When things are at their best the temptation to walk to the edge of a field and shout in our most disapproving voices: “Bad Rice, Bad Rice,” is too strong to be ignored. The French hardly seem to notice.
Today was such a beautiful day that we decided to stay and explore the beach, although Heather claims it was to dry out the laundry.
We were almost convinced that we would get away with paying the same rate here as at the small town outside of Les Pieux, unfortunately the owner came out just as we left the grounds. This was the first place in France that we used Visa but we thought it best to conserve our francs for as long as possible. For some reason I don’t think my dream of the night before, a bank truck full of francs crashing just in front of us, will come true.
The village was as deserted today as yesterday. How eerie to see sand blown into doorways, even creeping out of cracks under the door. Almost every yard had a boat parked within, bleaching beneath the sunlight, paint coming off in long cracking strips.
The beach was amazing, sand as far as the eye could see, a brilliant dome of blue capping the world, the faintest outlines of the island of Jersey peeking from behind the sea haze.
The sand was broken into some very different stages before reaching the water. The first, dry sand, like that found in a desert, tiny grains that roll over one another with a liquid motion that seems to mimic the water that once flowed over it. The second a damp watery sand where the water table seeps out, a shinny, shimmering sand whose dampness is hidden beneath. Another dry patch then, but hard and compact, as though laid in anticipation of paving. Then the strangest stretch of all. A layer of beach churned up into thousands, millions, of tiny worms of sand, dug out by some beach dwelling creature. From a distance the stretch of beach is is so rough it seems to be made of rocks and you hesitate to cross, until every pile of sand you step on sinks beneath the weight of your sandal. From horizon to horizon rise worms of sand. Beyond is more wet sand, then a stretch of beach more seaweed than sand, where the ocean rolls in and deposits the waters dead.
Heather and I stopped at a small pond formed by the protection of a semicircle of ancient pilings. The water was clear and filled with living seaweed, a space of tranquil water protected from the waves. A few steps back from this pond we began the work that we knew was inevitable from the moment we set foot on sand. We began to build sandcastles. Heather, as is her want, began to build a nice dignified structure, one foot by one-foot square with gently rising tiers that had the look of an ancient Mayan or Aztec temple. Simple, beautiful and soon overshadowed by the monstrosity looming on its borders.
The secret to conquest and world domination is to not worry about beauty and dignity until victory is assured. I built, as I tend to do, a massive fortress of sand, with even its smallest turret easily engulfing Heather’s temple.
My five towers and adjoining walls are not beautiful, they are gargantuan, and they used all the sand around them like giant vacuums sucking in
everything nearby.
But alas, even with Heather’s help, after her temple was incorporated into the castle, we could not fight off the rising tide.
The ocean sat there watching us, bidding its time until we were almost complete, then with a speed that defied our every effort, rose to cover the beach until our castle was under more than ten feet of water. The keep, protected by the appeased gods of Heather’s temple, held out the longest before succumbing to the waves.
We soon had other things to worry about. The isles of Jersey had disappeared from sight, swallowed by billowing storm clouds. We were still in sunshine but how long that would last is anyone’s guess. We headed back to our camp, defeated builders both, and tried to ensure everything was ready for any rain. What we had not anticipated was the coming weekend. Already two or three more campers had joined out isolated commune and the number seemed poised to grow. One of the great difficulties we have discovered as campers is a disconnection from the working world. We have no idea when weekends are arriving and are taken by surprise when we have to fight for spaces. The worst case happened in Portsmouth but it was not the first time we were taken unaware. We were completely put out by Britain’s last bank holiday and while we now know that they don’t have another one until Christmas, does the same hold true for France and Italy? I was able to find a calendar of French school holidays at the back of my Michelin guide and I discovered that French schools have significantly more days off than Canadian ones, lucky buggers. Well, they will have to fight us seasoned travelers for any spaces during their vacations and besides; I don’t think many of them camp during the winter. Which raises the questions, why are we?
Anyway, the threat of inclement weather seems to have held off the throng of tourists this time, as only a few more brave campers showed up. Just in time for the skies to open up. And how did it rain. At first there were a few halfhearted sprinkles that looked like they would disappear when the wind picked up. But soon rain was coming down in an unstoppable torrent.
The bags, sheltered in the vestibules, began to get wet as enough water bounced off the grass to allow it to rain upwards into the tent. Then water began to drip down on us from the Velcro fasteners on the roof, stopped, only just, by the judicious application of socks as plugs.
The low point of the night came as I lay in agony inside, desperately needing to use the lavatory facilities. After endlessly waiting, hoping for a break in the downpour I gave up and made a dash for the washroom and a dash back, soaking myself to the skin and diving gratefully back into my war sleeping bag only to have the rain let up. Any wonder that we have become superstitious? Somewhere an Imp sits laughing hysterically
Next Entry: Day 54. Agon-Coutainville
Previous Entry: Day 52. Denneville
No comments:
Post a Comment