August 18, 2019
A new line on angling
Pont à Mousson to Malling
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AT times I have been less than respectful to those bravest of men who with a hook and a crate of beer battle to outwit a fish.
And there will be times when I shall be equally unflattering. Tonight, though, I am grateful.
Yesterday's rain had gone by morning but it hadn't given up. Black clouds came after us like mourners behind a coffin. They came closer as we rode through Metz, pursued a boisterous wind that gave wings to our wheels.
But soon after Thionville and within sight of its nuclear power station, the one they keep planning to close, the wind threw hail and we climbed over an electrified fence, with predictable results, to shelter under trees.
When we had passed Thionville - and I shall get to the point of this story in a moment - we walked a half-blocked path over a dam only to be met by two Germans coming from the opposite direction but insistent they were going where we were going.
She was tall and laughing, the sort you couldn't help but like but boisterous like a noisy dog. She was on an ordinary bike, one that wouldn't go unless you pedalled it, a German Hercules with just light bags. He was on a grey monster with an enormous battery on the seat tube.
"I am older than she is," he laughed in that not-especially-funny way that some people have with jokes. He was squat with heavy legs and a touching belief in electronics.
When we pointed out that we too were going to Schengen and that either we were right or they were, he produced his magic machine to prove it was them.
"But it must be this way because there's a bike-route sign to say so," we insisted.
"That's what I keep telling him," said the Younger Wife in a tone that silently added "but it's not worth arguing."
Her husband pushed his wizardry towards us.
"See, there are two ways. You see? The ordinary roads and the bicycle route are blue."
We pointed out the essential contradictions and reasoned that they had a hotel booked in Schengen and really had to get there whereas we could just camp in a field and try again next morning if we were wrong.
He set off across the bridge and his wife said "This is the way he wants to go", accompanied by an expression that said "This won't be the first time he's been wrong but he won't admit it."
Coming on for an hour later - and here at last is the point of the story - they caught us as we started to explore a path that crossed a swathe of grass and hinted at camping spots beyond.
He looked determinedly ahead. She looked determinedly as though words had been said. Schengen was still a decent ride away.
The track led by way of puddles to a lake and, beyond it, an open-sided shelter improbably equipped with a refrigerator, chair, barbecue and built-in shelves. The soft floor was of red strips cut from an athletics track, still with the white lines. The generator for the refrigerator, which wasn't connected, must have been in the metal container further along.
Our tent needs pegs but Mrs Woodland is an engineer and deft work with washing lines and bungee straps attached to the shelter's supports had our tent upright and secure. We are dry while rain falls just beyond.
Thank you, anglers, whoever you are. But this is no more than a truce.
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