June 19, 2012
Meeting Kafka and sleeping wild: St-Saturnin - St Dier d'Auvergne
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KAFKAESQUE. I suppose that's a word. If it's not, I hereby patent it for exclusive use in incidents such as today's.
I shall ignore all the ride and tell you only that once more it was gloriously beautiful. We are still battling with mountains and valleys and hills and dales and our daily distance looks pitiful as a result. Much more relevant is that it was tough enough that Karen finished the day in a state to be scooped off the road and Steph took some of her luggage to help her.
That was why, when we got to the little valley village of St-Dier, we asked first for a hotel and then for a bed-and-breakfast. There was, in fact, a tourist office but, following an age-old principle in small towns, it closed whenever there was a risk of tourists turning up.
It was two clucking but helpful and well-informed women on a shopping trip (the sort that usually includes the phrase "Tell me, dear, shall we have a cup of coffee and a nice sit down?") who told us there was a campground opposite the football pitch on the edge of the village. And sure enough, as we rode that way, we saw the small direction signs we'd missed on the descent.
It wasn't much of a campground. In fact it wasn't a campground at all, just a clump of pines in churned, sandy soil and an irregular area of grass beneath tree branches. There were two taps on the outside of the football changing room but they were dry and the sinks below them were littered with cigarettes ends and twigs.
But, there was nowhere else and so I rode back to the mairie behind the tourist office (still closed) to ask about water.
"It's about the campground," I said.
Two women who looked as though they too would rather have been having a cup of coffee and a nice sit down looked alarmed.
"But there isn't a campground."
"Mais,si! We've found it and we're already there."
"But it's closed."
"We followed your signs."
"Well, there isn't a campground but people camp there."
"So we can camp there, too?"
"No, because there isn't a campground."
"So why do your signs say there is?"
"In case people want to camp. There are school parties."
"So, in principle, we could camp there too, whether it's a campground or not?"
"We haven't got the authority to say that."
She rang the mayor.
"The mayor says you can camp."
"Is there a charge?"
"No, because there isn't a campground."
I got out as quickly as I could, along with a water bag and three full bidons. We washed, stripped off, in a mugful of hot water apiece. Karen was just slopping on the soapy water when she heard footsteps on the road 50 metres away. She looked round alarmed and saw... a blind woman with a stick.
No day could have ended more oddly.
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