George's Grand Tour

by Caroline Vermalle

  ‘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.

  For fifty years, George had been married to a woman he had loved and respected. He knew better than anyone that life was better when shared with someone else. But since Arlette’s death, there hadn’t been much worth sharing. Cups of tea with Charles, a cheque in the post for family birthdays, and that was about it. Time had passed; he had grown old and fallen out of step. Out of step with the world, with youth, with his grass and his tomato plants. He had ended up alone, left behind by the peloton, and had resigned himself to thinking that maybe this was not such a bad thing, that he preferred to be left the hell alone. And now here he was, his feet in the Channel (or was it the Atlantic? He wasn’t sure and didn’t dare ask anyone), realising that perhaps being left alone wasn’t always better. That maybe he didn’t even want to be left alone at all.

  George continued his walk along the beach. He looked around and saw that Marcel and Charles had become small dots; they were still sitting together. He felt good walking through the water, listening to the sounds of crashing waves and birdcalls. The voices in his head were more excited than ever. They were whispering to him that he should call Ginette. That was what mobile phones were for, weren’t they? So you could call people from totally unlikely places like a beach in Erquy. Or if a phone call was a bit too impulsive, what about a little text message?

  George protested inwardly. It was ridiculous to be tapping away on a little machine like a madman when he could be appreciating the wild beauty of his surroundings, the nature all around him and the windswept dunes. It was enough to make a poet of him. And would Lord Byron, in thrall to the vivid spring colours of Nottinghamshire, have spent his time there sending text messages like there was no tomorrow? Of course not. But the Romantic poet had praised nature in all its glory in his heartfelt and lengthy correspondence. So if text messages had been around in his day, George felt sure he would have been glued to his phone as well. And anyway, this time he had something to say to Ginette.

  Grey sky @ Erquy, wtr is nice, we r both doin well. We r lookin 4wrd 2 cing u in Nantes. Best, George.

  (Grey sky at Erquy, water is nice, we are both doing well. We are looking forward to seeing you in Nantes. Best, George.)

  He also saw he had received two replies from Adèle, telling him what she was doing and envying him his travels. Little Adèle. He gazed into the horizon for a few moments, took a deep breath of fresh air and stood in the water, not moving for some time.

  Charles and Marcel watched him from the restaurant, without saying a word.

  It was not for want of things to talk about. The conversation had been kept up for some time, and had been a
ll the more animated because Marcel and Charles kept finding things in common. First, Marcel had declared that his daily dip had kept him in such good shape that it ought to have been funded by the health service. He couldn’t have picked a better topic to win Charles over.

  ‘I completely agree!’ exclaimed Charles. ‘I completely agree! And I’ll tell you something, Marcel, that’s not the only thing we should be able to get on the health service … There’s also … playing cards! We have a belote championship, once a month, you know. Not that everyone is obsessed with card games back home – it’s Chanteloup, not Las Vegas. But even so, firstly, loads of people do it. And second, you should see everyone arriving at two o’clock, when it starts. There are folks in wheelchairs, people who’ve lost their legs, who’ve got problems with their ulcers, their kidneys and all sorts. Some have even had chemo, and that’s not the last of it, you know what I mean? But after the first round everyone’s stopped complaining! By the time it gets to five o’clock, we’re all breathless! Some of us would start dancing on the tables if we could!’

  Charles banged the table for emphasis. Marcel was nodding in agreement.

  ‘I’m not much of a cards person myself,’ he said. ‘But I see what you’re saying. My sister, for example, lives in Reugny, in the Touraine, near Vouvray. Now, every year, around the end of October – it’ll be happening soon, now I come to think of it – they hold a bernache festival. Do you know what bernache is?’

  ‘No, but I’d like to find out. We’ll be driving through the Touraine before long.’

  ‘OK, well, bernache is somewhere between grape juice and wine. Actually, the more of it you drink, the more you become sure that it’s closer to wine than juice. But anyway, I still think … I still think bernache, Charles, should be provided by the health service as well!’

  ‘Well of course, if it’s somewhere between grape juice and wine, and more wine than juice, what’s not to like?’

  ‘Anyway, so my sister,’ Marcel continued, ‘she organises the festival, and there’s a fair and a junk sale as well. She does all that with the local pensioners’ club and all the oldies in the area love it, it’s just like you were saying. They’re suddenly full of get-up-and-go. If you ask me, it was bernache that Jesus used to raise the dead!’

  Marcel and Charles burst out laughing, slapping the table and clutching their stomachs. They were a picture of good fun.

  ‘Ah,’ said Charles playfully, ‘there’s something else that the health service should cover: gardening.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Marcel, doubtfully. ‘I tend to think that gardening gives one a bad back, actually.’

  ‘Bad back, my foot!’ said Charles indignantly. ‘If you’ve got a bad back, that’s because you don’t keep your garden properly! A lovely big vegetable patch with pretty flowers for the missus to put in her vases for when the guests come, what could be better for your spirits than that? And what do you say to fishing?’

  ‘Oh, fishing,’ conceded Marcel. ‘Well, I won’t disagree with you there. That should be covered too, especially if the weather’s good, April–May time, and you’re going out with your radio.’

  ‘You take a radio with you? That’s not the way to do it! I like a bit of calm, myself. There’s always such a racket at home, when we’ve got the whole brood there … But if you want my opinion, you’d catch more fish without the radio.’

  ‘Come off it! The fish in Brittany love hearing the ten o’clock news.’

  ‘And what about the Tour de France?’ cried Charles. ‘Covered or not?’

  They looked at each other without speaking, their eyes shining with their new-found affinity.

