Just pottering about in the garden yesterday when Chris (Caveman) rings me to say he’s coming over the volcanos from Clermont and tipping this morning just south of Perigueux.
OK says I, I’ll grab the plastic pig and shoot down to have dinner with you. I gave him directions for l’Auberge de Jade (J16 A89, take N21 south towards Bergerac for 100metres then fork left D8 towards Vergt. La Jade is on the right in about 200 metres opp. Volvo), and found him already there with his helpmate Karim just before 8pm when we arrived.
After backing the saxo & pig into a slim little spot between a wagon & drag and the rocks we set off for the resto, minus Karim who brings his ‘snap’ with him.
After a very good meal, only slightly marred by the non arrival of my veggies (the patron insisted we speak only English as he wanted his to improve - and got it wrong), we presented ourselves at the counter to pay. Now normally here you pay in advance, but when at the apero stage I queried this change of policy, the boss said ‘only truck drivers pay beforehand’ and when Chris in mock panic covered his company logo ‘yes, I know you are too but you have a lady with you.’ Weren’t sure how to take this. Did he mean ladies are more honest than drivers or had he seen how slowly Fran moves and decided there was no chance of us doing a runner?
Anyway, as I was saying, while Chris and I waited to pay, a Dutchman at the bar was talking on his mobile and finished the conversation by lapsing into English - ‘Mother Trucker’. I realised he wasn’t talking about our esteemed novelist because he didn’t actually say ‘Mother Trucker’, which earned him a rebuke by the Anglophone Patron. He then tried to pay for a kir with much less than the going rate and only plonked down the €1.50 when Chris gently explained it to him. He seemed a little unsteady.
All safely tucked in by 11.30 (Fran, me and the 2 dogs in the caravan and Chris and Karim in the Iveco) and soon asleep. Around 1 or 2 I awoke to this roaring sound, muffled curses, and repeated banging - as if someone was trying to hammer a car bonnet in. Looked out several times but could see nothing. After about an hour or so, through some very heavy rain, the roaring and voices grew fainter and finally ceased.
During coffee and croissants this morning in came our Dutchman and through the interpreter asked if anyone had found his keys. No-one had and they weren’t under the table he had eaten at either. Apparently he lost them on his way back to the cab last night and, unable to get into the cab, had spent the night in his empty trailer. Rubbing his aching back and complaining of little sleep he nevertheless had heard nothing of the mystery noises in the night, which all of us at breakfast had been discussing when he arrived. Must have been more drunk and slept better than he thought, I assumed. He had a bloody graze on his temple and I concluded that he had fallen in the ditch on the way home last night and that he would find them there soon when memory started to return.
Outside we said our goodbyes and one by one started pulling out of the park. As we passed the Dutchman’s Topline, Fran said ‘you know, I bet that noise last night was him getting angry at being locked out, and that he’d been banging on the cab in frustration, his voice only fading as he settled in his 44’ sleeper.’
Too late to take a photo, at the last glance I saw the dent in the Scanny’s panel behind the passenger door, and thought of the Dutchman’s bruised head. He wasn’t punching it with his fists, was he?
However, here are one or two pics of just about everyone else who breakfasted, including Chris (in the green top) and his P. Chanut Iveco.
Salut, David.
