Reflections – Charlierobinsonbooks

Where It All Began 20

A Struggling Farm and Homeward Bound

I have to admit I kinda had my tail between my legs after the Legion failure. But as Peter had told me years before “There’s only one person at a pity party!” I had mixed emotions too. I really needed to contact my wife, I had an idea to go to America and my sister was really struggling on the farm. There was a lot of work to do, no money to pay staff, and constant begging letters to the bank so they didn’t foreclose. After a week of 5am starts and 10pm finishes, my sister told me to phone my wife. To cut a long story short I was back in Jersey the week later.

Over the next year I did two stints at two garages as a mechanic La Motte Motors and then for John De La Haye. One day Peter walked into the garage and offered me a job as a shuttering carpenter. It was on the Jersey Hospital car park at £90 per day, big money back in 1985. That’s when I bought my Estwing hammer that I still have. It was hard work, and we had a young labourer working for us. It didn’t take homelife long to deteriorate, and once again I was out on my ear. No one could say we hadn’t tried. Once again it looked like I’d have to leave the island.

The young labourer asked where I was going? Peter and I told him the shuttering game was a front, and we were actually drug dealers. I was going to Columbia to take over from Kenny who was coming home after years of service over there. Our young friend was captivated 😂 Peter threw a leaving party for me and we invited him, telling him it was also a coming home party for Kenny. All our associates would be there including the Godfather.

When the night came our diving buddies excelled. One of them was older than the rest and turned up as the Godfather. Dressed in a smart suit, his glamorous wife by his side, and wearing his huge sovereign ring, which we all kissed while on one knee. He’d even stuffed cotton wool in his cheeks. 😂 Kenny (who was a good looking guy and always tanned) appeared wearing a white linen suit. He recieved cheers and slaps on the back because of his service in Columbia. He had a briefcase with him which we had previously stuffed with flour wrapped in plastic bags.

Peter and I took Kenny into the kitchen along with our young friend. Peter opened the brief case, slit a bag, poked his finger in, raised it to lips and smiled. “Almost pure,” he said. Rather than use a £20 note, Peter’s girlfriend had provided a cuticle pusher with an ivory handle. We gave it to the boy with some flour (cocaine) on a small wooden bread board and told him go and offer it around. I was amazed how many people were willing to shove Self Raising Flour up their noses 😂 When he reached the “Godfather” I had to nip over and whisper in his ear. “Kneel and kiss the ring.” The Godfather patted his head, but refused to sniff the substance, saying he never sampled his own goods.

Back in the kitchen, Kenny informed us he thought he’d been tailed by the police, and we all looked at our new apprentice dealer. “What?” he said, his eyes wide open. We told him he had to leave now with the drugs. He was the only one who wouldn’t be suspected. To keep the case under his bed, tell no one and return with the case the next day. We called him a taxi.

He returned the next morning, told us he hadn’t been able to sleep, and had been expecting the door to be smashed in at any time. Peter slit each bag open in turn and washed it all down the sink. The poor lad looked aghast. We sat him down and explained it was a life lesson. Don’t believe everything people tell you. If it sounds too good or to bad to be true then it probably is. He seemed to get it, I just hope 40 years later he’s not still traumatised 😂

Now it was time for me to take my leave. There was another discussion with my wife, who was now seeing someone else, and she was OK with the fact I would be staying on the farm for the near future. I left for another 3 days of travel by ferry and hichhiking.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 19

The Finale

We were in our ninth week and getting increasingly frustrated. According to an older guy, who seemed knowledgeable. The three of us Pieter, Otto and myself represented a kind of threat to disicpline. The legion considered us as Anglo-Saxons, aggressive, tight-knit, and capable of causing violence inside the unit. He said they would be running endless checks, and maybe we should keep away from each other. I didn’t think so. There was a lot of aggression in the camp and the three of us made a good team.

But I’d forgotten Corporal Yarring’s warning😂

A few days later Otto got into a fight in the shower with some Belgian guys. We intervened and we did well. “An Anglo-Saxon victory over the Franks,” as Otto put it. The next morning we were enjoying our breakfast when a corporal told us to stay where we were until everyone else had left. I thought at last we were going to be shipped out to basic training. Later we marched to a broom cupboard (literally 😂) It was cramped and there were some other new recruits with us. We waited there for two hours. “We are going to be kicked out!” Pieter said. The atmosphere was pretty gloomy. The new recuits said they had a bad ‘Gestapo’ interview, and were fed up anyway. So what was I doing in here?

