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13 Camouflage "Aller! Aller! Aller!" I shouted (one of the two French words I knew), amid loud gun blasts. Holidays and Sundays, the French were allowed to hunt. And being Armistice Day, they were out in full force. Acres of forest along one side of the road were posted as hunting preserves; the other side was posted No hunting. I thought it was for pheasant hunting. But no. I had been absently pedalling when a boomstick blasted fifty feet away. I nearly had a heart attack. Then it went off again and I was sure I had one. Something squealed. A wild curledtusk boar sailed out of the ditch-its sharp hooves clawed frantically as it scrambled on the asphalt surface-heading for cover on the No Hunting side, missing my front wheel by four feet. I could see the hairs on his chin. The boar looked completely disoriented and exhausted. With impeccable timing I practiced one of the two French words I knew, loudly yelling "Aller! Aller! Aller!" Horrified, Sharon looked around to see our wouldbe murderers with a yousurepickedahelluvafinetimetobecomefluent look on her puss. She was sure the hunter who had just blasted the two shots was going to kill us in crossfire attempting to stop his escaping prey. As if we weren't already vulnerable enough, I had taunted the hunter by cheering for the boar. Sharon's uneasiness grew as we proceeded. It was not one hunter, but no less than twenty, lined the ditch in camouflage gear, in an attempt to barricade the boar on the hunting side of the highway. That camouflage stuff worked. I hadn't noticed any of those hunters until they turned to glare at us as we rode past. Pressing my luck, I smiled at them, gave them a hearty wave and said "Bonjour. Better luck next time fellows." Sharon said I didn't know when to quit. Dogs sniffed and barked. I had no idea wild boars still inhabited the forest. I planned not to inadvertently venture into forests on a Sunday. No camping permitted. No doubt, the day's events had spiced up that pig's life-no boring day for him. In VilleneuvesurLot at eleven o'clock the fiftieth annual Armistice Day parade commenced, complete with marching bands and drummers. An over exuberant French woman gave us directions to the wrong town. There were two towns with the same name and she was sending us to the wrong one. She punctuated her directions by punching Sharon on the arm. Poor Sharon. She would have bruises and still be lost. Finding water closets was an adventure. Sometimes they were under stairs or built into walls beneath churches. They were usually near the post office or mairie. We found one in a building with a seventyfive foot ceiling. The building had a thick double door built to take the onslaught of attackers. Around two the rain quit at the edge of the fog bank. The vegetation was bushy dense tropical ferns and palms. Sharon saw a lemon tree, oh so pretty. We consumed the previous day's burnt jawwrenching baguettes. Being a holiday, I thought everything would be closed. Wrong. Only the patisserie where I had bought our baguettes was closed-all the others were open. Being stale made them worst. No wonder the clerk was so cheery to sell me her last four. Sharon said they should be registered as lethal weapons. Since it was a Friday night we checked out a campground in Gabarret. The stadium might be a party site and the woods certainly didn't appear safe. The campground even had hot showers. The night was clear and cold. Aller! Aller! Aller! |
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