Haunted by remorques

That's to say, trailers* rather than guilt, because; yes, it's the grockel season en l'Aude. And where there are trailers, there are caravans. And where there are caravans, there are (get out your crucifix and garlic) camper vans . . .

I say this with the seasoned, possibly tedious, and certainly totally prejudiced venom of anyone who lives and works in a rural area, and has to put up with these bloody things doing 20 mph in the middle of the road for hours on end every summer. Especially when you are about to miss a train or give birth. I name this child Van Morrison . . .

*Who are these people who drive either in their sleep or on another planet?

*Why do they keep their brains in the on-board chemical toilet throughout their holiday?

*Why do they NEVER pull over to let other people pass and even speed up at overtaking places?

Strangely, my absolute belief that camper van drivers are the most selfish and/or brain-dead people on Earth took a knock last weekend when three of them actually did pull over. There is a God. Not being an atheist, I don't have a problem with the existence of God. But if you do, what better proof could you ask for? In the face of such phenomena; there must be a God.

Meanwhile, rampant bottoms in Rouvenac remind me that the tourist season brings its fair share of other hazards. Rouvenac, I should explain, is the next village up the valley. To a true Fanol, (especially our Monsieur le Maire . . .) this renders it, in best Marcel Pagnol fashion, utterly beyond the pale. They can't even get ADSL in tins-and-string Rouvenac, so don't worry, mesdames et messieurs: We're talking about you, not to you.

Actually they're alright really, in a naïve sort of way. The rampant bottoms are the result of their village Mairie explaining, in a local newsletter, that it could no longer afford weed-killer to posh the place up a bit for the summer visitors. Therefore all good citizens were asked to come and do their bit, weeding the village by hand.

I forgot all about this until one morning when I drove into the village and found an enthusiastic team down on their knees, hard at it. Of course, it may have been an ancient fertility rite but the general age and condition of the bottoms tended to suggest otherwise.

However the perils of pricey weedkiller are as nothing compared to the threat of the Têtes de Gambas Gang. Apparently, and I quote from the same authoritative if slightly quaint local organ: Rouvenac has become a seething hell-hole of vandalism. Picnicking tourists have been chucking their prawn heads, hence têtes de gambas, in the fountain. This knackers the pump: Alors, pas de fontaine . . .

It's Manon des Sources all over again: an old-fashioned tale of love, hate, revenge and the risk of getting duffed by a Gang of Prawn Heads. Quite exciting really . . .

*remorque = trailer