped away at the same time in a torrent of words about their teachers and friends in school. Mischa raised her eyebrows more than once having heard most of it before until they began rabbitting on about a particular chum of theirs - one Mischa seemed to know well. One of them said,' Oh, I think she's really beautiful, gorgeous and the image of her father, isn't she, Gran?'
Right on cue, I heard Mischa mutter, 'Yes, but it's a pity she doesn't look a bit like the man her mother married!!!'
Les Issambres was a typically basic up-market hoard of up-market piles, each with its own swimming pool, palm treed border and security problems. These piles, in taking advantage of seclusion and detachment as an extension of being luxurious private properties, were uniquely under scrutiny from every robber baron, thief and cat burglar with eyes on the pickings of the Mediterranean, making the cost of security astronomical.
Early Sunday evening, Derek back in Falmouth, called to speak to his daughters and when the phone trilled and impish Nancy had silently identified her father's voice, she delicately passed the phone to Ben and grinned.
'Hello? Ben here.'
A gaping silence, then, 'What the bluddy hell are you doing there?' Derek sounded suspicious and probably envious but it was rewarded with much laughter and giggles from the girls and Ben was still laughing the next day. Ben overheard Isobelle complain to Nancy, 'No wonder you've got no friends in school, you act completely crazy!'
'But when I'm in school, I actually act madder than this!' squealed a delighted Nancy.
Then morning came and with it Kevin and Ben knew it was time to say goodbye to the ladies of Les Issambres and with it came a little sadness for them both. Staying with the girls in their home had been much more than just a convenient stopover with pleasant friendly people; they were open-hearted and nothing was too much. There was the feeling of welcome from the moment they crossed the threshold. Barbara had shared all she had and the kids were light and full of fun. Grandma Mischa kept the men on their toes except when she was pouring out the refreshments. Kevin thought they came away with much more than what they brought.
And so, a little sadly, they left The Domain of the Nymphs laden with best wishes, five litres of good local wine which cost them very little, green olives with garlic, black olives with herbs, and a bunch of dried roses from Barbara to display in the bus next to Debbie's bells and birdies. She even assured them of help should they ever get stuck.
After one hour and 72 kilometres, the arrived in the constantly medieval St. Paul de Vence, a village very much in step with St.Tropez. Its cobbled passageways echoed to the footsteps of visitors respectfully inching their way through low slung doorways and under old stone archways into the history-on-a-mountaintop atmosphere which has become a living museum of arty shops, expensive restaurants, the must-have wedding setting, designer-jewellery and designer clobber. A place where bored people with too much money like to be seen by other bored people with too much money spending too much money on things they don't need.
'Mon Dieu, mon ami Kevin, c'est tres poste-quaint'.
'Oui! C'est si crap aussi!'
They decided not to stay but to press on through Cannes, the host of the famous film festival with its tree-lined, sea-front boulevard, comfortable and well-defined lifestyles, its refreshing atmosphere and incredibly clean streets. Stopping only at traffic lights on the front, but not for long, then riding on to the tiny principality of Monaco which they each decided was a beautiful town of lovely atmosphere and incredibly clean avenues, much more their style. Monaco was tasteful luxury upon tasteful luxury; glassy saloons and sports cars; boulevards and lanes, casinos and yachts.
But they didn't stay there either. Instead, they ambled on and aimed for Nice. And Nice took their breath away. The autoroute seems to encircle and present an almost spirited view of a huge city. One of offices, exclusive labels, chic variety, show-rooms, vehicles, impeccably dressed business people thrusting and scrambling, hustling and bustling, going and going and going; living the dazed existence. And it was there that Ben lost control of their van in an acutely sloping, ziggy-zaggy, narrow, seventeen-point-turn, city-centre back alley lane, where they found themselves inexplicably pinnacled atop a bollard, diagonally blocking a busy back route shortcut surrounded by honking pedestrians, one or two delivery vehicles and a ton of nerve-wracking decisions on pushing, reversing, hoping the handbrake would hold with not too much riding of the clutch whilst over-revving the fragile accelerator and fifty years of wrinkles damp from overworked sweat glands, panicking, nervous and the centre of attention to all the nice citizens pausing in their lunch breaks to watch the fun.
And a tiny spider shamelessly scuttling through the window to join the audience in the street was absolutely the very last straw. And the last Ben ever saw of Pierre.
No, not very nice at all.