Chapter 8
HAL
‘Did I mention that they actually call this road La Route du Cidre?’ I say.
‘Only a thousand times.’ Sarah gives me a look. ‘I feel as if you’re a bit too excited about that.’
‘Come on, it’s like driving down a road named, I don’t know, Prosecco Highway.’
She laughs and it feels good to be the cause of it. ‘Beer Alley?’ she suggests.
‘That sounds like somewhere you’d avoid after a night out,’ I tell her. ‘Maybe Bitter Boulevard.’
‘Sounds like somewhere my mum should live.’
Now it’s my turn to laugh. ‘OK, then Lager Lane?’
‘OK, OK, I get it. It’s all very exciting.’
This morning hadn’t started so well. We got up early and had a quick walk to see the sand dunes before setting off for our next campsite, close to Lisieux. We both decided against a morning shower, figuring we’d be pretty sweaty after the drive and opting to use the facilities at the next place.
Only the campsite I selected for its rural charm actually turned out to be a repurposed farmer’s field that hasn’t yet been fully finished.
The shower room, while functional, still has the kind of barnyard smell that you don’t necessarily associate with cleanliness.
The field that we have been directed to is more mud than grass, and other than a guy with a guitar who sat outside a single-man tent and nodded at us gruffly when we arrived, we seem to be the only guests.
I tried to be upbeat about it all, talking some nonsense about the benefit of country air, but Sarah silenced me with a look. She refused my offer to help her across to the shower block/animal shed and came back with wet hair and a thunderous expression.
My own subsequent visit wasn’t much better. I did quite a good job of scrubbing myself clean, only to stand in what had once been a cowpat on the way back. It was dry, thankfully, but still cracked under my tread and scattered tiny pieces of itself onto my leg.
I offered to move us to another site, but as I’d already paid, Sarah said it’d be fine. Although I already think she might be regretting that decision.
This cider tasting had better be good or I think I might be in trouble.
I spent a while wondering what was different about how Sarah looked this morning and it’s her hair.
There was no plug for a hairdryer in the bathroom block and although I suggested she plug her travel dryer into Betty, I was kind of relieved when she shook her head.
I haven’t told her that the power supply at the campsite isn’t yet connected, and that we’re going to have to be sparing while we’re at the farm so as not to drain Betty’s battery.
Anyway, the point I’m making is that her hair looks different. But it’s good different. Rather than her usual straight and glossy style, it’s kind of slightly wavy and it suits her. She seems less ‘lawyer-y’ and more like the girl I knew from school. But I know better than to say anything.
‘Is there Wi-Fi at the campsite?’ she asks now, and I swallow.
‘I think so. I’ll have to check.’ Wi-Fi was mentioned on the website I booked through, but then again so were ‘luxury shower facilities’ and an ‘eco-energy source.’ So I’m not holding out a whole lot of hope.
I’ve messaged Todd to make sure he picks up any emails that come in just in case I’m unable to connect.
She nods and seems satisfied, which makes me feel a weird mixture of relief and guilt.
We wind down the windows and let some comparatively cool air blow into Betty’s interior. The weather has been amazing so far; just the right temperature, and plenty of sunshine. We’re passing green fields edged with lush hedgerows, tiny stone farmhouses and apple orchards.
We pass a couple of cider producers, but the one I booked is a smaller one slightly farther on. A friend I’d been to uni with recommended it as a really authentic place, and I can’t help but feel excited about seeing where cider is made, and tasting some different varieties.
Finally, we turn down a small muddy track and bump along for around half a mile. A wooden gate comes into view, next to a hand-drawn sign that reads ‘Le Cidre de Papi’. There’s a rudimentary drawing of an apple next to it, daubed in amateurish paint.
It doesn’t appear to be as fancy as the other places. But maybe this is a chance to see the real France, slightly off the tourist trail.
If I’m honest, I’m feeling more and more nervous as we park the van by a tumbledown stone farmhouse with an enormous, attached barn.
There are a couple of work vehicles around – a yellow tractor that’s more rust than metal and a mud-encrusted Land Rover.
A few straggly chickens peck at the dirt, watched by an enormous, narrow-eyed cat.
A dog rushes up to our car and throws itself at Sarah’s door, making her jump. He begins to bark menacingly.
‘I’m sure he’s just happy to see you,’ I say nervously.
‘Yeah, only because he thinks I’m his lunch,’ she replies. ‘I am not getting out of this vehicle, Hal.’
I give a sort of derisive snort, as if jumping into the jaws of some crazed French farm dog is nothing to me, then, my heart thundering, open Betty’s door and step out.
Instantly, the mutt sinks its teeth into my boot.
Luckily, knowing we’d be hitting a farm today, I’m wearing my Doc Martens, and his teeth don’t quite hit flesh.
