I've
been writing a lot, in a quiet, secret place, about family holidays
recently. I think this is because of my folk's getting a little bit
older, and my mother's health not great, I guess I want to try and
ollate all the good things we had in one place.
It's a
good exercise for the memory as well.
This
tale is extrapolated from a holiday in Southern France, courtesy of
Eurocamp. It was the second half of our trip, after a week in
Biarritz, and we had fetched up in Hourtin, in claret country. Across
the Garonne, you could see a nuclear power station looming above the
vineyards, a squat concrete building on the North bank of the river.
Sea
beaches, blasted by Atlantic winds, were places where the skin was
stripped from your face and the waves rolled in with primal force.
Safe swimming could only be done at a beach on an inland lake, with a
quay I unsuccessfully fished from. Our campsite had an unusual
feature; an air raid siren used to summon fireman to the station.
First night I was there it went off at 3am, and I lay terrified,
expecting armageddon while trapped in a foreign land.
I used
to wath petanque in the shady locale of Hourtin town square. This was
the version of kiddy beach boules played with heavy metal ball
bearings a couple of kilogrammes in weight. The pastis sipping locals
could pitch these things accurately to an inch from twenty yards
away, and cause clanking mayhem on the rough ground favoured for
play. The sound they made was amazing.
Of
course I cajoled my parents for a set, and eventually prevailed,
despite the fact they were about 6 quid for a pair. I had two pairs,
and a little wooden jack type ball. My favourite set were exquisitely
cut with triple interlocking rings into the shiny surface of the
steel, like a 16th century astrolabe or some other piece
of astronomical equipment.
But
where to play? I played on the grass next to our tent, but this was
boring, the petanque landing with a dull thud like a shot putt, and
rolling only a short and predictable distance. Yawn. There was no
proper rink like some French campsite's had, the nearest thing I
could find was a gravel area romatically sited near the campsite
toilet complex.
I began
to pitch, nice set versus slightly less nice set, typically adding
commentary. The light was fading, the nuclear alarm silhoutted
ominously against the twilight. I was dismayed to find that the
gravel was scuffing my new boules, which I fondly imagined were
similar to the balls of Plutonium found in the “Fat Man” Nagasaki
nuke. But as the light got worse, I noticed something more amazing.
Everytime
the petangue landed on the gravel, or hit each other, they were
giving off sparks. The granite based gravel chips must have had
incendiary qualities, there was a shower of auroral flame in minuture
every time the ball hit the ground. In retrospect, I wish I could
have just lain in the dark, and taking care not to crush my own head,
thrown the petanque up and down right mext to my
black-black-black-brown eyes to be drawn into the macro world of
fireflashes and electro-flame, asteroid collisions on unknown worlds.
All
while the Uranium in the gravel toasted my genetics, I would revel in
these magnesium cream coloured events, and try and take photographs,
and try and wish myself back there to be 15 again.
Copyright Bloody Mulberry 28.02.14
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