Return to Paimpol

I had to get back to Paimpol today as Georgie was coming tonight. Be great to see our kid. I got up at 07.30, having been kept awake most of the night by the screams and bawls of the revellers  who camped below me. I started singing at the top of my voice, lewd and aggressive sounding Blades songs whilst I packed and took down the tent. Oh this was fun. After 20 minutes I put my rucksack firmly on my back and marched through their encampment shouting and screaming out SUFC anthems. A few dazed faces had emerged and a couple clapped along, presumably thinking this was a Celtic tradition. It felt lovely. Revenge is a dish best served cold. 

I got a coffee in the hotel next to the ferry terminus, which was in the high tide location.

And got the 09.00 back to the mainland, which linked to a bus bound for Paimpol. When we reached there I had another coffee in my old familiar spot and headed back to the campsite to set up the tent and Wilson for tonight.

A shower, washing and drying my clothes and nipping down the road for a burger for lunch. Getting things done.

But back at the camp whilst washing out a pan I spilt water on the front of my shorts. It looked exactly like I’d peed myself. I had to walk back to the tent over 100 metres on a busy campsite and someone was bound to spot it. 

Strategy was in play here. Hold the pan in front of my groin to mask the moist mass? Or should I be brazen and walk down with a swagger that says, ‘don’t you dare think that such a cool guy would piss his pants’? More extreme I could splash water more extensively and when I walk past people actually point it out and wave the culprit pan, laughing in a mature manner? A handwritten sign in French stuffed into my belt with an arrow to the offending splash saying, ‘this is not piss’? 

I settled for rubbing the offending area to create friction and burn off some of the excess liquid to lighten the stain. A well trodden path from occasions where my aim has not been true in the past. Then walking briskly back to camp, making eye contact with passers by and trying to secure their gaze at my smile and not on my stained genital area. If I may say so, this campaign strategy was successful, and my reputation as a dry shorts front mister is intact in Paimpol. 

Georgie arrived at 20.37 and it was so great to see her.

We walked the 3 kms to the site and got our heads down for an early start. 

A short blog today so I’ll end with photos of photos of the summer Singing Sailor festival here in Paimpol next month. Taken from posters at the side of the road.

Night night.