The Journey -
'Rosy' and the French

I left Conde-sur-Marne yesterday.  The Capitaine collected 3 days' worth of mooring fees (£2 per day including water and electricity and endless entertainment) from me.  On day four he shrugged his shoulder when I suggested paying.  On day five he took me in his car the 8 miles to and from the nearest decent supermarket at Ay, and on day six he started his boat engine and set off for his summer hols.  I set off yesterday (Friday) for the 3 or 4 hour cruise to Chalon-en-Champagne (it used to be called Chalon-sur-Marne), which is where I am now.

There is history.  A rather fine cathedral built over a 12th Century church.  Some wonderful 16th and 17th century stained glass.  On side chapel was partly curtained off, but a notice assured me that Jeanne d'Arc had prayed there.  I peeped in and saw a pile of dusty chairs that may well have been there when she was there.

Cycling around these French towns isn't nearly as much fun as cycling in Holland and Belgium.  For a start there are the hills.  Then there is the fact that cyclists are expected to obey No Entry signs and one way streets.  This has been forcibly explained to me on several occasions by blue-clad guardians of the peace, but I find it hard to believe.

Until earlier this year French Zebra crossings were optional.  That is to say, they were painted on the road, and pedestrians were encouraged to cross on them, but motorists were not obliged to give way.  Now they are, but most drivers refuse to believe that such a daft rule can have been brought in, and carry on as before.  I'm told that the mortality rate amongst pedestrians is soaring.

Then there are the strange signs and names.  I wouldn't immediately think of walking into a shop called Kitapiss to buy wallpaper.  Cat food, maybe, but not wallpaper.  And there was a worrying sign in a small glass boutique in the covered plaza fronting the local Carrefour 'Changement des piles'.  Personally, I don't like my piles, but I've got used to them, and don't know that I want to change them for someone else's - especially in a glass boutique with everyone watching.  And especially on a 'while-u-wait' basis, which presumably means taking whatever is in stock at the time.  And especially in-between shops, which presumably gives the operators only seconds to complete all the necessary blood and tissue matching.  I noticed that no one went in whilst I was watching, so neither did I.

The meat counter at Carrefour had lots if dinde for sale.  I asked a callow, spotty, effeminate youth in a white coat and a boater what it was.  He said 'Gobble gobble'.  No-one had told me that the meat counter at Carrefour was the local cottaging arena, and then I felt even more foolish back on 'Rosy' when I learned form my dictionary that dinde is turkey.  What a daft word.  I can cope with boeuf, steak, poulet, lapin and mouton but dinde!!!!  Where did THAT word spring from? 

Anyway, here I am at Chalon.  I'll stay here tomorrow (Sunday) as Joe and Karen are coming over for a second visit.  Our route to the town is down the road, and turn left at the 'Veronique Boutique de Beaute' with a drawing, on the sign, of a near naked Veronique, hiding behind what looks like a very small handkerchief.  (Legend has it that the woman who gave Jesus a hankie to mop his brow when he was carrying his cross was called Veronica).

Toodle pip!!

Bill