Otto confessed he’d stabbed a Turkish bloke in a Berlin street fight, and maybe they had found out. Pieter related a couple of tales from his Rhodesia days, which I’ll never repeat, and if he returned to what was now Robert Mugabe’s Zimbabwe he’d be killed. He presumed this was the reason he was being kicked out. But I reflected on what the older bloke had told us. If a fight broke out involving Brits/Rhodesians and Germans against another group, the staff wouldn’t care who started it they would see a dangerous, cross-national brawl that threatened camp discipline. I recalled Corporal Yarring’s words!

Eventually we were marched past a hatch in a corridor. A soldier asked our name, showed us the five year contract we’d signed, tore it up, and told us not to come back. Pieter, the new recruits, and I had signed up in Paris so we were taken to the rail station and given a ticket back there. Otto? They just showed him the gate.

We went for our first beer in 10 weeks. Propped at the bar, we had all our gear stashed on the floor by our feet, and stood chatting… where to next, who was going where, suddenly one of the new recruits asked me where my mate was. Pieter’s gear had been at the side of mine and he’d been stood at the side of me. But now? He’d gone, it was as though he’d vanished. We puzzled about how he’d got his gear and walked away without us noticing, looked around the bar, and outside in the station, but he’d gone. Someone joked about The Ghost of Aubagne Station. It was strange, and I often wonder what became of him. I caught the train back to Paris, and from there hitched to Calais, at Dover I hitched back up north and decided to visit my eldest sister on the farm for a while. I had a plan.

Happy Trails, folks x.

Where It All Began 16

Légion Étrangère

Ken and I disembarked the ferry in St Malo. Using my limited French I managed to get us to the main road leading to Rennes so we could hitch a ride. Eventually we got a lift with a chap, but Rennes was as far as he was going. From there we gave in and caught the SNCF locomotive to Gare Montparnasse. There had been an interesting train crash there in 1895, luckily for us this was 1985, but Ken did remark about the similarities of the year, and so we left fairly briskly.

We knew the Legion headquarters were at Fort de Nogent, we just weren’t sure where that was. People we asked directions from, bowed their heads and scurried away. Eventually one chap took pity on us, told us the correct term was Légion Étrangère, gave us sound directions, and explained that people who sign up for the Legion are generally criminals escaping justice, hence the reluctance to engage with us. He said it was best not to keep asking or we may be reported and arrested. We walked for hours until eventually we saw the gate to Fort de Nogent.

To be honest we weren’t quite sure what to do, so we knocked on the door. A small hatch opened and a rough, scarred face grunted. “Oui?”

What do you say? Apart from. “Hello we want to join the Légion Étrangère.” The hatch slammed shut, and a few moments later the huge door groaned on it’s hinges and we were ushered in. Mr Happy pointed to a bench, growled something in French and marched off. A few minutes later a chap arrived. He introduced himself, with a cockney accent, as Corporal Yarring and took us inside. At this point I was quite excited, as some people had said we would be turned away at the gate.

What I wasn’t prepared for, was what happened next. I expected we would hand over our belongings, be ordered to strip and given some kind of uniform. From thence (i do like that word) marched to a bunk house. We hadn’t researched this adventure but we had seen the movies!

Corporal Yarring sat us down in an office and explained that he was full. My heart sank. We didn’t have the funds to hang around for long, and so my mind was racing with a plan B. Then he smiled and said not to worry (he must have seen my expression) There were a lot of recruits being shipped out that night to Marseille, and could we come back tomorrow?

Really? now I was puzzled 😆I had presumed, once we set foot over the threshold, we wouldn’t see civilisation again for five years. He explained the Paris Boat Show was in full flow this week, hotel rooms were in demand and expensive. Were we ok for money? He didn’t want us sleeping rough and getting arrested. Ken and I looked at each other in amazement, shrugged, and nodded. “Good stuff,” the corporal smiled. “I’ll show you out and we’ll see you tomorrow.” I asked what time and suggested 5am, I knew these boys would be up and at it early doors. “About ten o’clock,” he said. So we left him at the gate and set off in search of a hotel. Wandering the streets of Paris was fun and we found cheap accomodation in an impoverished area (the ladies on the street gave it away😆

We ate and turned in for the night, uncertain of what tomorrow would bring, but we were committed to the unknown.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 15

1978-85 A Synopsis

There are periods in your life where nothing really happens, have you noticed? I mean, yeah things happen, but no different to anyone else’s life. A bit like a soap opera. September 1978, I remember bringing the baby home, and we both sat and looked at him. It was a kinda, “What are we supposed to do?” moment. I was 19 she was 17, and they had just sent us home from the hospital. Life was a little difficult, and looking back now it was obvious she had post natal depression. Sadly in those days she was just a misery, and I’m glad women can get help these days.

