 |
| The view north and some quacking companions |
I am awoken early this morning by the church bells in the
village of Vouécourt ringing for Lauds.
Just as I am drifting back to the land of nod I am shocked awake by the
shrill bleating of the mobile phone.
It’s five in the morning and time to fish the Marne. Not that I do the fishing, you
understand. I can’t even kill a spider,
let alone touch a maggot, or impale the poor little thing on a hook. No, it’s my brother James who is the fishing
fanatic and never more so than when we are in France. Momentarily I tussle with the reason why I have to be up so early
if he is doing the fishing. But my
brain just can’t hack the mental debate and I crawl out of my tent to go and
get showered.
 |
| The village |
Vouécourt, a tiny no-bread-shop kind of place, is situated
right beside the Marne just below Joinville. The campsite is small and our pitch is no
more than 20 feet from the edge of the river.
The valley rises steeply on the opposite bank and even without my contact
lenses, as I make my bleary way to the facilities, I can just make out that
there is some sunshine somewhere.
There’s no-one else around – although there is a possibility that the
tree I’ve just passed might have been that very tall Dutchman having a fag, I’m
sure that tree wasn’t there yesterday.
As I go into the shower block I am greeted by the
wonderful smell of air freshener with a satisfyingly clean hint of bleach. I pick my shower. There are two to choose from, so this is a particularly difficult
decision at this time in the morning.
Appropriately shampooed and shower-gelled I return to the
tent for breakfast. Breakfast is always
James’ responsibility. However, this
morning I find everything just dumped on the table for me to help myself. No kettle boiled, the remains of yesterday’s
bread – ‘for toast’ shouts James as I slump down in my chair - and some dregs of cold coffee in the pot. Why is this? James has already got the fishing rods out
and baited and in the water. Supposedly
one of them is mine. Still can’t work
out which. So I resign myself to
breakfast alone with my book.
 |
| The morning mist as it dissipates |
As the morning wears on the early mist retreats in
deference to the sun’s relentless heat.
I move my chair under the nearby tree and gaze at the hillside opposite
and listen to the birds. I would return
to my book except that I am troubled by an especially knotty conundrum. If fish do not sleep, why do we have to get
up so early to catch them?
Like.
ReplyDelete