Nothing says “I love you” like not being bitten(*).
As we make our way along the river Orne, not a single winged proboscis lands on us. Perhaps we’re too under-seasoned for French mosquitos.
We’ve found a quiet stretch by the hippodrome: leafy, lovely, and lairy with dapple-dancing gnats. Runners pass us in various stages of lycra consumption. One catches our attention.
“Did you see her?” says The Mathematician, uncraning her neck.
I nod. “Amazing. Great pace, great posture.”
“She must have been 60 at least! Strong.”
Someone from the other end of the age spectrum staggers by, trainers straining. We stand aside to let her pass.
“What a difference,” The Mathematician murmurs.
“At least she’s running,” I say.
Which is more than can be said of the first guy in the series “Single Men Who Sit on Benches (Staring).” Early 20s, suited, shiny shoes. He has his hands on his thighs and looks quietly ahead at the flowing river. Peaceful as a sculpture. I try not to stare.
“Did you see him?” I say, after we pass.
“Of course.”
“I wonder what he’s thinking.”
“Why don’t you ask?”
I’m not sure if the answer’s flippant or genuine, but I give it some thought.
“Think that might be rude,” I say, shaking my head.
“You’re not in England yet.”
“Hm, true …”
As I’m considering, we reach Number Two. Tracksuit, trainers, bluetooth speaker. Banging reggae beats. He’s leant forward, elbows on his knees, cigarette dangling from his mouth. The contrast with One is sublime.
He leans back and lifts a foot to the bench, nods to the music and puffs out smoke. (Just tobacco — you have to go to Leipzig for the funky, foxy, stink of weed.) I smile. I’m enjoying this. I can’t wait for the next bench.
It’s empty.
“Aw …”
The Mathematician clocks my gaze.
“Do you want to sit down?” she says.
“No, no. I’m fine.”
I look underneath the bench, just in case. Nothing but weeds.
“You’re sure?”
“Really, I’m fine. I was just hoping for … a bit more track. Seems we’re almost at the end.”
“Shall we walk back the same way? It’s a nice stretch.”
“How about going across that little bridge over there?” I say. “I’m sure there’s a road on the other side that’ll lead to the hotel.”
There is. We don’t take it.
*
I blame the cake-slice house. As we cross the bridge, we notice a little old house on the other bank that’s been sliced like a wedding cake, assuming the bride and groom were blindingly drunk. A line cuts through it diagonally; the other half seems to have vanished into a field.
“That’s weird,” I say.
The Mathematician stops to look. “Are those shoes up there on the window ledge?”
“Yep. And boots.”
“So people live here.”
“Seems so. Or at least their footwear.”
The bridge ends where the house begins, and we follow its wall, peering over at the lovely flowers. As we near the road, I notice a path veering off to the right, squished between the wall and an overgrown hedge. It looks ever so inviting.
“Shall we, uh, have a little look down here?” I say.
The Mathematician regards the sun, low on the horizon, and smiles. “Sure.”
It feels naughty, and looks naughty when we find a gate and peer in.
“It’s so dark inside,” I say.
“But there’s furniture inside, and curtains. And— is there a light on in that room?”
I lean over to look.
“No, I think we can just see through to the other side of the house.”
We walk on and The Mathematician pricks an ear. There’s birdsong all around us. I get out my phone and open the ID app.
“There’s six,” I say, surprised. I’d have guessed at most two. I list them off as we carry on down the path.
“Eurasian Blackcap, Eurasian Nuthatch—”
“Nuthatch?”
“Nuthatch, Eurasian Jackdaw— Shall we walk once around this play park?”
“Sounds good.”
“Song Thrush, European Robin — look at that couple on the pier. Cute, huh? Common Chiffchaff.” I gaze off westward. “Look. The river carries on around the bend.”
“We’re tired, remember? Plus it’s getting dark.”
It is, but the path looks sparkly good. The Mathematician takes my hand.
“Let’s explore this way,” she says.
That sounds fun too.
*
We arrive back at our hotel before dark, having followed a narrow road whose pavement played coy and sometimes just outright vanished. Some nice houses, though — old stone and quaint wooden shutters, fancy ironwork.
We take the lift up to our floor and I slide my way to the bathroom, slip past the kitchenette, and pitch into bed.
“They should put up warning signs,” I mumble, as The Mathematician squeaks barefoot across the frictionless surface.
“Well, you’re safe now,” she says, pulling up the duvet. “Sweet dreams.”
“You too.”
*
We rise in good time — we’ve exploring to do. Our ship sails at 16.30, giving us ample hours to act out our flâneur/flâneuse fantasies. But first: breakfast.
Two words and an ampersand will see you right in Caen: Keys & co.
Decent coffee and chow im Bauch, we set out down the Orne, up the marina and … into another café. It’s one we eyed up yesterday but, wanting sleep, walked past: Arbuste. Oh wow. They’ve a roasting machine, great selection of beans, and a chocolate fountain! [Tap. It’s a tap. Still cool though — Ed.] Two decent coffees in an hour — heaven. And we’ve a view of the castle from out table! I’m smitten.
“Shall we then?” says The Mathematician.
“Huh?”
“Shall we carry on? You still want to look at the Men’s Abbey, don’t you?”
I do. The Abbaye aux Hommes is a romanesque wonder and it definitely fits the William the Conqueror theme — he’s buried there. (Burst there, actually — he was too big for his tomb and “prodded”.) It’s just …
“We can come back here on the way to the ferry,” says The Mathematician. “The bus stop’s nearby.”
Sometimes she says the sweetest things.
We make our way down streets lined with boulangeries, pâtisseries, book shops, bars … churches of all ages and elevations. The abbey is spectacular, and when we get inside, an organist is airing the pipes. It sounds haunting, and has the tourists whipping out their cameras to take pictures of … sound. We just stand and listen.
When the spell breaks, we make our way back, pop into Aux Normandises for olive bread, cakes, and crumbly things, then hop into a crêperie for a fine goat’s cheese galette. With an Arbuste vegan peanut shake to hand, we tinker with yet another travel app — this time, for the bus. (Twisto)
I find a frenchman who doesn’t smile! (Truly, it’s been hard up to now — don’t believe what others tell you.) We get on our Ouistrehan Express and, following the other passengers’ lead, hold our phones above a terminal meant for travel cards.
“Um …”
The driver sullenly nicks his head towards a nearby QR code. We validate like trannies in a chapel.
*
We reach the port in good time and make our way towards the sound of seagulls. The ship, unmissably large, sits moored and waiting. It’s the Guillaume De Normandie.
We’ve a good hour to spare after checking in, so we find a nice spot outside and have a browse in our baker’s bag.
“I’d forgotten how good French cakes are,” I mutter round the crumbs. The Mathematician’s too absorbed to answer.
A convoy of lorries leaves the port.
“Is the ship still unloading?” says The Mathematician, licking stray morsels from her lips.
“I doubt it. Think they’re already letting cars on. Maybe they were resupplying?”
“Hm …”
A quiet moment passes and I turn to see if there are any more words on the way. The Mathematician is peering into the bag.
“Don’t you want to save some for the boat?” I say.
“I suppose.”
She rolls the bag shut and stows it. She looks at her phone.
“Nearly time,” she says. “Shall we go?”
I nod. The sea breeze and sun are invigorating.
“You excited?” she says.
“I am,” I smile.
It’s time to conquer the island.
—
(*) YMMV. Masochists, your bite marks are beautiful. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
Next week: Just what does a boatload of Brits look like, anyway?