I still had a hankering to be a car mechanic so the following year we left Jersey to live in a council house in Wakefield while I took a 6 month TOPS course. When the course finished all fifteen of us were told there were no jobs in Wakefield for mechanics. I filled the car with petrol, started in the centre of town and drove in ever increasing circles knocking on doors. By the time I’d got to Featherstone, 18 miles away, I had a job as a mechanic.

That’s Steve McQueen by the way, not me. A year in Wakefield was probably what helped kill our marriage. She was an island girl and looking back it must have been horrendous for her. We returned to Jersey and I began work as a mechaninc for a Saab dealership during the week, but on Saturdays I delivered bread for Le Bruns Bakery. (Another son born, so we needed the money) On Sunday mornings I tried to get some diving done but it caused arguments, so I concentrated on running after work as a mental stabiliser. After splitting up, and then getting back together five times we both decided it wasn’t working. But, there lay a problem. As a none Jersey resident I had no resident rights. I earned £100 pw. My accomodation was £45pw, and that was room only, so I had to eat out. The States of Jersey informed me I had to pay £75 pw in maintenance or go to jail 😂 We discussed it at length and both agreed I would have to leave the island. It was amicable, we are still friends to this day, and she agreed children could be flown over to UK for holidays etc. Looking back, I realise I wasn’t happy with the situation, and so began a total decline in sensibilty. She was dating, I was getting drunk! Except for weekends when I would take the boys out. The states of Jersey put more and more pressure on until it became obvious something had to give. One night while out with a friend and after several drinks we decided to join the Foreign Legion. It seems ridiculous and selfish now, but sometimes you get so low there appears to be only one solution. One morning I put all my belongings in refuse bags left them by the bin and caught the ferry to St Malo.

Happy Trails, Folks. x

Where It All Began 13

The Long Way Home

Did you know there is a third class on a car ferry? There was in 1977. We sailed from Gran Canaria to Barcelona on one of those tickets. The Atlantic in March can be rough, and we were hit by a late winter storm. Third class means you can’t go inside the ship, the bar\restaurant, anywhere (except to your cabin) They even had a doorman checking tickets. Although there was a snack bar on deck, we had food on the van. So we sneaked down there for sustenance.

We weren’t seasick just cold, we’d only brought minimum clothing and it was all summer gear. The cabin was around the same size as a large wardrobe. To give you an idea, one of us went in first then lay on a bunk to allow the other one to squeeze through the door. Our main source of heat was to sit under the shower😂

Three days later when we finally docked in Barcelona it was snowing, and we began the long drive to Calais. The dear old van was on it’s last legs and burning oil like Saddam in Kuwait. The engine is situated between the driver and passenger seat on an Austin\Morris J4 Diesel van. We left the oil filler cap off so the gases didn’t build up inside the engine, which meant leaving the windows open (or asphyxiate) Don’t get me wrong here, it wasn’t cold all the time just about 90% of the time 😂

The following few months were uneventful. We stayed in Bury, Manchester with Peter’s mum for a while to get some money together. We arrived in the middle of the afternoon and called into Peter’s old local pub. There were friends of his from years ago sitting with half pints. When he explained why we had come back to Blighty they laughed.

“There’s no work here,” they said. “That’s why we’re sat in here, we’re all on the dole!”

We had a pint and left. Out on the street we noticed a building site across the road. Peter walked over and asked the general foreman if he had any work. The guy said. “If you can drive a dump truck, turn up here tomorrow morning with your licence.”