  ‘Not covered, Charles. Sponsored! By the government itself!’

  The two men started laughing again. Then the laughter dissipated and they gradually fell silent, their gaze naturally drifting towards the sea. They could see George in the distance, standing in the water. He seemed to be peering closely at something in his hand. Charles was used to this by now; he knew that the object in question was George’s mobile phone.

  After a long silence, his eyes still fixed on the beach, Charles murmured:

  ‘Another thing that the health service should cover, Marcel, is George’s granddaughter’s text messages.’

  When George got back to the restaurant, his cheeks rosy, his feet tingling, and his spirits high, they paid the bill and collected their things. As he was pulling on his jacket, Marcel asked his two new friends:

  ‘If you’re heading to Saint-Malo this evening, will you be passing through Dinard?’

  ‘Yes, we should do,’ answered Charles.

  ‘Would you like to have dinner with me there? I know a wonderful restaurant. Well, I’ll have to call my wife to warn her, but otherwise I’m free. And I can show you the pink granite coast and all that along the way. And you can’t leave here without seeing the port, of course.’

  George and Charles were all for it, especially Charles, who never liked saying goodbye.

  As arranged, they followed Marcel’s Citroën C4 in the Scenic. They stopped in the centre of Erquy and Charles and George got to see why it was called ‘the red resort’. They walked from the Port des Hôpitaux to the beach at Saint-Pabu; the beautiful and varied surroundings inspired another text message to Adèle:

  Anothr place 2 note 4 wen u come 2 Brttany: here, beaches 4 relaxin nd hiking trails. We r wiv a nu frnd, Marcel, the 1 who goes swimmin evry day. We r eatin wiv him in Dinard this eve.

  (Another place to note for when you come to Brittany: here, beaches for relaxing and hiking trails. We are here with a new friend, Marcel, the one who goes swimming every day. We are eating with him in Dinard this evening.)

  Marcel also gave them a brief explanation of the local birdlife. He explained that the birds here predicted the weather and guided the fishermen. He pointed out various different species: terns, seagulls, cormorants, kittiwakes, guillemots and gannets. George was fascinated. This was much more interesting than a museum.

  They stopped off at Cap Fréhel, la Frenaye Bay and Saint-Cast-le-Guildo, the peninsula with seven stunning beaches. They saw the Pointe de la Garde and the seawall that ran along the impressive beach, and admired the view of the Ebihens archipelago and the Saint-Jacut peninsula. Marcel told them they must try Saint-Cast spider crab – but that would have to be for another day. They finally got to Dinard at around six o’clock.

  Marcel gave them the grand tour of the town. Charles and George discovered the faded charm of the elegant seaside resort, with its seafront villas. Dinard may have displayed traces of the splendour of its prosperous past, but it clearly also attracted a young, fashionable crowd judging by the sports cars they kept spotting. They ate in a magnificent belle époque restaurant, where the plants either side of the entrance matched the vivid colours of the mural mosaics. Although initially George and Charles did not feel quite at ease in this setting, by the end of the evening it was as though they were in their own dining room, thanks to the good food, the good company, and the affable owner who came over to welcome them.

  They parted as firm friends, promising to meet again soon. Charles and George did not get to their hotel in Saint-Malo until late, and went to bed almost immediately. As he was reading Adèle’s most recent text, George suddenly remembered he had forgotten to buy the Agatha Christie book, and tomorrow was a Sunday. Never mind, he’d buy it in Nantes. Nantes, where he’d be seeing Ginette again. He thought of the text he’d sent, and felt like an awkward teenager. He grimaced and buried his face in the pillow. He was definitely too old for all of this.

  Sunday 5 October

  Saint-Malo–Forêt de Paimpont (Ille-et-Vilaine)

  George had just one regret, and that was that it wasn’t 16 October. An extremely high tide had been predicted for Saint-Malo that day, and it promised to be a spectacular event: a firework display of spray and water crashing against the rocks and flying into the air. At low tide the rock pools and sand banks were uncovered; this was the kingdom of the
crabs usually concealed by the sea. He explained about the tides to Adèle in a text, and then to Charles as they walked along the seafront.

  Even on an average day, the town was well worth a visit. The rows of pointy-roofed houses, the restless sea, the stormy sky, the bending trees sculpted by the wind: Saint-Malo was painted in every single shade of grey. This was where the Atlantic met the Channel; Charles would have put money on it not being a happy encounter.

  They chose to walk along the sea wall rather than venture inside the ramparts to the old town. They ate lunch in the wide harbour and watched fishing boats, cargo ships and battleships endlessly coming and going.

  Afterwards, they got back on the road and arrived at the forest of Paimpont just before 4 p.m. Charles was eager to visit the Louison Bobet Museum before it closed, but George had a different plan in mind: he wanted to see the mythical Brocéliande Forest. This put Charles’s back up: it was all very well, the Arthurian legend, the romantic woodland, the druids and all the rest of it, but they really were moving at a snail’s pace and now he was going to miss the Louison Bobet Museum.

  In the end, George said that if he was going to be like that, they ought to go their separate ways. He would drive – just this once – and drop Charles off at his museum, then go and admire the real hidden treasures of the region. Charles agreed and not another word was exchanged until they parted ways at Saint-Méen-le-Grand, in front of the famous cycling museum. Two hours later they met back at the same place. George got into the passenger seat and with remarkable stubbornness, both continued to sulk. They went to bed without having dinner; neither of them wanted to eat together, yet neither wanted to deprive the other of the car. They each went to bed not knowing what the other had done for two hours, when in fact they had done exactly the same thing.