We just did it. Don’t ask me how. It didn’t take long. A straight and wiggly journey of just a couple of hours or so.
We’re definitely getting better at it. Not quite down to a fine art-form yet, more Picasso than Rubens, left hand not quite knowing what the right is doing – or should that be ear?
Before we knew it we were pitched up and strolling alongside the beauty of the Lac-d’Orient, centred within the Foret d’Orient, near Geraudot. We passed a group of fellow walkers heading in the opposite direction. Everyone is ultra courteous over here. Greeted them with the customary “Bonjour”. Did the same on the return journey. Same walkers. Then I remembered something that Geraldine on “Comme une Française” had said. If you repeat bonjour a second time to the same person on the same day, it implies you didn’t remember seeing them already. They can take it as an insult. From then on a silent nod of the head and a broad grin became the order of the day.
The local bird life join us for dinner most times. On the hunt for scraps. One stays put however. High above us. Out of sight. Some sort of finch. We call him Monsieur Dix-Huit – his four bar repertoire concludes with a syllable sounding “dix-huit” Like he’s saying “Hey, can you hear me? It’s Monsieur Dix-Huit”
Following day we extended our horizons. Take the bikes out as far as the track allows us, just shy of Brienne le Chateau, on the other side of Lac du Temple. The weather’s being kind. It’s hot and sunny, but we’re chilling. Keeping the bikes tucked close in to the lake shoreline and lapping it up. Lower arms and legs starting to resemble Chris Frome’s. The rest will have to wait until we reach the med in a couple of weeks or so.
Day three finds us on the road by scooter into Troyes. This town’s a sympathetic blend of medieval and modern and has a cosmopolitan feel to it. We really like this place. Not an eye lid batted as we climbed out of our biker gear and slipped into our shorts and T-shirts – on the green opposite this spot below.
Finished the afternoon off with thoughts of returning back to camp with some patisserie.
However, I didn’t notice that the lady was shutting shop, and she didn’t notice me, nose flattened and tongue hanging out. Next second, the metal window guard had clonked down on top of my head knocking any thoughts of cake and coffee into . . . .
. . . where was I ? . .. . what was I saying . . .