George's Grand Tour (8 page)

Friday 3 October

Mûr-de-Bretagne–Saint-Brieuc (Côtesd'Armor)

When George woke up, Charles was already getting dressed. It was not even eight yet; George asked him what was going on.

‘I was thinking of going to the market. I talked to the lady at reception yesterday, apparently there's a little market in the village that sells local produce. Farmer's cider, foie gras, goat's cheese, everything. Not to be missed, she said. So, would you rather stay in bed or are you coming?'

‘Oh no, I'll let you go. My back's playing up again; this bed is too soft.'

In fact, the bed was fine, and his back, for once, was not bothering him at all. But George felt like a rest. This Tour was turning out to be pretty exhausting. Today he would have a lie-in.

But he hadn't counted on Charles having quite so much energy. As soon as he came back from the market he was talking about getting back in the car to go and visit the hydroelectric dam in Guerlédan, not far from there. George, who had only just finished his breakfast, began by dragging his feet, but the beautiful countryside bathed in autumn sunlight was enough to revive his enthusiasm. It seemed almost as though they were in Switzerland, surrounded as they were by valleys and craggy forested peaks criss-crossed with walking trails. The dam had created a magnificent lake in the heart of the forest. Charles and George picnicked on a feast from the market in the shade cast by the ruins of Bon-Repos abbey, and George, inspired once again by the beauty of his surroundings, sent a long message to Adèle.

In the afternoon they followed the Tour itinerary – the beautiful old houses at Corlay, the town of Châtelaudren on the river Leff, Plérin with its beaches and sandy coves beneath towering cliffs – and got to Hotel Regina in Saint-Brieuc before nightfall.

From the bay, George wrote to Adèle:

St Brieuc Bay: luvly beach, ntr rsrv, wndrful lndscape, amzing cliffs, little ports in the roks. St Brieuc has lots of chrming little sts, old houses, nice shops. This eve we r eatin mussls. u hav 2 come here wen ur in Brttny. 2moro goin 2 buy agatha kristi bk 2 kno wat hppens @ the end! luv.

(Saint-Brieuc Bay: lovely beach, nature reserve, wonderful landscape, amazing cliffs, little ports in the rocks. Saint-Brieuc has lots of charming little streets, old houses, nice shops. This
evening we're eating mussels. You have to come here when you're in Brittany. Tomorrow I'm going to buy the Agatha Christie book to know what happens at the end! Love.)

Adèle replied:

Not hard 2 guess wat happens @ end. let me kno wat u think of bk. I think not best AC. I prfr and then there were none.

(Not hard to guess what happens at the end. Let me know what you think of the book. I think not the best Agatha Christie. I prefer
And Then There Were None.
)

Come evening, George couldn't resist texting back:

Prfr classic: mrdr on orient xpress. cnt w8 2 read crkd house. hotel in st brieuc awful, loud ppl evrywer. gd nite.

(Prefer a classic:
Murder on the Orient Express
. Can't wait to read
Crooked House
. Hotel in Saint-Brieuc awful, loud people everywhere. Goodnight.)

Saturday 4 October

Saint-Brieuc (Côtes-d'Armor)–Saint-Malo (Ille-et-Vilaine)

The next morning, George was in a foul mood. He began by complaining about his bedroom, then about the breakfast room, which was too cold, too large and too quiet. George thought of family breakfasts in the days when they all still saw each other regularly, with Arlette, Françoise, her husband, and little Adèle. The kitchen would be filled with the smell of toast and coffee, and the sound of everyone talking. But even at home on his own, breakfast was a noisy affair: the sound of the coffee machine, the stove heating up, the radio in the background, the pop of the toaster. Here everyone spoke in a whisper, and blushed if by accident they made any noise.

Another reason George found the room depressing was because the lights had been turned on at eight in the morning. Large dark clouds were gathering in the grey sky, making the
streets of Saint-Brieuc look almost forbidding. They had become used to the pleasant and sunny early October weather, but winter was clearly descending upon them and was already making his joints ache.

‘The weather's turning.'

‘Mmm,' replied Charles, who was sipping his own green tea that he brought to breakfast every morning.

‘Can't you feel it? My joints are stiff again; I don't think that's a good sign.'

‘Oh, it'll be fine. The weather changes all the time in Brittany, you know. In the morning the weather's foul and by the afternoon you're sunning yourself on the beach.'

‘Mmm,' said George, not convinced.

A little break would have suited him just fine, but Charles was having none of it. They had all of the Emerald Coast to go before Saint-Malo.

‘It's fantastic, you'll see, and there'll be loads to tell Adèle about.'

An hour later, they were back on the road.

