Ice and honey

We are enroute to Calais. I have missed days in the telling, but that is because, since we left the Pyrennes, the Ice Age Cometh, and we are freezing. Wearing woolly socks to bed, and wearing them again during the day, covered with ordinary black socks, so they don’t look too ridiculous. But, our first priority is warmth: we need to stay rugged up in all that we have. Nights have been heavy frost. Days have been icy. We’re hoping that this too will pass.

Our second concern is fuel. We are about half of the way to Calais and have been turned away at the bowsers for Gazole (Diesel) all day. Tonight we have a half a tank. That will get us a few towns further on and then we might have to make the papers in order to get fuel. Tonight though, without hope of fuel for movement or sun for warmth, the moon is soggy white and distorted by clouds dripping what feels like ice, we are camped in one of our Invitation sites in Chezelles.

We are camped in a green grassy space, surrounded on all sides by high trees, in the very centre of a tiny village, most of which seems to be owned, run, or supervised, by the people who gave us the Invitation to this grassy site. So lovely. Especially after spending much of the day in Limoges. Limoges, like many places in France, needs a giant Gerni to pressure spray its homes, shops, restaurants, bars, and public buildings. It also needs an education program in hygienic disposal of dog poo.

The French love dogs. The French dogs poo. On the sidewalks, on the roads, on the footpaths, on the grass, on your feet -- if you stand still for too long. It really is disgusting. And as frequently as the dogs poo, Frenchmen piss. They use every corner of every building, brick, stone or wood, and every plant, tree and hollow as an opportunity to squirt a smelly arc. The paths and roads decorated in dog poo are revolting. Add to this the amniotic smell of the French male’s inner essence and places like Limoges become too ripe to bear.

Chezelles, though, the village where we’re parked tonight is run by honey producing folk. If you are a wealthy miel (honey) producer and distributor you could do worse than own your own village. I think they own much of the town. Their operations certainly occupy most of the centre.

To start with most of the homes in the village have a splash of paint wash, so they look cared for, clean. And the sidewalks are untainted, even pleasant. We walked at sunset from one end of the village to the other and didn’t once need a nose peg or a shoe brush. Thank you, honey folk of Chezelles, if you are the movers and shakers who keep this pretty village clean. It smells lovely, too.

Rugged up and moving

Chezelles

Our honey stopover

Limoge needs a genre