We then visited a local a shoe factory. They had a sign saying No Vacancies, but Peter said they were always looking for people. I popped in and started work the following day sticking soles onto Desert Boots. Three hours in Bury, Manchester and we both had work? I suggested we go back to the pub and tell his old friends, but Peter gave me one of those looks, a kind of “Yeah, right, look.” 😂

The van was a right off and so we scrappped it. By Maytime we’d saved some cash and set off back to Jersey, and a summer of fun 😁

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 11

Christmas

Christmas, Gran Canaria in 1976 was a little different to a Bradford council estate. In fact, nothing seemed to be planned. Our two Aussie friends had departed for Italy, which I believe Peter was pleased about, as I now had no partner in crime. We were a little short on cash, the fishing was not so good locally, and so we’d taken the inflatable three miles up the coast where it was remarkably better.

You know how life can throw little problems at you? Well, it was one of those days. We’d caught quite a few fish, but when we returned to the inflatable it was no longer inflated 😂 We fired up the outboard but it was dragging the boat under, so we paddled. A long hour passed by before a fishing boat came into view. We scrounged a lift with the aforesaid pancake hanging over the back. It was late when we got back so we dumped the darn thing on the beach, and using what they now call “Black Ops” in the world of espionage, we sold the fish to a restaurant that wasn’t owned by the local Chief of Police’s brother. Yup, we’d crossed a line of a family dynasty.

The following day the inflatable and the outboard had gone. The Police Chief saw us on the beach, came over and told us we should be more careful in all things we do, shrugged and walked away. When you are in a foreign place sometimes you have to accept what is. Anyaways… Peter had to go into Las Palmas, so I decided I could swim the three miles, get some fish and swim back. It was a pleasant swim, and took less than two hours. I knew from the previous day where to fish. You may have been in the sea for two hours? If you have you’ll know your skin becomes very soft. I rested the handle of my speargun tight into my belly and pulled the thick bands back, locking them into the trigger mechanism, at least I thought I had. As I let go the spear flew out and the wishbone of the bands ripped the skin from the inside of my hands. Have you ever been submerged in salt water with no skin on the inside of your hands?😂

Yesterday had been one of those days, it appeared today was feeling lonely and wanted to join in. I tried to load the gun again, but it wasn’t going to happen. My mind likes to toy with me in those kind of situations and so it recalled the film, Jaws where Robert Shaw said blood in the water attracts Sharks. I decided it was probably a good idea to swim back. The swim home took a little longer than the swim there and Peter was waiting on the shore when I finally returned. His comment? “At least the wounds don’t need cleaning😂” Oh well, at least it was Christmas.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 8

Almeria

Almeria was basic in 1976, and life was very different for an eighteen year-old in the 70s. I’d been working for three years, and had five jobs which didn’t work out for various reasons. Apprentice Engineer, mechanic, and electrician. I also worked at Morrisons Supermarket and finally at Sherbourne Pouffes in production line upholstery. Now here I was travelling around Spain, home was a camper van and work was spearfishing. Mudguts and I had been told by our two older companions, mentors if you like, to behave. “The Guardia Civil will not mess about, and you could both end up in big trouble!” I pointed out that if trouble came our way? I would simply ask to see the British Consulate. To be honest we were our own worst enemies with a love of local girls, wine, brandy, and mischief. Factor in the landscape and the invasion of Hollywood, years before who made Westerns, such as The Good, Bad, and Ugly only fuelled our rebellious attitude.

Everything was going well, Almeria was Peter’s favourite Spanish town and the fishing was okay. Although we’d had our money taken from us and been put on a meagre allowance, Mudguts and I devised many ways to entertain ourselves. We did moderate our adventures to some degree. But you know what they say? Nothing lasts forever😂

One day, due to a huge sea swell, there was going to be no fishing. Mudguts and I were sent food shopping and given the necessary funds. Here lieth the problem, we had to pass a bar which we had frequented on several occasions. The bar was full of local fishermen, now where was the harm with one beer on a hot day? In those days a game called Spoof was very popular, we were extremely good at it, and had played the fishermen a few times. For us it was a drinking game, the last man standing bought a round of drinks, and we saw a chance of free alchohol. As I say we were good at it. Late morning turned into late afternoon and we remembered the shopping. We said goodbye to our amigos and “kinda walked” from the bar😂.

We should have gone shopping and returned to the vans. Except we had an idea, I have no recollection of where it came from, but we decided it would be good fun to stop the traffic. I lay down on one side of the road and Mudguts on the other. (Go figure!) and pretended to be asleep. There followed a few minutes of car horns, a lot of shouting, and I guess swearing before we suddenly pretended to wake up and walk away, straight into a couple of Guardia Civil officers. They held us by the arms and chatted to some locals who pointed in the direction of where the vans were parked.

