CHAPTER 32
We had a late lunch there, between the bliss of soaking in the water. It wasn’t the sea, but it was just what I needed. It was amusing as I realised exactly how much I had come to depend on a daily swim.

It was about four o’clock when I noticed the place emptying, not in dribs and drabs but as a solid, coordinated exodus. There was nothing to show that it was closing, so Ange asked yet another bare-breasted woman what the score was.

“Rain, apparently, love. And lightning”

I couldn’t see any signs of that, but local knowledge, et cetera. We duly packed up and set off along the riverside footpath.

We were half a mile from our hotel when it happened. The valley ahead of us, way out to the North, started to fill with black clouds, and then violent flashes of forked lightning started to hit in multiple strikes. We were just outside a café when there was the first ‘flop’ of fat raindrops, and without a word Ange tugged me under the awning.

BANG rumble, and then a hissing as what seemed like a year’s worth of rain came down at once. By the time we found an unoccupied table inside, there was a solid curtain of water sluicing off the awning, and the pavement and road were covered in dancing fountains as massive raindrops burst and bounced, just before it turned to hail.

No wonder the locals had all left early. Ange went to the counter, returning with two of those salami/gherkin baguettes we’d grown to like, plus a couple of milky coffees, and we simply sat and watched a spectacular lightning show for around half an hour.

Eventually, the rain eased, the clouds retreating back up the valley, leaving wispy little remnants among the treetops, almost as if they were breathing out on a cold day.

“Imagine being in the water with that lightning, Jen”

“I’d really rather not!”

We spent the next day in the local sculpture park, a Big Thing in Digne, with a walk out to look at the ‘fossil wall’, an exposed rockface full of things we’d probably eaten in our seafood specials, and of course each afternoon we lay in the water and waited for rain o’clock, for it really was that regular. Both of us were amused by The Big Fountain, one of the public outlets for the Magic Healing Waters, half hidden behind a screen of calcified moss, and bearing the usual ‘Eau Non Potable’ warning.

A final walk to the SNCF station saw our rail passes validated, a bus took us to a desolate station called Chateau multiple words, where we eventually boarded a much nicer train. We ran along a pleasant valley for a while, until the walls closed in and we entered a short tunnel in a narrow gorge of incredibly twisted limestone, bedding plans at odd angles and sheets of pale rock like a collapsed bookshelf.

Sisteron. The valley opened right up once we were past, and then the much bigger mountains started to encroach. It was lovely, and we barely spoke as we travelled, content just to cuddle up and soak in the scenery.

As we came into Grenoble, Ange was deep in her book once again.

“That big cliff thing over there is the Vercors. Big Resistance thing in the last war, till they really pissed off the Nazis”

“What happened?”

“What you’d expect from Nazis, love. Leave it, ey? Too nice a day. Our hotel is… you are kidding! Sorry. Hotel’s couple of minutes walk away, supposed to be pretty. What got me was this bit about their sort of redevelopment hero, a famous mayor. Fuck knows what his parents were thinking”

“What do you mean?”

“They called him H-U-B-E-R-T. OOH-bear. But his surname was Dubedout. So he was Oobedoobedoo”

That became our running joke for the few days we were there. The hotel was indeed pretty, the old town was fascinating, and an evening ride on a cable car to the Bastille (no; not that Bastille) got me some wonderful pictures of the river glowing as the sun set over the Vercors, the snows of what Ange said was Mont Blanc glowing pink in the far distance.

Two nights, then onward to Annecy. That was another ride with some stunning moments, particularly as we ran along beside a river whose smooth rock bank was curved like a bobsleigh track. I could see that we were both having the same thoughts, based on that watercourse street by the Spanish border and the downpours in Digne. How much water came down when the river was full?

Our hotel nearly evaded us, because it had changed its name. Another courtyard style building like the one in Nice, but far scruffier, it was still clean and comfy. Once again, bags were dumped, cossies donned, and we went out to find lunch and that lake. Once again, we made our way at random through a maze of streets, until we hit a wider one, and I had to prod Ange to find out what all the stages were for. We got the info by stopping for a couple of cold drinks, and she was grinning as she turned back to me.

“Annual event, love, all over the country. They call it ‘The Festival of Music’, and tonight there will be all sorts of live bands playing. Turn up, find one to listen to, score a couple of seats and table drinks service. That do you?”

It did indeed, but what appealed more came a few minutes later, as we found ourselves on a footbridge over a canal or something. Behind us was a maze of old buildings and waterfront eateries, with flowers everywhere and a tiny little island fort thing behind another bridge. In front of us, the watercourse opened onto that lake, so blue it hurt, with a craggy mountain as a backdrop.

We walked happily past lines of boats, the vista opening over that incredible water, until there was a stretch of grass and a beach going down into the water. The temperature was surprisingly warm, odd things like bushes growing on the bottom, but what surprised me was that even when my face was level with the water, or even underneath as I used my mask, it was still just as blue, probably due to suspended limestone dust, unless there was an invisible team of elves painting it. Several kites were circling, probably looking for food to steal, and it was all absolutely magic.

Our afternoon didn’t end with thunderstorms that day, but there was a little stormette around one of the peaks to the East, which left a dusting of snow high up; not that it lasted long, but it did remind us we were in the Alps.

That evening, we wandered down what we thought of as ‘music street’, and there was a half-decent blues band doing stuff like old Fleetwood Mac and Muddy Waters, so that was our spot for the evening. A local white wine with the slightest of fizziness, steak-frites and chocolate mousse, and an excellent set of covers, including a heartbreaking version of Peter Green’s ‘Man of the World’.

‘And how I wish I was in love’

That had been me, I realised, but in the past, and as those thoughts hit me, she took my hand, looked into my eyes, and I realised that we were both thinking exactly the same thing, and we needed nothing more.

It was a wobbly walk back to out hotel, but we made it just as the rain started, and settled ourselves into bed just u=in time to hear the opening notes of the AC/DC tribute band in the bar opposite.

Ear plugs.

We spent three idyllic days on and in the lake, with a walk partway up the big hill to the South, where we found tiny wild strawberries, incredible in their flavour, and watched red squirrels as they watched us. One day, we hired bicycles and rode round to the castle at Menton, and on another afternoon we did the really awful tourist thing, hiring a pedalo with a slide mounted on its roof and heading out into deeper water for more extravagant aquatic silliness. The place was perfect, even if they had no idea about what breakfast was.

Lyon followed, two nights there to sample the famous cuisine, which was hiding somewhere behind a wall of tourist traps; Madame Boucher had clearly ruined us. We got our fix of garlic, however, before our final train journey, to Paris.

Two nights there, just enough time to realise the truth of those warnings about rudeness but also fit in the obligatory Tower-top sunset snog before we found our way to the airport for our flight home, this time to Cardiff rather than Bristol. The bus into the City took us past Barry, which set us both giggling, and then, without conscious agreement, we settled into my settee while awaiting delivery of a Chinese. When the doorbell sounded, I expected to find some courier with an insulated bag, but it was actually Amina.

“How was it, then?”

“Give us time to get in, why don’t you?”

“I did. I tracked your flight and I know how long the buses take. Gave you an hour!”

The delivery man arrived just then, so I ended up inviting her in as she waved a hand at our food.

“Mam fed me earlier, so no worries. You munch, just fill me in on the good bits while you do”

And that is what we did, as she passed us the two bottles of ‘welcome home’ prosecco before walking into my kitchen for the glasses.

As we settled back with the fizz, she grinned and asked the killer question.

“Well, who asked who?”