The drive from Saint-Brieuc to Saint-Malo was not part of the Tour route; it was more of an ‘in-between' stage. But it was their favourite one so far. Once again, George and Charles regretted not being able to stay longer, in spite of the wind and the threatening clouds. Here, unlike anywhere else, the visitors were enchanted by the bad weather. It revealed the mysterious nature of the region, its capricious character. It revealed the strength of Brittany's spirit.

By the time the two adventurers arrived in Erquy, forty kilometres from Saint-Brieuc, George had already sent two texts to Adèle.

They walked along the beaches at Cap d'Erquy at high tide, passing the windswept dunes with the grey moor beyond them. They had put on their fleeces and jackets, and clutched their caps with every fresh gust of wind. The sound of the waves, the smell of iodine, the sand, the fleeting clouds, the cries of children darting about around their parents – it all seemed to dance in a vivid whirlwind, all seemed so alive. They felt as though the swirling, exotic air was purifying their lungs. Nevertheless it was bitterly cold and after a while the companions sought refuge in a restaurant that looked out onto the beach.

Once they had sat down, Charles, who was still rubbing his hands to warm them up, pointed to the beach.

‘Look at that madman down there. He must be off his rocker!'

George looked in the direction Charles was pointing, where a man dressed in nothing but a pair of swimming trunks was marching towards the sea with determination.

‘No! He won't do it!' said George.

‘And he's no spring chicken either. I'll bet you he's in his sixties at least. No, he's not going to … And he's done it! In one go as well!'

The man had dived into the waves.

‘Bloody hell, he's got a death wish!' exclaimed George. ‘That'll finish him off. Where are the lifeguards? We should do something!'

The waiter, who had come to their table, cut in:

‘Oh, don't worry about him, he does this every day. Come rain, wind or snow, he's out there. We're all used to it.'

‘Even in the middle of winter?' asked Charles.

‘Even in the middle of winter. Once my colleague saw him out there when it was minus five! I wasn't there, I take my holiday in February. But my colleague saw him. Minus five it was outside!'

George and Charles stared at him, their mouths open in shock.

‘But we don't mind him too much. It's a real spectacle for customers, I can tell you that much! They love it! Right, what can I bring you? Some scallops perhaps?'

‘Oh, go on then,' said Charles. ‘If we don't eat scallops in Erquy, where will we eat them, right?'

‘And you won't be the only ones, as you're about to find out. It's Saturday, and the old chap swimming down there is going to come up here. Every Saturday he treats himself to a seafood feast. You'll see.'

And indeed, after about five minutes (the feat was carefully timed by Charles), the man picked up the large towel that he had left by the water, walked up the beach, his back straight as a rod, and disappeared from sight. Less than ten minutes later he walked into the restaurant. George and Charles recognised him by his wet hair under his cap, which he took off once he was inside; he was now very elegantly dressed in a bottle-green roll-neck and beige suit. He made his way to the table that had clearly been reserved for him, near where George and Charles were sitting. Charles couldn't resist saying something to this oddball.

‘I say, you've got to be pretty robust to do what you just did.'

‘Not at all, old chap,' the man replied, shaking out his napkin. ‘You don't have to be robust, you have to be a Breton!'

George wondered how many times the waiters had heard this line. Charles didn't pursue the conversation; his interlocutor seemed like someone who wanted to be left in peace.

Over lunch, Charles and George went over the practical details of the next stage of the Tour: hotels, timings, things to see, logistics … Then they reminisced about what they had seen over the past few days. All of this was peppered with anecdotes from the Tour, along with a few that were completely unrelated. As their dessert was being served, it was now the man-fish who addressed them.

‘Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but … are you doing a tour of Brittany?'

‘No, good sir,' answered Charles proudly. ‘Better than that, we're doing the Tour de France!'

‘Good grief!'

‘We're doing it in a car, not on bikes, mind you.'

‘Good grief even so! May I ask which route you're taking?'

Charles and George explained their itinerary to him, with a brief description of what they had already seen. Their neighbour was impressed.

‘My word, I would have loved the chance to do that.'

‘Well, what's stopping you? It's obviously not your health.'

‘Actually that's exactly what's stopping me. Because if I didn't have my daily dip, who knows what I'd catch. You never know at seventy-six.'

‘You're seventy-six?' exclaimed Charles. ‘I've got to say, you certainly don't look it. I'd like to say “like me”, but to be honest, you put me to shame.'

‘And you really swim every day?' asked George.

‘Every day. For the last twenty years.'

‘And when you're away? That must have happened once or twice.'

