… pouton de merde
Last train to Hentai from San Seb … I’d been running around town all evening making excuses not to leave my last safe haven in espana. 20 minute train ride and a whole new country. Carriage is full of French revellers who’d been partying the night in spain. Too late for a train elsewhere, and the station shuts in an hour … time to find a place to crash. French police are arresting someone at the station, fairly roughly … maybe an inauspicious omen.
About 300m away, I find a riverside park on the other side of the station. Walk around a bit to check that the area is reasonably safe. A sign warns against parking camping veheicles here … but there are a couple there. There’s a drunken noisy pissup a few hundred metres down the river. It all seems pretty normal. I find some flat ground under an overhang behind the public servicio, and throw down my sleeping bag.
Sometime in the morning woken with a loud and rough cry in french ‘pouton de merde’. A flashlight in my face, then something about ‘chien noir’. Then pouton de merde again … and again … a bit more I can’t make out. What the crap is going on. A very drunk dude is waving a flashlight around … at least I’ve had a few hours sleep … he’s making a rude french gesture with his fist on his nose and every second word is pouton de merde. Pouton is whore, and merde is shit … so ‘shit whore’. Everyone else in europe just says shit or fuck, but the french just have to add their own slant on shicer words. This is the standard french obscenity/curse with interesting regional variations in accent across the country. In Paris it’s almost exhaled out under the breath. Here still in Basque country, it’s more like a barge horn comic book drunk frenchie. And here in front of me is a comic book drunk frenchie. I realise quickly he’s safe and friendly. And drunk. And looking for his black dog. Who is sleeping just at my feet, and is unconcerned by the proceedings. Pouton de merde I join in. But he won’t let me sleep just yet. Asks for a few papers, and we have a couple of cigarettes. Au voir. A couple more interruptions over the next half hour. Pouton de merde. And then I have peace for what’s left of the night. See these guys again in the morning, and they’re friendly … as is the chien noir.
Coffee in a small bar, and then a local bus onwards as far as I can. St Jean de Luz, a cute seaside town. Waste no time … and have a busk as soon as I find a square with some cafes … then ponder plans … a swim, atlantic water refreshing and relatively clean. Head out towards the camping zones. Sites are expensive … still in summer season, I chain my big pack under a tree in some bushes, hang out and swim the rest of the afternoon, then hitch back to town in the late afternoon. Another good session busking … it’s just great to have the sax back in condition, a coffeee, an overpriced vino, a bit of shopping, and walk back to the chained pack in the late evening. A few vans are parked near the beachside, so I throw the tent up in a secluded spot and make myself comfortable. Could probably stay here a few days, but decide to leave the beachside towns behind while the weather is still good … Enjoy the beach rest of the next day … it’s probably the last good weather and good ocean for a while. Hitching onwards seems auspicious, a few short lifts, and I’m at Biarritz. Can’t get to the highway here easily … the town seems deserted … bad weather is coming in … tent up in a park, and next morning I can’t find a good spot to hitch from. Walk back to town, and take a train to Bordeaux, almost halfway to Paris … I’ll try to hitch from there.
Bordeaux is not particularly exciting, but a good nights busking in the rain on the first night, hanging with some crew from north of france travelling to the beach. Good fun vibe lots of wine passed around, a few requests for the Sicilian. Next dat, try hitching from here, but it feels awkward with the large pack … fragile stuff inside … small european cars generally quite full. Probably would have moved quickly with just a day pack … but it’s too convenient to have the tent and a few changes of clothes … and the sax case out of sight. Camp a couple of nights under a tree near the autoroute entrance, check out the cathedrals, take some silly photos near some kooky public sculpture … a few conversations with interesting hip locals who are surprised someone different has even stopped here … busk in a few different spots, mostly unsuccessfully, though playing ok and having fun. Second night, awake and packed quickly enough to avoid being driven over by some guys trimming a tree overhanging the verge. Finally bow to the inevitable, and catch the superfast and comfortable express the rest of the way to Paris.
