TRAVEL BLOG: French Stuck (29/08/23)

The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men / Gang aft a-gley.” Or something like that.

We went to bed safe in the knowledge that we had a cunning plan for the rest of the week. We woke up to find that Struth and Kev were still in the airport. We had tales of meltdowns and people losing the plot. Airline and airport websites are not really much help. Vague messages about trying to clear the backlog.

At least it has stopped raining and the temperatures are rising again. It’s not back to the stupid heat of the first few days, it’s really quite pleasant.

The morning is spent contemplating the various options, but no plan is made, because our destiny is literally out of our hands. Whilst we are not flying til Friday, others are flying over the next few days, or at least they are supposed to be. We do what all Welsh people do in these circumstances: break open the beer to lubricate the imagination. And cider. And vodka.

We have done so well blagging lifts over the last week, we have not had an opportunity to see what is within walking distance. We wander down to what we have been told is ‘the river’. When we get there we find it is little more than a stream. But it was picturesque,  with a few chairs and hammocks scattered around, and a plank for a bridge to the other side with more chairs. We spy a few fish in the stream, chill for five then head back up to start using up the food we have left.

Late afternoon we head up to Wayne’s.  I go for a wander whilst Megan puts herself in the hands of ‘The Mexicans’ for a dream catcher tattoo.

There are three Mexicans.  One of them is married to Wayne’s daughter. They are in Europe for a few months. They are covering their costs by playing music and doing tattoos.  They were considering going to Morocco next, and at some point, coming to Wales. I don’t think they are doing a travel blog, but I’m sure it would blow mine out of the water if they were.

We discuss the difference between Incas and Mayans. We decide that our Mexicans are Inkers.

There is an incredibly calm vibe, and getting a tattoo from a Mexican travelling minstel in the mountains of the south of France, miles fron civilisation,  seems the most normal thing in the world.

Tattoo done, we head into Figanieres to meet up with some of the gang for a ‘last supper’. Not everyone came along, but thirteen is always a nice number for a last supper.

The waiter is incredibly pleasant and speaks English better than Alka. Luckily I’m not a squeamish vegetarian,  because there was a lot of carnivory going down around the table. Veggie options were limited, but we had an amazing salad, courgette flowers in batter (? Me neither, but it was delicious) and an incredible cheese board. I’m not sure what the cheeses were, but one of them was the cheese equivalent of a scotch bonnet chilli. It wasn’t spicy or hot, but it was the equivalent of there being a party in your mouth and the police raid it and use tazers and pepper gas on everyone. I had to drink 8.5% beer to wash it away.

There were a few in the gang that thought they were being clever, but ended up leaving their stunned cow on the plate but, on the whole, the food was the best we have eaten all week. And cheap. I like cheap.

We then drove home going , ‘ooooh, look at that full moon’.