Fifteen minutes later, Mudguts and I were held before our older companions, detained, disheveled, and disgraced. Luckily the police said, if we left town by sunset there would be no further action. I allowed myself a grin as I remembered the Spaghetti Westerns which had been filmed here.

I don’t have much recollection of the rest of the day. I do know Peter and Mudgut’s brother John were not impressed by our escapade and it was decided that we would now head for Cadiz. We were, at last, going to Gran Canaria for the rest of the winter. John and Muduts decided to join us, so we headed for the ferry. I wondered what adventures awaited us in Mogan, Gran Canaria?

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 7

Javea

1976, Spain was a totally different Spain to what it is now. Franco had died one year earlier and much of his legacy remained. After the grapepicking we arrived in Javea, and the first thing we were told by the Guardia Civil was, “No es posible acampar aquí.” It was a phrase we heard often. Basically, no camping. Peter’s reply was always the same. “Pesca submarina.” For some reason spearfishermen had special rights, and we were left alone, although we were informed they would check on us throughout the night, which apparently was thirsty work. So, each evening we left a half bottle of wine and two glasses on the rear bumper step.

For a couple of weeks Javea was fun, there was a lot of diving, drinking and a few girls. Mudguts and I reverted to our feral nature, and I have to admit, looking back we were probably out of control. One particular night we had a disagreement with some American backpackers from the campsite. As I remember it, we were (entertaining?) two girls in the rear yard of a bar who, it turned out, were partners of two Alpha Male backpackers. It didn’t end well, we were outnumbered and felt some justice should prevail. Their campsite was at the bottom of a small cliff, so in the early hours, after gathering some ammunition, (stones and rocks). As Maximus the Gladiator said 😂

We only aimed for the tents, but to see so many people running around in the dark, half naked was a joy, until they discovered where the mystery stones were being hailed from, and so they began to climb. We escaped into the night and laughed all the way home. It was short lived! The Gaurdia arrived the following morning and after a long conversation with my mentor, Peter, and Mudgut’s older brother John they left. This, apparently, was the last straw (to be honest, as I said we had been a little naughty before) They took our money from us, explaining we were now to be given a small allowance, enough for maybe a beer. But we knew where we could buy bottles of wine for about 40 pesatas (30p) And the barmen were willing to swop beers for lightbulbs. Yeah, I know it was kinda inventive, but we became quite adapt at appropriating light bulbs from many sources.😂

Eventually we had to consider moving on, the fishing was still not good. But then our fortunes changed once more. We met Laurie and Ronnie, ex merchant seamen who owned a bar in the town, The Cave Bar. After a few beers they asked if we would convert their stockroom into a small eating area. Peter was an electrician and John the Aussie was a builder, whereas Mudguts and I were… well, we were just 18 years old 😂 In return they offered us a flat to stay in, they would feed us, and give us some spending money. So, we set to work.

There was a lot of chicken wire and paper mache used, that’s not the original photo, but its close enough. At least it kept us out of trouble, for now. When the work was done we set off once more. Next Stop, Almeria.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Can You Do It?

Apparently I Can

Boston, that’s Lincolnshire, England, not USA. Its a market town, I know this because on Saturday the sat nav wanted me to drive through the Saturday Market. It became upset when I didn’t, so had to be switched off. I was in Boston for my first marathon of the year. It was going to be tricky as I’d missed nearly 8 weeks of training because of that broken rib, but the flattest marathon in the country? It’d be fine. Boston is quite nice, and the parking is cheap. We lodged at No 20 Hotel and Bar. It was a four minute walk to the start of the race. They didn’t do breakfast which was fine as I was leaving at 7am anyway. There’s a lovely church down by the river.

There is also a Mexican restaurant, if you’re a runner you’ll know how important carb loading is before a race, so I had no choice 😂

Sunday morning I found myself in the Market Place (the market had gone) 90s House Music blared out from some speakers, a man on a michrophone was sayin stuff (I think they were words of encouragement) Was I the only one shivering under three layers? It was windy! Gillian had her route map for photos, I found some friends, had a photo with one, wished each other good luck and waited until 8am for the start.

