Nevers was our destination; a fairly large town of Roman origin with its medieval buildings still predominant in the centre of town.
It was a Friday night and me and Chris were in a party mood. Nothing was going to stop us from finding the most banging spot in town and practicing our "French" on the locals.
We parked up and tried to find a square that Chris had been to a couple of years before that he assured me was the party centre of town, but all we found was a couple of restaurants with sparsely filled tables and a low hum of conversation. We moved on.

We wandered down streets cracked and cobbled, where ancient denizens would once have hobbled, our legs tiring quickly on the ill-wrought stone.

Then we happened upon this strangely familiar place, but although it seemed reasonably popular and there was a small conversational buzz, I was sure we could find a more exuberant place to enjoy ourselves.

The Cathedral was pretty, but we ploughed on to the south side of town, finding a bar with two people in it. One of the customers looked dead, but that was fine, because he seemed to be attracting more guests in the guise of flies, which created a literal buzz in the bar.

Onwards we pushed, and luckily found this place. It looked extremely popular and the conversation was deafening.

Funny how tired legs can change your perspective on things! The rest of the town was as quiet as a shrine to Shakin' Stevens. You see, the French do not drink the same way the British do. They are, frankly, very civilised about it. They will drink some wine with food or have a beer or two whilst watching the world go by; but outside of the big cities, there is no mad rush down the pub on a Friday night to embrace imbibed obliteration. They don't know what they're missing...
However, as far as night life in Nevers goes, it was more like “night night” life.

Next day, we went for a long walk through the beautiful French countryside. It was redolent of the rolling hills of Hertfordshire, but very sleepy - the way I remember Sundays cycling through the leafy lanes as a boy. The somnambulance of the French countryside speckles every rustling leaf, glistens on every twitching blade of grass, envelopes every fluttering insect. The still calm and the brilliance of the sun's light begins to sink in to every part of your body until you are calm, measured, satisfied.
It's pretty special.

 

We found a canal and walked alongside it, finally settling by the leaf dappled edge, breathing in the sun.

Suddenly, a shearing, grating sound shattered the torpor I had relaxed into. A huge boat was attempting to force its way through the tiny bridge on the canal. An even more annoying grating noise pierced the air - the owners of the boat were an American couple shouting directions back and forth at each other. It seemed that here there were two captains and no sailors. Anyone who knows me knows that I have a soft spot for Yanks having travelled there extensively, but these two idiots were really not doing their brethren any favours by living up to the American Abroad Stereotype.
Oh how we condescendingly chuckled!

On Sunday we went off to Lake Setton for a boat ride extraordinaire! The lake was beautiful, but after sitting for 20 uncomfortable minutes on the boat while the captain stared at the dead engine whilst shrugging Gallicly, we realised that it would be faster to wait for mermaids to ride us across to the other side. So we walked. It was worth it.

Finally on Monday we went to Le Pal, a small local Theme Park. It wasn't Alton Towers, but it was fun. Nobody died on the rides - though that would at least have made the rides a little more exciting!

 

 

It was all a bit strange. I was setting out on a world tour, starting in Europe; bags packed, everything in order. But somehow it didn't feel right. A strange psychological flux afflicted me - I knew how fortunate I was to be doing this even though I'd just been through the worst 6 months of my life. The little train stations of Norfolk were chiding me, and Gunton seemed to be quite explicit about it.

The strange feeling didn't last too long however - I soon settled into my standard long distance travel mode; one of a remedial zombie with amnesia.
To London on the train - back up to Luton and a cattle flight to Paris. I was travelling into the heart of rural France and it was destined to be a long and boring journey. And it was, apart from a mad yomp across Paris that would have made Andy McNab proud. Carrying a huge backpack in plus 30 degree weather, I had to race to Paris Bercy from Gare de Lyons to make my connection. I was sweating like a serial killer, but I just made it and at my arrival at Nevers station, I smelled ripe like a true Frenchman.
My friend Chris, who will be accompanying me on the European leg of the tour, was waiting for me with his trusty Peugeot 106 to drive me to his farmhouse somewhere in the Burgundy region. Here we will stay for a few days to plan our further misadventures!
A brief visit to one of the local shops showed that although most of the locals are friendly, a few despise foreigners. One shop assistant smiled at me when I brought some food to the counter, but upon hearing my broken French and atrocious accent, her countenance distorted to that of someone who had fallen face first into a slop bucket and had come up chewing a turd.
It didn't prevent me from enjoying the rest of the day though, sitting out under the tree in Chris's garden throwing back a few cold ones.