‘When climbing and descending, you’re not just literally on
the edge of a precipice; you’re there metaphorically as well. The moment your
tyres take you over the crest of the mountain your pain instantly disappears
and is replaced by a sense of triumph and exhilaration. A free spirit, you
begin the descent. But one flat tyre, strong gust of wind, mechanical or human
error and you’re kaput. But that’s life and what a wonderful metaphor for life
cycling is…’
Port de Saint-Goustan, Auray |
Once seated inside, we were treated to the best two hours of spontaneous entertainment you could imagine, which came in the form of some rather inebriated Irish gentlemen who were on a golfing holiday. Some of them had been coming to the town, at the end of May, for the last few years.
Seated, or partially slumped, around two
or three large tables, each member of the rowdy group, in turn, sang with such
spirit and emotion that it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. We
couldn’t believe they were golfers, not—at the very least—amateur choir
singers, they were so good. As for their golf, some of the stories they later
told us made us wonder why they were on a golfing holiday in the first place.
Obviously, purely recreational.
After a few glasses of Pelforth Brune, a
bit of dancing, to the tune of one of the singers who insisted we follow his
Elvis Presley impersonation, and a side-splitting conversation with an Irishman
named James, we finally dragged ourselves into bed around two o’clock the next
morning. We were exhausted, but we’d undoubtedly been treated to our best
night’s entertainment so far.
From Auray it was about 30 kilometres to the busy seaside town of Quiberon, where we caught the ferry to Belle-Île. The ferry ride itself only took about 45 minutes, but being a Tuesday there were fewer trips to the island than usual and the last one departed at a quarter to six, significantly earlier than we’d hoped. Nevertheless, we reckoned we still had about three hours to get the bus from the island’s port, Le Palais, visit the lighthouse and get back in time. Only a 30 minute bus trip each way, it sounded feasible. Well, that was the plan.
But as we all know, the best laid plans
of mice and men often go astray. What we didn’t account for was the ferry’s
late departure from Quiberon and as a consequence, the bus not synchronising
with the ferry. We now had just 15 minutes to visit the lighthouse before
catching the last bus that would get us back to the port on time. Lighthouses
being situated where they are, often on the tip of a promontory, the walk alone
would take us at least 20 minutes, each way.
I was gutted. This was more than just a
lighthouse on a hill to me. It was a spiritual pilgrimage. It was like
Collingwood being in front by 44 points in the 1970 Grand Final, only to
painfully watch Alex Jesaulenko’s tumbling mis-kick dribble through the goals
to seal the game for Carlton. Sometimes life just isn’t fair.
Le Palais |
Mesmerised by the jagged cliff edges and
white-capped waves that broke furiously across the reefs, we were reluctant to
leave. But time was getting away from us. And at the forefront of our minds was
our 5.45 pm deadline, not to mention the uncertainty of even getting a ride
back to the port.
Later that evening, we undoubtedly enjoyed the best meal we’d eaten since we’d been in France. Back at the Port de Saint-Goustan, we dined at a restaurant called La Marie Galante, only metres from the boat moorings on the lock. What made it even more memorable was the warm service provided by the owners, who seemed to enjoy a conversation as much as their guests.
Following dinner, we couldn’t help but
gravitate back to our new Irish acquaintances, who seemed even more
high-spirited than the night before. The two eateries were situated at each end
of the promenade, but the noise coming from their end, more than 80 metres away,
was deafening. Once we arrived, it was like meeting old friends, though a
couple of them were looking a little worse for wear. And I don’t think the long
day of golf was the cause.
After sharing a few ales and hearing
some stirring Irish ballads, we were invited to join in singing some Australian
songs. We of course, sang with gusto. We felt very patriotic belting out a
verse from what in another time could have been Australia’s national anthem,
Banjo Paterson’s Waltzing Matilda.
All of a sudden, out of nowhere, one of
the men, Chris, started to sing the chilling words of an Australian anti-war
song. It was Eric Bogle’s And the Band PlayedWaltzing Matilda, a song I have studied with my school students on many
occasions. I can still hear him now as the words poured out with such empathy.
It was sung exactly the way a song like that should be.
After the odd tear and a few more ales we were done. We’d had a ball, but finished very late. Though we were well and truly burning the candle at both ends, it was worth it. Auray was definitely on our “bucket list”.
Also available at local bookshops on the Mornington Peninsula: @ Rosebud Bookbarn and @ La Brocante
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