‘What cannot be cured, must be endured.
Robert Burton, The Anatomy of Melancholy
My nightly ablutions always involve a walk in my PJs past my fellow campers, bearing wash kit and towel, to a communal concrete building that is generally uninviting.
The wash blocks are all the same and all different in a way that makes no difference. They are generally smelly and the floors are always wet, no matter what the time of day, it seems. Some have showers that must be paid for with a coin, others use tokens, and others still provide hot water free of charge, though only at peak time in the mornings and the evenings. They are usually open to the air in some way, and they may be busy or deserted according to some habitude amongst the camping fraternity, or maybe a shared French custom, like the time one eats, lunchtime being sacrosanct and remarkably consistent wherever you go in this country. They will resent me saying so, but there is a conformist instinct in the French, perhaps a symptom of a certain chauvinism and a conscious sense of a shared culture, that we English lack. Or maybe we have our national characteristics, but disrupted by the persistence of a class riddled society that continues to make customs like tea and dinner mean very different things to different people.
The great leveller for all nationalities is to share the utilitarian sanctuary where you strip off your clothes, shave, shower, go to the toilet and clean your teeth. Shower blocks remind us of our common humanity, though I often find myself alone, or with only one or two companions, and I’m not at all sure ‘companions’ is quite the right word. My French is not good enough to hold a conversation of any length or depth, but the etiquette of these places is not geared towards getting to know one another, and that’s a relief. I’m learning that in lieu of passing the time of day, a clipped ‘Bonjour’ is as far as you should go in acknowledging anyone you meet at the basins or making their way to and from the stalls or the showers. More often, a nod of the head or better still, no expression at all is perfectly acceptable, even preferable.
Tonight, I feel no small satisfaction in the achievement of the day. Fifty kilometres according to the sat nav on my phone – the one I swore I wouldn’t use – fifty-two point four kilometres to be precise. I’ve reached Vielle-Saint-Girons and I’m staying at a site called Camping Eurosol. I walk back to my humble home past elaborate smoking barbeques and sneaked a look into the cosy interiors of oversized white camper vans and caravans I pass, their occupants ranged around tables under good, old-fashioned electric light, and felt a twinge of envy. But as I make my way back from what was a very hot shower to see my tent glowing softly in the distance, lit by my solar lamp, the mattress fully self-inflated under my crumpled sky blue down sleeping bag, I’m quietly proud of myself to be here, to be alone, and to be alright.
I pack my wash kit in the left hand pannier ready for the morning. I hang my damp towel out, knowing it won’t dry tonight, but positioning it as best I can to catch the first rays of the sun in the morning.
I’m wearing my version of pyjamas, cotton harem pants and a t-shirt, and debating whether to leave both on as I unzip the tent, at least until I warm up in the sleeping bag. It cost s something to bend my aching legs and get so low to the ground at the end of a long day, but I’m ready to be horizontal, though I know I’ll sleep soundly for a few hours, only to wake in the night and doze fitfully until morning. I’ve never been a good sleeper. Megs inherited insomnia from me, even as a baby. She didn’t sleep through the night for the first two years of her life. Not until we took her into our bed and she lay between us, comforted and happy,