Old Dutch and the bike ride

Part One

Nov 19, 2021

03/11/2021

Going home to France on the Eurostar, London - Paris, for the Golden Tree Film Festival, held this year in Beijing and Paris. It is the first nomination for a documentary I have had in two years. I am also going to represent Wang Ying, the director, who is in China and cannot make it due to the pandemic. I am excited and anticipatory as they chose our film out of 4,260 entries, whittling it down to a shortlist of 20 nominations. I have tummy grip! But before I bounce to Paris, which I will do in part 2, and all those incredible moments, here is the story of my bike, Old Dutch, the one I wanted to write about a few weeks ago before other things happened, as they often do. Dear Montreal Penny once told me to always remember her words in times of life's whirling: ”Darling, life always has a way of getting in the way of life for that, my love, is LIFE!"

On the way to the river, Tuchan grape vines and Old Dutch

I will never forget that blessed September

day when the skies were grape-picking blue and my friend Celine came by with an old Dutch bicycle which she had bought in Holland 25 years ago. She was selling it for a peppercorn and I fell in love at first sight. The perfect bike, young enough to still have stamina, but with an old frame, worn, held, loved, touched. She has seen the dikes and canals and tulips in Holland, she has travelled into Belgium along dry-stone walls and down into France where she stopped for a night at a small auberge by the side of a river outside Nancy. Then down south to Perpignan to the gipsy quarter - St. Jacques - and then our ruelle in the Fitou country.

The day of my first ride was hot and dry and at the beginning of the grape picking.

I set off for a ten-mile cycle ride wearing my old feather biking hat from 20 years back and hit the track which would take me to Paziols down the road, the next village via my garden, along the vines and then the river.

My garden is just outside the village in Rue du Vatican which is potholed, bumpy and hopefully will stay like this. Near the communal gate my left gear broke, and as I flew along the stone pathway I bumped literally into Monsieur L, who was coming around the corner with his bike, a shiny, robust and mean beast. Monsieur L has his garden next to mine. He is fiercely Catalan and even though he has lived for fifty years in Tuchan often falls into his native language. He is stubborn, hot headed, and likes to have the last word. He thinks I am a wimp because I am no good at growing vegetables, whereas his garden radiates perfection with courgettes the frightening size of large arms, melons deep-hued orange with succulent juices dripping, and on his side of the wall the fig tree fruit falls without bruising, just ripe for eating; on my side the figs falls to mush. There are some who do not understand him - literally- and some others think he is difficult, but I know his other side: he does not eat his geese, he talks to them, pampers them, and once saved a baby boar from being killed. He hid it in a pen, feeding it, preparing it to go back into the wild and begged me not to tell anyone, as it is illegal to keep a wild boar captive. So, despite the fact that he insists on insulting me in Catalan and laughs at my bad gardening skills, I like him. I tell him I am off to the river. He says I’ll never make it sobre aquella cosa antiga, on THAT old thing!

I ignore him.

"ja ho veuràs - you'll see"

This is the first time in 20 years that I have a bike in Tuchan. It is freedom. It is glorious! OH WOW!

Back entrance to Tuchan, route de Palarac

First stop, the house which has been here forever.

This is a spot we would bring the school kids to on long walks, our picnic stop in 1999. Then travellers used the house during the grape picking, along with lovers and shepherds. Today the only remains of life are bits of rubble and burnt wood which have been used for the fires.

Stop Two: The wishing stone

I have never known the real story, and so I have always told people it is the wishing stone of love - sit on it and you will get the love you want. I don’t want to know the real story anymore. I stay a while, make a wish, then cast out to Paziols village.

Third Stop: The river

The bed used to be dug deep for swimming until we all realised it was destroying the ecosystem. It has reclaimed its original life, pre-dig. At this time of the year there are so few people that the world belongs to you and me. I lie back and dream of all the rides I will go on. I might ask Dany at the top of the ruelle to come with me, a newcomer who is shy and wonders what the hell they bought a house in Tuchan for 20,000 euros for. I wonder too, as the house is a tall, dark, damp and gloomy place and fondly called la grotte. All I do know is Dany likes bikes, so I leave the flickering in my mind of us having picnics by the river on sultry end-of-summer- days like this.

I continue, on top of the world,

spirits high towards Paziols with a plan on continuing eastwards towards Cucugnan. I begin to show off to myself, riding without my hands on the handle bars, when suddenly the whole bike shakes differently and I fly off into the vines while my trouser hem tangles the spokes and the chain sags off.

I try for half an hour to get the bloody thing working, tear off the saddlebags, rip my brand new jeans and curse that I am five kilometres from home. I can’t even push her as the back wheel is somehow wedged and am about to hide her behind a bush when G comes by on his bike. G is a less vocal version of Monsieur L.

Roche de Vingrau and Paziols village in back ground

He spends half an hour putting the chain back on and pulling out all the snarled-up jean tissue. Then, without cynicism, he kindly gives me an in-depth lesson on how to change gears! I can’t stop looking at the grease all over his hands…

I ride home past the pickers, slightly more humble, and yes, of course, I bump into Monsieur L and his wife by the garden gate. He laughs at me and says very simply!

No em vas creure! You didn't believe me did you!

(I would have taken some photos but he refused, as I knew he would.)

So there. It’s done!

Thank you so much for passing by. Have a great weekend, enjoy wherever you are.

If you enjoy this please share and write a comment, that would be lovely.

Part 2 is Paris at 16, (not so much about the festival really.)

LOVE ON YA!

Jeanne

Soaps & Sagas - Travelogue

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