It is quite amazing how little you really need to live comfortably. I only discovered that by force.
Not force of arms - I was not robbed or subject to hostile invasion. Nor force of nature - no hurricane or earthquake. It was simple economics. My business went bust, my spouse despised and despoused me, and I was left, by fortune and a little forward planning, with a twenty year old camper van and a tiny partial pension.
I had enough to eat, if I was careful, and to put fuel in to do two hundred miles a week, and pay camp-site charges if I had to, and still enjoy fifty pounds a month of fun money.
Like I said, it is quite amazing how little you need to live comfortably, and how much fun you can have with £1.66 a day, especially if the weather is good. And I could drive to the good weather.
So I travelled around Europe. Every gallery and museum, ruin and cathedral, château and Schloss, beach and gorge and pass and plain.
I sometimes worked, for the fun as much as the cash - a canoe hire place on a French river, a surf shack in Spain, a vineyard in Germany, Italy, France, Greece, Spain or Portugal (I like vineyards) fishing boats and building sites. When possible I got a gig as a volunteer on archaeological digs. Bad for the knees but good for the soul.
I was on the road from Bordeaux heading south when I picked up Marcus and Celestine. They were hitching, and just hitched - honeymooning youngsters with no cash and strong Appalachian accents. He was a geologist, just graduated, just got a job with a mining company that was to start in six weeks time. She was a musician and artist and one of the most stunning looking young women it has ever been my pleasure to meet.
Her hair was dark and long and slightly waved. Her eyes were hazel. Not merely brown but bright and light and sparkling, a hint of gold and passion in them. She had a light tan, from two weeks of travel, the last few days on the beach at Arcachon. And her figure - in the thin gypsy cotton dress - was simply perfect. Curves and lithe limbs, a swell of the hips and a roundness of the buttock, a softness of shoulder and the form of a firm bosom. And she smelled of sunshine and pine trees and salt and something that was just herself. Sweet, sexy, femininity in molecular vapour. I was charmed, enchanted, delighted. Jealous in an avuncular way. Oh I admit, from the second I saw her I lusted in a way no uncle should. But in the last few years I have learned that I can take joy in beauty without needing to satisfy that lust, or even acknowledge it. Utterly gorgeous young women do not see me as a potential lover, and I would look ridiculous trying to put myself forward in that role. But I can be a father figure, a kindly uncle, and flirt a tiny bit, in a safe and funny way, and admire them without being creepy, without finding myself pathetic. So I allowed myself to be just a tiny bit jealous of the young man she had married. Jealous of a youth I would never have again, a physique I had never had at all, a handsome face that was the only thing she had eyes for, and the privilege he enjoyed of lying beside her in bed every night. Things that I could never have, that could eat my soul if I let them. But there was no point in letting them. I had been young and not bad looking and slept beside beautiful women in my time. Hating him was pointless. And impossible.
Marcus, it must be said, was a lovely, handsome guy. I don't lean that way myself, but I can appreciate the attractiveness of a muscular frame and easy smile and sun bleached streaks in luxuriant hair. It had been a long time since my hair was that thick, or dark enough for the sun to bleach it. Although I had not lost too much muscle or gained to much fat. And Marcus was a good bloke. He was funny and generous and clever and grateful and in every way the sort of person you would just like as a friend. In ten minutes of their company I was happy to judge that while no-one (especially not me) deserved Celestine, Marcus was as good as I could wish for her.
They had been carrying a sign that said simply "South" and it did not take long to establish that they were as lacking in plans as I was. They had ideas - a list of things they would like to do and see, but were simply going with the flow. So I took them for a ride.
Each day we decided on a new destination. Sometimes I hung out with them when we got to the place appointed, but usually we split up. I had been to several of the places they wanted to visit, and used my time to explore the parts I had not seen before, or to write, or to play guitar, or to do maintenance on the van.
So we saw Biarritz and Hendaye, Cahors and Toulouse, Alba and Avignon, Arles and the Font de Vacleuse, Nice and Cannes and Monaco, Carcassone and then decided to head into Spain. We camped in Jaca after a day in Andorra, and at half past one in the morning the heavens opened.
Hailstones, high winds, pink lightning forks and thunder that was loud enough to be heard over constant rattle of the ice against the roof. It was deafening.
I woke in confusion and as I came to I thought immediately of the couple in their tiny tent that was pitched next to the van. It was a clever, high tech, lightweight thing, but I doubted it was designed for this weather.
I was right. Just as I switched on the lights in the van the door was flung open, dragged by the wind, and Celestine stumbled in. She was soaked to the skin, and half blind and half frozen. Their tent had split under the impact of a golf ball sized lump of razor sharp ice, and in the minute or two it took to untangle themselves and get to my door she had been battered and cut as well as chilled by the wind.
I helped her in and sat her down. I could see Marcus outside, bundling the tent up with everything in it, stuffing it under my van.
I decided not to go out to help. He had it under control. So I turned to Celestine and quickly appraised her state. Shocked. Drenched in cold rain. Hair plastered to her face. Tee shirt plastered to her body. See through. Dark nipples hardened and pointing straight out. Tiny red briefs visible through the thin cloth that stuck to her thighs and stomach.
A pitiful, ravishable sight.
