George's Grand Tour

by Caroline Vermalle

  George started to compose another text to Adèle. Ever the ‘text message minstrel’ (Charles’s expression), he sang the praises of Auray, and recommended various attractions for her potential holiday in the region. A few passers-by smiled at the sight of the granddad frantically texting on the terrace of a hip restaurant.

  Adèle responded soon afterwards; filming was going well, but she was tired. George read the message aloud to Charles, not without a surge of pride, and said that she worked too hard. They had a large lunch and took their time over it. They would head straight for the next hotel after lunch, which was in Mûr-de-Bretagne, eighty kilometres away. After a starter, main, dessert, coffee, and post-coffee liqueur, they walked slowly back to the car and left Auray.

  Just after they had left the town, and Charles was calmly driving onwards, comforted by the soothing sounds of the GPS, George suddenly yelled:

  ‘There! TURN!’

  Charles yanked the wheel, narrowly missing the flower barrow in the middle of the roundabout, almost crushing the car on his left, scraping the one on his right, knocking over a signpost and driving into a trolley that had been left at the side of the road. Miraculously they came away more shaken than actually hurt, but at least three cars honked furiously at them. Charles in turn yelled at George.

  ‘What in God’s name was that for?’

  ‘I just saw a supermarket! The torch!’

  ‘What? You almost made us crash because of a bloody torch? This torch thing is becoming an obsession, it’s really getting on my nerves now!’

  ‘But I need one by this evening! It might be the only supermarket for miles!’

  George was getting worked up too; this was the first time in thirty years that he had been told off by his neighbour.

  ‘But why do you need it right now, can’t it wait?’

  ‘No, it can’t wait! Because I’m telling you now, I’m fed up of calling your sister every time I need to take a piss!’

  ‘Huh?’

  George had slammed the door of the Scenic and was already running towards the shopping centre. Utterly perplexed, Charles stayed in the car, both hands gripping the steering wheel.

  The atmosphere was strained when George returned to the car; they were like a young couple after their first spat. George did not deign to offer an explanation of the link between Ginette, his bladder and the torch, but Charles wisely decided it was best to leave it.

  At 5 p.m. they were still only in Baud, about halfway. The Scenic was parked three hundred metres from the village’s only tourist attraction, the Fountain of Clarity, with its old washbowl. But the fountain and washbowl were not destined to go down amongst the glorious memories of the Tour: Charles and George were fast asleep in the car. The meal in Auray and the incident in the supermarket car park had caught up with them.

  They got back on the road in the late afternoon and drove all the way to Mûr-de-Bretagne without stopping in Pontivy, although they could make out the two sides to the city as they passed through it: the imperial part, dominated by geometric lines and elegant structures, and the medieval heart of the city, characterised by narrow winding streets lined with timber-framed houses. They passed the dead-straight canal, and then they were out in the countryside again, as the sun was setting.

  Just before reaching Mûr-de-Bretagne, they stopped at a service station. George bought a battery for his torch in the shop – it was shameful that the torch hadn’t come with any, and what was more, he knew he had some at home. When he came out of the shop, George saw that something wasn’t right. Charles was standing exactly where he had left him five minutes earlier, staring at the petrol pump.

  ‘So did you fill it up, then?’

  Charles said he hadn’t. He looked at George with a dazed expression and got back into the car. Annoyed, George seized the pump and filled the tank. They drove to the next bed and breakfast in complete silence.

  It was a large stone house typical of the area, which would later be described by George in a text to Adèle: there was a skylight in the steep slate roof, three walls without any windows, just small openings, a chimney in every gable, an outdoor staircase with worn steps, and finally, in the courtyard amid the rose bushes, a clay bread oven.

  They had a light supper in the spacious living area and then retired to the room they were sharing. They were both aware that close proximity encourages confidences, and that at some point they were going to have to talk about the link between the torch and Ginette.

  Just as they were about to turn off their bedside lights, Charles broke the silence that was weighing heavily in the air:

  ‘OK, George, this thing about my sister, well …’

  ‘Oh yes, your sister. I’d forgotten about that.’

  ‘I mean … why did you need to buy the torch?’

  George summed up the Guémené incident, and then read him Ginette’s text message.

  ‘And that’s all?’ asked Charles.

  ‘Yes, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, that’s alright then. Because I’ve got to say, I wasn’t quite sure what to make of what you said at the supermarket.’

  ‘It just came out like that, I was in shock, we’d just had an accident, or as good as.’

  ‘Yes, thanks for reminding me! And whose fault was that? Anyway, never mind. So how are you going to reply to that?’

  ‘Dunno. I’ve been thinking about it for two days, but I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Want my opinion?’

  ‘Yes,’ lied George.

  ‘Reply to the text when you’ve got something to say.’ He paused for emphasis and then carried on:

  ‘Believe me. Talking to women when really you’ve got nothing to say to them never did anyone any good. And I’m not saying that just because she’s my sister.’

  ‘You know, that’s not bad advice,’ said George, actually quite impressed.

  ‘Well, there you go.’

  ‘But she’s not going to be offended or anything?’

  ‘Oh!’ exclaimed Charles. ‘I can’t help you at all there. Psychology’s not really my strong point.’

  Now that everything was out in the open, the mood lightened considerably. Charles got out his Sudoku and George began writing a text to Adèle describing the house. He got a reply a few minutes later:

  Adèle 02/10/2008 22:46

  Luky u, id rther b in brttany thn in ldn. we r shooting crooked house by Agatha Christie in a v old, dark crooked house + v bad wthr here. Heres 2 brttany!

  (Lucky you, I’d rather be in Brittany than in London. We are shooting Crooked House by Agatha Christie in a very old, dark and crooked house and very bad weather here. Here’s to Brittany!)

  George smiled and made a note to buy a copy of the book the next day. He felt excited about the day to come, just as he had always done as a young boy.

  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 thou
gh 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.
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br />   ‘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—’