And then there was four….

The weather forecast, any weather forecast, ought to be taken with just a little scepticism. It has been known that the forecaster has been made to look like a fool when dismissing warnings of wind and hurricanes. I would no more bet on the actual meteorological outcome than I would attempt to trim my pubes with a blow torch. Cornwall is notorious for its maritime weather which sees diversity from one coast to another at the same time. One can be face down in a pasty on the sunny harbour in St Ives while just a few miles away in Falmouth one can be facing a drenching as a cold wet dribble gets in between the butt cheeks. Aurillac nestles among some extinct volcanoes resulting in a mountain weather pattern as diverse in precipitation and sunshine as a packet of Bassett’s liquorice allsorts. Mind, at this time of year, it is very warm and the sun comes out to play. A lot. We are fortunate so far that despite a thunderstorm warning on the odd occasion, nothing wet actually happens. 

Except when we do decide to start a barbecue on a dry day. At the point of ignition, of course a waft of light rain flows through the valley. Happily, it is not enough to make us dash indoors. It is soon over…in as short a time as a lettuce stays being a prime minister. 

The geography of this locality is the result of long ago volcanic activity which now leaves deep gorges and river valleys driving their way through extremely steep hills and volcanoes. It is very fertile country, producing excellent diary produce – you might know of Roquefort or Blue D’Auvergne. I have not seem much in the way of vineyards. Yet not that far away are names known to wine lovers such as Cahors. Bergerac and Bourdeaux are to the west and the Côtes du Rhône to the east and south. 

I am extremely happy to report that all of the old truths and stereotypes of France are still in existence. Everyday in the countryside is a Sunday, long lunches are the norm, every village has a bar tabac, coiffure, boulangerie and a dog that barks as you drive past its garden gate. 

Madame Fifi and Trixie Belle are on hand to attend to the needs of the weary gentleman biker. Ever alert to one’s mechanical foibles, Trixie Belle is always happy to handle a biker’s tool in case his gear needs a fiddling with or his push rod stiffens in the heat of the afternoon and requires a little more in the way of a thrust to keep it going. 

Age is a bugger though. As with any machine, the grease doesn’t flow so easily, the spark is less flashy and the seat is lumpier. 

In the past, say the 1980’s, a 200-300 mile run on a bike required no more effort than breathing, farting or poking fun at minorities. Bones were strong, muscles were developed and one’s perineum was as hard and polished as the lid on a grand piano. Tendons were supple, hearts were strong and bladders functioned. All sphincters were tight and wont not to flap in the face of danger. The result is that a day’s riding was as easy, and as comforting, on the body as a tin of swarfega and a dab of talcum powder around the nethers. Today we have to contend with aching shoulders, stabbing pains to the coccyx and perianal meanderings. After a very long day riding, the only cure for the aches is a beer and the ministrations of a Trixie Belle and the application of her warm moist poultice to the area in question.

We have been spared in the most part, the news. We have little idea about what is happening elsewhere beyond the region of Averyon. We do learn that an erstwhile British prime minister left the party early, just as the orgy started, and broadcast the fact that despite everyone else remembering a quite important event within still living memory he thought it more important to convince a minority of Brits who would be quite happy with an authoritarian stopping boats crossing the channel, to vote for him. In this, he showed as much insight into his own judgment as that of a Catholic priest faced with a classroom of schoolboys armed with Vaseline and a vow of silence. 

However, today we took a lovely little trip to Laroquebrou, a ‘petit village de charecture’ sitting astride the banks of the river Cere. It has been undisturbed by both first and second wars. Its stone and timber constructed buildings are all intact, despite the fact that a spirit level had either not been invented or else discarded in favour of the builder’s wine soaked eye. There is a point where the centre of gravity would pull a building to the ground. With skill, the carpenters, masons and stone labourers strode just up to that point and stopped. They might have wondered about the wisdom of building to inexact standards but then reasoned that in about 200 years visitors would think it quaint. As an insurance policy against the sins of the villagers being visited upon themselves, a sculptor carved out a stature of the Virgin Mary and placed it upon a prominent position overlooking  the whole village. It is a warning to the populace to know their place vis a vis the Catholic Church as the virgin would always be watching over their dirty little shenanigans should they so wish to indulge. The irony of a virgin maintaining the sanctity of sexual goings on, despite her having no carnal knowledge, and thus would not be able to tell an erect penis from a  ripe thrusting asparagus, is lost only on the Pope. 

Before we left the village a charming woman came up to us to describe that 10 days ago there had been a meeting of bikers in the town square. She spoke in rapid and colloquial french which is not so much of a surprise being that she was indeed french and spoke, well, colloquially. I guess this is no more surprising than meeting a Camborne maid outside the Tyacks on a late Saturday night,  who says ‘drekly’ instead of “I’ll come around to dealing with that request right after I’ve picked up my chips and put my knickers back on”.

C’est la vie.