The French have always been different, in their attitude to cars, from us British. Fiercely loyal, highly protectionist, I remember coming to France over fifty years ago and finding hardly any foreign cars.
Nevertheless, their choice of Cirtöen/Peugeot/Renault, doesn’t mean they fawn over it like some spoilt child. Here, the car is for getting from A to B. If, on the way, you bump into a few folks, literally, or pick up some of the surrounding landscape, fair enough,
Particularly in the countryside, the car is a tool. It can be used for anything that a van can. I had a conversation with my hosts about washing Shimamoto, as she was looking grubby after almost three weeks here.
“There’s a car wash about ten kilometres from here,” Alain replied to my request.
“Is that where you go?” I enquired.
“Yes, every year around springtime,” he replied, making it sound like seed planting or ploughing time. “When the car goes green, I know it’s time for a wash,” he continued.
i decided to visit this rare oasis of civilization, expecting a bucket and chamois. I was surprised to find a quarter of a million Euro French invention, replacing four Albanians.
The machine was Sans Brosse, Brushless. No Basil jokes please. Boom Boom!
After consulting an octogenarian Frenchman, who spoke no English, I finally worked out how to use this twenty-first century piece of equipment. I then stood for ten minutes while Shimmie was given the Vidal Sassoon treatment.
Now she’s parked on the drive for her well earned rest as I return to Blighty for a short time before flying to Paris with Joe. Well be reunited in March when we’ll explore more of the thirteen-hundred miles and eight hundred Islands of the Brittany coast.
Footnote:
From Saturday , the peasants are revolting again. I expect to see a lot of tractors and excrement in Paris next week. France, eh? Speaking of soil, (loosely), here’s part two…
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