Ecommoy to Chateau du Loir – Just Walking

I partially quoted the closing lines of Brecht’s brilliant ‘Resistable Rise of Arturo Ui’ on the last blog. It was a parody of the third reich and American gangsterism of the 1920s/30s. It would be a shame not to set it out in full.

If we could learn to look instead of gawking,
We’d see the horror in the heart of farce,
If only we could act instead of talking,
We wouldn’t always end up on our arse.
This was the thing that nearly had us mastered;
Don’t yet rejoice in his defeat, you men!
Although the world stood up and stopped the bastard,
The bitch that bore him is in heat again.

Stunning.

And so to the bus.

In 1968 some blokes from Liphook in Hampshire bought a London double decker and took it down to the Med on holiday. A year later the landlord of their local bet nine of them a pint each that they couldn’t drive it around the world. They set off in 1969 and drove through Europe, across snow covered mountains in Turkey, desert in Iran, through Afghanistan, Pakistan and India.

They ran out of money in Iran and formed a folk group, the Philanderers, playing a gig for the Shah of Iran and his missus.

In India they were playing regularly and had enough money to get the bus to Australia, where they became famous. Touring round there they eventually shipped the bus to America. Sponsored by the British Tourist Board and BOAC, as it was then, they toured for 3 months, promoting the UK.

They appeared on every major US TV programme and were granted the keys to the city of New York.

When they got back to the UK in 1972, after two and a half years, there was an enormous party at their local, where they got their free pints!

Only three of the nine are alive, and they were on the bus with three of their mates. I met them and marvelled at their story. They were touring Normandy on an annual adventure.

But to be honest, they were flat as a pancake. No spark between them any more. Going through the motions. But maybe they haven’t got any other motions to go through.

A couple of coffees and a quiche, and I’m off.

Notice anything about the photo above? Correct! We’ve moved from Limestone country into sandstone.

These folk really know how to stock up firewood.

The French don’t have a word for entrepreneur – George Bush. And they can’t spell matey – Dave Smith

It’s a region that must get hot in summer normally. Everyone seems to be a troglodyte. Hundreds of these outhouses and quite a few houses underground.

I’m off the beaten track again and back in hunting territory. More hides waiting for the unwary wildebeest sweeping majestically across this forest.

They are iconic aren’t they. It’s difficult to see them without thinking of Van Morrison. In his Arles period, Summertime in France and all that.

A fake dolphin, two miniature elephants and an unnecessary bridge are just what you need in a country garden. Aren’t they?

I passed a cider producing estate of huge proportions.

It was slog. I didn’t help myself by having lunch, against my usual strategy, and it felt weighty for the rest of the afternoon. I paid for it by not having any dinner, but it was still a foolish ploy.

No dinner, an early night and getting ready for tomorrow.

I’ve decided to go for it tomorrow and do two days walking in one so that I’ll have a rest day on Saturday before flying home on Sunday. I need to cover 44 kms on the route I’ve chosen; country lanes. 27 and a bit miles. Let’s hope I get a good sleep. You too.

Night night.