Camping in France Part 6 (The end)

After sleeping late into the afternoon and half the night, due to alcohol-induced drowsiness, I woke up at a stupid o’clock in the morning. The sky was already lightening; the sun would rise soon. I stepped out into the crisp morning air and glanced at the horse trough. A wash didn’t seem quite as appealing at this hour. Maybe later, when it was warmer. The cows noticed me wandering around and slowly walked to the farm gate. They must have thought it was milking time. I walked away, trying not to give them false hope. But now they had their heads over the steel gate, mooing. It was time to go for a walk and deny all responsibility for getting them to the gate so early. They wouldn’t have to wait long; Frederic was usually up quite early.

I carried on walking down the lane, then onto the road to the village. The air was still and very quiet; I could hear my boots crunching on the loose gravel. The sky was clear—it was going to be another hot day. I continued through the village. One light was on: Henri’s bar. I looked through the window. Henri was sorting newspapers. He also sold newspapers, which I hadn’t noticed the other day. In a small village, it probably helped keep the money coming in.

Henri looked up and saw me. “Hey, Anglais. Come in. You want a beer?”

“Hey Henri,” I said without much enthusiasm, but I stepped inside anyway. There were already two men sitting quietly at the bar, both nursing small glasses of cognac. It 's too early for that, but this was France, what the hell. “Yes, Henri, I’ll take a beer,” hair of the dog and all that.

Henri poured me a beer, swiped the froth off, and placed it in front of me on top of the regulation beer mat. I handed him the money. He went back to his newspapers, spread out all over the floor.

The two men at the bar didn’t look up, they were talking very quietly. I just sat and matched the mood of the place: quiet and contemplative. I alternated between watching Henri and his newspapers, the two men, and out the window.

Someone walked in. “Ouest France, Henri.” But Henri already had it in hand, ready to give to the man. He knew which papers his customers wanted.

I finished my beer and walked to the door. “Merci, Henri. À bientôt.” See you soon? I wasn’t sure why I said that—I was going home.

By now the sun was up, and I felt its warmth on my back. Insects warmed up, buzzing around; the world was waking. Back at the farm, I pulled down my tent, rolled it up, and stuffed it in its bag. I packed my rucksack and was all done, ready to go.

I didn’t want to leave, but I had learned not to overstay my welcome. You should always leave while people are begging you to stay. Overstay, and they’ll be glad to see the back of you. It’s a fine line.

Frederic had promised to drive me to the nearest railway station to catch a train to Rennes, and then onto Calais. There were no tears—just a firm handshake, with both hands. I promised to return. That was fifty years ago. I haven’t made it back yet. One day I might.