‘Ah, you mean the times in life when I've had to stray far from my home country – by which I mean Brittany, of course. Well, if I wasn't close to the Channel, the Atlantic, or the Mediterranean – although the Mediterranean—'

‘Oh, the Mediterranean isn't really the sea,' George cut in, ‘more like a huge bath tub, really.'

‘Ah yes, I agree with you there. Anyway, if I can't swim, then it's an hour of walking first thing. But not an hour of pottering around, mind, a proper walk! Standing up straight, head held high.'

‘Well then, the Tour de France would be perfect for you! Because we've done some good walks, I can tell you!'

‘You're not wrong there,' replied George a little wearily, whose knees had started to ache just thinking about it.

The three pensioners moved their tables together and ordered coffees – and a green tea for Charles. The swimmer's name was Marcel. He was a retired army officer who lived in Erquy with his wife Jacqueline, five years his junior. Every Saturday she went to a water aerobics class at the gym, and he took the opportunity to treat himself to seafood.

‘I think we'd get on well, the three of us,' Marcel declared. ‘Hats off to you both, you've chosen life! Down with the dictatorship of aches and pains, and down with doctors who stuff us with pills, and down with the daily routine that's sending us to our graves. We've got to
rebel
. And when the end comes, well, we can bow out with dignity.'

‘Ah!' George cried, but didn't finish his sentence and carried on playing with the breadcrumbs on the table.

‘See, I've got a plan,' Marcel continued. ‘The day I'm no longer able to go swimming, I'm just going to go anyway. I'll drag myself to the sea and I'll swim until they lose sight of me. And that'll be it. And I've told my wife, I said to her: “When that day comes, Jacqueline, if I catch you trying to fish me out of the water …”'

After several heavy sighs, George murmured:

‘That's precisely why I'm doing this Tour … It's the last chance …'

His words had woken Charles out of his daydream but Marcel interrupted him.

‘Once again, gentlemen, I congratulate you! Ah, how I'd love to come with you …'

When their bills came, Marcel offered them a last drink on him. As it had with Ginette, the brandy made George feel as though he'd drunk from the fountain of youth. He got up and made an announcement:

‘Well, my friends, the time has come to see if I've got any Breton blood in me.'

Charles and Marcel stared at him uncomprehendingly.

‘I'll be back in ten minutes.'

Marcel started to laugh. Then the penny dropped for Charles.

‘What? You're not saying you're going to swim …'

‘Oh no, just my feet,' George corrected him. ‘I'm a beginner. And anyway, I don't have a towel!'

‘I can lend you mine, George!' said Marcel enthusiastically. ‘I
dare say we're on first-name terms by now, aren't we?'

George brushed off the offer of a towel, and headed in the direction of the beach. He came back a minute later to get his mobile phone, which he had left on the table, then set off again, seaward-bound.

Charles and Marcel watched him walking into the distance. He had taken off his shoes and socks and pulled his trousers up to his knees, revealing his meagre calves that seemed hesitant to approach the waves.

Charles turned to Marcel with a look of concern.

‘Are you sure he's not going to catch pneumonia, or hypothermia, or God knows what else?'

‘Well, I've always said that seawater works wonders for me, but that doesn't mean it works for everyone.'

This was not the answer Charles had been hoping for.

George felt the cold, wet sand under his white feet. This was not a good start. He had imagined something more silky, and more importantly, something warmer. He knew that the other two were watching him and he couldn't back out now. He was starting to regret his earlier bravado. That had been the brandy's fault. He took a step forwards as the tide was ebbing and gingerly placed his foot in the sand that was soaked in icy water; but the tide was already rushing back and rising above his ankles. Damn it was cold. So cold that he could feel a sharp pain all the way up to his knees. It was unbearable, but he didn't want to give up now. He walked along the beach just above the shoreline, to get used to the cold. Then he let the water lap over his toes and bit by
bit advanced into the water, until finally, about fifty metres down the beach, he had water around his ankles again, this time with considerably less discomfort.

He had completely forgotten about his companions and their raspberry brandy back on the seafront. He was simply enjoying the eccentricity, the audacity even, of walking barefoot in the sea on a cold day in October. The audacity of it! It had been years since he'd done something daring. The water, which had been glacial, then chilly, now felt refreshing. He felt a strange sense of physical well-being, as though his body had been purified or rejuvenated. George's thoughts turned to his only daughter. He would have liked to share this moment with her. She might have been proud of him, as he felt proud of himself now. It would have made her smile. No, actually, she would almost certainly have started worrying about him. The Françoise he knew today would have told him to get out of the water. The Françoise he remembered from twenty years ago would have laughed with him, would have told him he was mad, secretly wanting to join in the fun. He missed her. It was ironic, really: he had been so careful to keep her in the dark, and now he wished she were here to see it all with him.