“Into the face of the young man who sat on the terrace of the Hotel Magnique at Cannes there had crept a look of furtive shame, the shifty, hangdog look that announces that an Englishman is about to talk French”
(The Luck Of The Bodkins, by P. G. Wodehouse)
Bob Dylan gave us ‘Spanish as the loving tongue’ I’d love to ask him, then, what the French tongue is. It was Napoleon the 3rd (never mind the 2nd) that decided that it may be a good idea if all the French spoke the same language, but the local dialects continue to confound his aims and, I am led to believe, The Picardois remains a foreign country.
I am relieved, I could have wasted hours at O and A level ‘French’ only to be snubbed by Parisian waiters and the receiver of perplexed (but helpful) tabac owners in the Picardy region of this great country.
I must recommend Charles Timoney’s book ‘Pardon My French’ the first attempt at describing the French as a language as opposed to a series of ‘correctly pronounced’ words. It will help me no end, but where the bloody hell was this book when I was 14?
‘The Authorities’ (for that read civil servants speeding through the country in their Renault 9’s) have attempted to rid this nation of Picardy, but I have a fine travel guide with me called ‘Peeps Into Picardy’ written in 1914 by three Engleese. They tell you that this is the secret France, the bits that people speed through, and it was updated in 1916, to include a few glossy plates of churches in Abbeville and Albert. Laughably the statue on top of the church at Albert stands erect in the photograph, though there is a disclaimer apologizing for its leaning bent at time of publication.
Dear fellows: picture the scene: Canadian, New Zealand, French and British wallow in the mud, side-by-suicide, the Royal Flying Corps just 300 feet above, shells explode all around, and some pipe smoking Brit with khaki Bhukta rucksack turns up and, despite the thunderous whizz-bangs, asks the way to the Cathedral for to do some brass rubbings, this guide clenched tightly in his hand.
Having said that: the Brits were great at touring France: long before the ‘French’ were. Perhaps the greatest first attempt at a proper French tour guide was written in the late 19th Century by two cycling apprentices who did their two year stint around the country, a sort of artisanal National Service. It was called ‘Le Tour De France’ and a nation of cyclists woke up.
This land we pedaled along is littered with the dead, the poppies swayed their heads in sad remembrance and three of our number cut off to Juno and Omaha beaches to see the commemoration of a greater carnage: June the 6th lest we forget. Yet the bloodshed stretches back to Avignon and Crecy and beyond, one hears ghosts as one cycles, there is no need for the ipod, the larks call from the heavens and I am reminded of the 16th Century saying “If the sky falls in: we will catch larks” a dear friend recently gave me carved into Dumfries sandstone.
No ipod: no, not needed on board, but I missed the Gallic balladry of Noir Desir even as a car swung past me, his hi-fi sharing, no banal ‘heep herp’ blaring, but ‘Oxygene’ by Jean Michel Jarre, no less, a tune Edwin found hard to shake from his mind thereafter.
Today a 50 mile saunter was turned into a delightful 75 mile slog: we opted off the 901 for fear of certain death ‘neath lorry and cut through forgotten villages past monumental churches and charolais cattle. Yesterday the French cuisine lightly toasted us, today we were marinated beneath rain: the clouds descended to field level, painting a picture of Somme carnage all too familiar with those that were here, most of whom still are. Gary Sanderson, with a head full of cold opted for the van after a drenched morning, Glen Norcliffe’s fine Rudge stripped a bolt that can be rectified in the morning but Robert Taylor’s Rudge and my trusty 50” Grafton Compound Roadster Super de-luxe continues to battle ahead, shedding the odd spoke, but no more….
And so now it is time to speak of those discreet exclusive Hotels in France one reads about in the Sunday Papers, but may never attain the giddy heights to enter. Cleverly sequestered on what appeared to be an ‘Industrial Estate’ a “Zone Activite” if you will – our hotel electronically refused us permission to plug in any electrical goods, nor were we allowed to cancel any rooms (due to our chum John Malseed being under the doctor in blighty) and we were given a 6 digit number that opened the door to our Tardis (bigger on the outside) that disallowed even the most curious of celebrity spotters. Ladies and gentlemen: I give you The Etap at Abbeville, book a room at your peril. And I write this without the breakfast experience beneath my belt yet.
Spotted en-route: how a French Farmer adapts a pair of 1890 Rochet Solid Tyre Safety rims into a far more practical use...