Boston Marathon — Trust me the sky is decieving

Boston UK Marathon — Trust me the sky is decieving

The flattest marathon in the country sounds great, but then there is a reason… the terrain is flat with no shelter. 😂

The first 10 miles were okay, averaging 5 min kilometers and looking at an overall time of 03:40:00, but it dawned on me, I had for the most time, a tail wind. By 11 miles the route had turned. 30mph head wind with gusts to 40mph, but I was still smiling when I saw Gillian and her trusty camera at a water station.

Around 13 miles the sciatica started playing up and the hips began to grumble, pace had dropped to 6-7 mins per kilometer, everyone was swearing at the wind 😂 I decided it wasn’t worth it, and the next time I saw her, I’d go home. The problem was I didn’t see her until 18 miles. Now, when you’ve run 18 miles in that wind and only have 8 miles left… well, you may as well carry on?

By 20 miles the rib decided it wanted to play too, I thought I’d broken it again😂 It was then I made some life changing decisions. I was going to sell all my races. Windemere Marathon, Hardwolds 47mile ultra, and 50k ultra, Jersey Marathon… yup, that’s me from now on, just your average fun runner. Spend the rest of my days, relaxing and not dragging Gillian round the country, carrying my gear and taking pictures.

I didn’t get the time I wanted it ended up at 04:17:00, I was in pain and a tad disappointed, but apparently there were 32 people who didn’t finish, I did finish at least.

Boston UK Marathon finish. — Smile or grimace?

But now I’ve slept, I’m warm, and I’m thinking. If I improve the hip therapy, reintroduce the sciatica exercises, get some good quality trail runs in, with lots of hills, Windemere Marathon is eight weeks away. I could probably do it 😂

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 6

What To Do When There’s No Fish?

We were having a great time in Portbou, but we were spending money with no income. Too early for the fishing season, we needed a plan. As luck would have it our new friends, Jamie and Josephine were heading for Perpignan to apply for work on Le Vendange (grape picking season).

This sounded like a good idea. Three days later Peter, myself, two Aussies, three Welshmen, Jamie and Josephine found ourselves at the counter of a French Employment Office. The girl behind the desk had work in a village called La Tour, for eleven people. Quandary! There were only nine of us. Remember?… Mudguts and I were only eighteen, so we had already spotted the two attractive girls in the corner. Two hours later all eleven of us were seated around an old oak table in an equally old farm kitchen chatting to to the vineyard owner. Well, Josephine was chatting, we were nodding. The farmer must have been impressed, as he took us to a house in the village, told us we could stay there during our employment, and produced a wicker clad bottle, a demijohn, it must have held 5 gallons. He said when we had finished it we could bring it to the farmhouse and he’d fill it. I was happy already!

He did a lot of back slapping, used the word “Bon” a lot and appeared very, very happy. It was sometime later that Josephine discovered from his wife that he had a bad back and took pain killers. The Dr had instructed him not to drink alcohol. His wife said, with a shrug and a wink, he was French and a vineyard owner. Mudguts, who was quite an expert on narcotics (one reason he left Australia) said it was equivalent to taking ‘speed.‘ Three days later we were woken at 5am, taken on a tractor to a field, and instructed how to pick grapes. Interestingly we were joined by a band of gypsies, and told they were fast. Ah, competition time.😊

A porter working during the grapepicking season, France 1976

I’m not sure how I survived the next twenty days. We worked from 6am until 1pm and then 3pm until 6pm. This was the heatwave of 1976 and it was hot! But, we successfully picked more grapes than our Romany friends, and secured extra work for the Mayor of the village.

The nights were riotous, and we rarely hit the sack before midnight, often later. I recall a night when one of the Welsh chaps crashed early, a little worse for wear, and we manged to manoeuvre his bed down two flights of stairs and into the street. 😂 The following morning, as we gazed from the window, it was amusing to see the villagers starting their day. They sauntered by a bed in the street, with a snoring youth snuggled down, whilst chuntering to themselves. But all good things come to an end. In total we completed a 20 day stint at 10 francs per day, so with our purses refilled, we bid a fond farewell to our employer, and most of our friends.

Jamie and Josephine headed for God knows where, the Welshmen set off for Germany, while Peter, myself, two Aussies and the girls we found in Perpignan decided on Javea. Hopefully the fish had arrived.

Happy Trails, Folks x