We joined forces in a place called Marmande (or Marmalade, as Rose named it) after he arrived from Goa via Saudi Arabia and an overnight Paris stop and I drove down from Northern France having taken the overnight ferry. Rose amused himself on the way by hiding out in Riyadh airport for twelve hours, getting his dates wrong (thereby arriving in France 24 hours too early), and paying a call on the ghost of Django Reinhardt at his La Chope des Puce, café and jazz restaurant. It was closed. Django was chained. A night in a cheap Paris flop house, as is his wont, and Rose was on his way.
In contrast, I arrived at the ferry port with ample time to spare, got an early place at the restaurant and enjoyed some fine French dining and a superb bottle of Medoc. A tour around the deck, some bracing sea air and a final nightcap gave ample incentive to retire to bed.
After an excellent night’s sleep aboard ship and a less than adequate French attempt at an English breakfast, I put the pedal to the metal and drove the 750 kilometres to our rendezvous. Turning left just outside of town led me to the car park of one of those wonderful, cheap and entirely adequate French travel hotels. Upon negotiating my stay, the receptionist strangely expecting me and pairing me with Rose, out of the lift walked, or rather flopped, the man himself.
A few words about Rose. Rose is resolutely both male and masculine, displaying all the expected attributes of a fellow of his age. Ex-musclebound bodies in their fifties do tend to allow lipids to lie comfortably where previously there was only fibrous tissue. Rose is no exception and is a fine example of this universal law. A year of near equatorial living has also enhanced this rather marvellous effect. In his now typical flip flop, shorts and tee shirt garb he oozed himself into the hotel foyer, beaming broadly.
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But why was he here? What would possess a seemingly sane and sensible man of his age to spend 36 hours in and between various tropical airports, several more hours making high speed progress on a TGV the length of France to appear like magic out of an Accor lift? The answer is another beginning.
Following those early crayon drawings referred to in the previous blog post, I had started to organise the 2015 wander – a six day trek along half of the Cathar Way in southern France. My dearly beloved had ‘suggested’ (a rather marvellous euphemism if ever there was one) that I should try a light weight first return attempt at long distance walking. This meant skipping the tent, cooker, sleeping bag, Karrimat, eating utensils, washing up bowl, gas bottle, toilet spade and kitchen sink, and organise accommodation en-route. This I duly did but her anxiety was still palpable at the thought of me going solo, despite the fact that I have been using my legs without benefit of an instructor for most of the previous 50 plus years.
Three weeks before the off, I received an email from Saudia Airlines headed ‘A friend wants to share his trip with you’. Very nice, I thought those days had long passed. On closer inspection it outlined a highly complex and tortuous journey from the Indian subcontinent to Paris and back again. Rose was on the move. His own dearly beloved had instigated the trip, or so we are led to believe; the mysterious connection between those of a different gender probably being the prime suspect for such an eventuality, given the rather improbable prospect of Rose shifting out of monsoon mode and into action via the world of Salafi Islam.
So there we were, to old and ancient friends staring across the lobby. It was quite an emotional meeting and of course led to a rather riotous evening in Marmalade’s only gay restaurant. It would have been rude not to. We drank some pretty average to vile beers in a local bar, via a brief stop to sample some stupendous red from a local wine merchant, and then had an excellent set meal at the restaurant. We sat outside in the square eating before a DJ came along; Rose danced with the waitress and then Top Gear’s Stig made an appearance in a multi-coloured illuminated racing suit. There was a point in the evening where Rose looked at the empty (and gorgeous) wine bottle, suggested ordering another, when I knew we were lost. It would not be the first time. I am surprised it took us so long.