The dog growls, as if he knows he’s been thwarted, and eyes me as if sizing up what part of me to try next.
Not the crotch! I think desperately, Not the crotch!
But of course, even if the dog is telepathic, he won’t speak English.
Pas le pénis! I think, trying to open the door behind me with one hand, while keeping my face turned to the clearly hungry and very annoyed mutt.
‘Arrête!’ a voice calls out suddenly. ‘Princesse, arrête!’
Princesse?
Instantly, the dog drops my boot and bounds away, towards the person approaching from the farmhouse.
Presumably, this is Papi, cider producer and dog owner.
He’s wearing navy blue overalls over a grubby white T-shirt; his face, underneath a grimy cap, is rugged and red, the lower half covered with badly sculpted facial hair.
Princesse sits at his feet and although I’m not 100 per cent sure, seems to bat her eyelashes at him. He puts a protective hand on her head and looks at me, his face changing from affectionate to suspicious in an eyebrow-furling instant.
‘Monsieur! Qu’est-ce que vous faites à mon chien?’
‘Um, anglais?’ I say, the pathetic amount of French that still remains in my brain from my schooldays entirely deserting me. The ad did say ‘English spoken’, I’m sure of it.
‘Ha,’ he says, his nose crinkling with distaste. ‘Well, monsieur, I asked you what were you doing to my dog?’
‘What I was doing to your dog? She was biting me!’
He looks down at Princesse, who’s a model of virtue at his heels. She looks up and seems to meet his eye, and if I’m not mistaken, even seems to shake her head a little. His expression, as he turns back to me, is thunderous, as if I’ve insulted his firstborn.
‘Princesse, she does not bite,’ he tells me. ‘She is a gentle dog.’
‘But I have teeth marks in my shoe! She was going to—’
‘Non,’ he says in such a definitive way that I find myself clamping my mouth shut. ‘She would not do this. You are mistaken, sir.’
‘Look!’ I lift my foot, the end of the boot still sparkling with saliva. ‘You can see where she—’
‘Non,’ he says. ‘This did not happen.’
‘Right. Great.’ I nod. I glance at Sarah who’s watching me through Betty’s window, and try to think of the bigger picture.
If I have an argument with this old farmer and drive off, what then?
We’re here for cider tasting and I am determined to at least try to help her enjoy herself.
I’m trying to show her that my way of doing things is worthwhile, to justify my choice of having a meander down to Nice rather than rushing straight there.
I try to smile at the man, who keeps eyeing me suspiciously.
‘Why are you here, monsieur?’ he says. ‘Are you lost?’
‘No, at least, I don’t think so. I’ve booked a cider tour and tasting?’ I say, no longer 100 per cent sure if I’ve come to the right place. The guy doesn’t seem to be expecting anyone, and as we’re the only non-farm-related vehicle here, it doesn’t seem like he’s used to receiving tourists.
‘Oui,’ he says and regards me for a moment.
I am not sure what oui means. Obviously, I know that oui is French for ‘yes,’ I’m not a complete moron. But does he mean – yes, you’ve come to the right place? Or is he just throwing in a random ‘oui’ to get me to explain myself further? ‘Yeah, so… I mean… I can…’
‘Adèle!’ he barks suddenly, not taking his eyes off me.
There’s an answer from inside the house, and he fires something back in response that’s in such rapid French that I stop even trying to follow the thread of it and concentrate on the tone.
He’s clearly angry, the woman inside sounds just as annoyed.
He says something else, gesturing at me, and there’s a slam of a door.
Then, just as I’m about to jump into the van and drive as fast as I can back to civilisation, a woman appears.
She’s wiping her hands on a tea towel, and her hair is tied up in some sort of floral scarf.
Her face – well, put it this way, it doesn’t match the voice I heard.
She’s young, her expression is kind, and when she looks at me, a smile breaks out over her features.
She pulls the scarf from her hair, and it tumbles, auburn and wavy, to her shoulders.
Casting the tea towel aside, she walks towards me, hand outstretched for a shake.
‘It’s Hal, yes?’ she asks, pronouncing it ‘’Al’.
But in all honesty, she could have called me anything and I’d probably have answered to it.
She must be one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.
I realise my mouth is hanging open and snap it closed.
She says something in French to the farmer guy and he stalks back to the house, waving a hand in the air as if dismissing the both of us. Princesse, to my relief, trots at his heels.
‘I am sorry,’ Adèle says. ‘My father is old and grumpy, and he does not like the idea of people seeing our work. But I have told him, if he wants the farm to keep going, he has to have some customers.’ She notices my boot.
‘Oh, merde!’ she says. ‘Was that Princesse? That hound is driving me crazy. She is so vicious to visitors!’
‘Oh, this?’ I reply, hearing a simpering tone in my voice but unable to repress it somehow. ‘It was nothing.’