It’s been a glorious few days here in Las Landas. Great waves, light offshores and a delightful 19 degrees. Yesterday morn, as I was taking a tarte aux oignon and cup of tea on the lanai a green butterfly fluttered over our gate, cruised over the veggie patch, landed on the rosemary, took flight again toward the roses before completing several laps of the jardin. All the birdies were singin from the pines, the daffs and crocuses lifted and shone from their cool, shady beds.
The day previous, after a spiffing sesh in Hossegor Jules announced he needed to head to Bayonne to get some clothes to get married in. Seeing as it was already past 6pm, he decided to hit Leclerc instead, where he should be able to get all his gear for under 50 euros. Sweet.
Parked in the village square, myself and Roji took a few minutes of quiet reflection to consider the sanctity of marriage. While we were doing that, we saw the hottest chick in the world, ever, come out of a house in the square. She was amazing; tall, slim, dark, incredible wiggle, with an exotic and spicy Maroc vibe. She wiggled past the Meganic (passengers: motionlesss, silent… act normal!), then pretended to go back for something, then had a discussion with her mum. Back and forth she taunted us, jet black hair shimmering in the sunbeams, bossom heaving, perfume wafting in through the open window. Oh Let’s run away together and eat tagine forever, Berbere princess!
In the Mairie of Benesse-M monsieur le mairie himself gave a good speech before joining the happy couple in wedlock. He looked pretty dapper in a smart gray 3 piece suit set off with a flash of colour in the form of the official French tricolore sash. He talked about surf culture in the region and even got in a couple of good gags about surfers having long hair and smokin funny cigarettes which got some chuckles and guffaws from the crowd. After that we all adjourned back to Jules place and drank Heineken in the garden bathed in post-wedding sunshine.
In this morning’s early dawn chill Roji loaded up the mothership and got on the highway headed due north for Roscoff, from wence he’ll take the ferry to Party Plymouth. The gravity of the situation was not lost on those present at departure. He’s got to get rid of the fleas in his house and then flog the mothership. When a vehicle has been such an integral part of the lost years, it almost like selling a large portion of your soul. Right now he’s somewhere outside Bordeaux putting a litre of oil in and I’m watching MOTD waiting for it to warm up before a surfcheck. Cheerio!