Читать книгу Our House is Certainly Not in Paris - Susan Cutsforth - Страница 25

Things really started to fall into place before we left this year. Weeks before heading for Cuzance, we decide to check the route for the Tour de France. Much to our excitement, the route goes though Brive-la-Gaillarde, a mere twenty minutes from us. We speculate about the back roads that the Tour may take and wonder if in fact it may go straight past our petite maison – after all, our house is right on the road! Last year I had strenuously resisted Stuart’s entreaties that I go with him to watch it in Figeac. I simply couldn’t imagine anything more tedious than a bunch of bike riders whizzing past at great speed, a blur of coloured jerseys, gone in a flash. I kept saying that he should make arrangements to meet Erick as I was sure it would be a perfect outing for them; much like my vigorous attempts to not be involved in any canoeing trips... The thought of a day in the jardin, even if it did mean literally sitting in a pile of weeds and rocks to tug and pull at them, was infinitely more alluring. However, like many of Stuart’s ideas, once I finally capitulated, it turned out to be a brilliant day.

Figeac is a beautiful historic town on the banks of the River Cele, surrounded by charming villages. It’s an unspoilt town centre, with a delightful range of medieval houses that are both stone and half-timbered. The site of the old halles, or markets, is where cafés now spread their tables. After a visit to the Office de Tourisme, to check the route, we joined the throng of the soon-to-be Tour de France crowds, and with just enough time before the race came over the bridge, had the menu du jour. Just as were finishing our café, the heavens opened and it looked like our experience of the atmosphere we had only ever viewed from afar at home, was to be a rather damp one.

However, the downpour was short-lived, so we crossed the river, caught up in le Tour excitement, and positioned ourselves in a perfect viewing spot, ready to see the riders swoop around the end of the bridge and then race up the hill. As it turned out, there was an hour of unexpected build-up of atmosphere and anticipation with the arrival of the caravane. This was something we had never seen at home when the Tour de France was shown and we had not heard anything about it, even from our French friends. It turned out to be tremendous fun. Truck after truck roared past with loud music blaring from speakers, young French people dancing on the floats and banners flowing in the breeze to advertise different companies. To add to the festive atmosphere, the dancers on the trucks all had samples to throw to the crowds: biscuits, magazines and if you were really lucky to grab one, a Tour de France cap from the large supermarché chain, Carrefour. So, this year, we knew what to expect.

Last year after the caravane had passed, we decided to move our vantage point to higher up on the hill. It turned out to be perfect. Just like in our petite maison, we were right on the road, close enough to feel the whoosh of air from the bikes that pass in a blur of movement and colour. The whole race was in fact so fast that we were not even sure it was finished. finally, some French tourists asked the policeman on his powerful motorbike in front of us, whether it was fin. We understood that oui, indeed it was. So it was in fact that at that very moment, Dave texted us to let us know he was watching the Tour de France on a cold, wet day at home and thought that the countryside looked very familiar to Cuzance. Were we thinking of going to see it at all? We texted back triumphantly to say, ‘We are here and Cadell Evans has just gone past us.’ And so it was, the Tour de France that I was so reluctant to go and see, was the year an Australian won – and it was a day out that was far more enjoyable than I could have anticipated. Perhaps I should review my thoughts on a canoe trip after all...