Monday 12 April
After such an opulent sleeping experience, we struggle a little
to extract ourselves from our splendour, but then we catch the
view from the windows of the Alps surrounding Martigny, and soon
everyone is wide awake and drinking in the sights. We soon pile
back into (what seems like a relatively shabby and smelly) Doris,
and drive over to the local train station to meet up with Christophe
and his friend Aline, pausing only to narrowly avoid a head-on
crash with a car trying to turn into a junction we were pulling
out of. Ian is at the wheel at this time, and a quick 6-1 vote
decides that he's banned from ever driving Doris again. Ian looks
perplexed. We look relieved at not having to risk our lives in
quite the same manner ever again.
We stop in at another inordinately expensive café, and
inadvertently manage to avoid paying for our breakfast, before
moving onto the most breathtaking sight of the tour: a huge waterfall
on the side of a mountain, on an incredibly clear and warm day.
We are lost in wonder and scamper around excitably like small children,
catching glimpses of rainbows in the spray, and trying not to break
an ankle or slip into the water on the wet rocks at its foot. Stu
and Jim also persuade us to stage the only official Souvaris press
shot that will ever be taken, atop a seven-foot-high rock in front
of the waterfall. This is just ridiculous, and hilarious, but absolutely
amazing. We are all high as kites on nature, and the tour has just
turned into the best holiday ever.
Soon after managing to persuade ourselves to re-enter the murky
depths of Doris, we alight at the foot of a mountain which features
a church carved into one of its sheer sides, and it soon becomes
clear that Christophe intends us to negotiate a somewhat steep
and windy staircase in order to reach it. We look perturbed. Jim
looks enthusiastic, the dastardly (smoking) health freak that he
is. We attempt it. (Smoking) Dan almost passes out once we have
ascended the summit. Nice view (coughcoughcough), he manages. I
go to take a piss in the holy toilet, and smack my head like a
good 'un on my way out. We enjoy the mildly thin air, lizards flicking
in and out of bolt-holes, and (to some) a good cigarette before
we descend again, to venture unto a supermarket to get some items
for dinner, where Simmo repeatedly admonishes me for spending a
fiver on some salami. But being a damn veggie, he cannot taste
said meat, and it is well worth the moolah. We also buy what is
reputed to be horsemeat, but tastes much the same as any other
meat. Harrumph.
No matter, we head over to Christophe's parents' house, where we
are treated to a hearty meal, and Simmo gets to chop at a piece
of wood with an axe whilst we all try and hide. After meeting aforementioned
parents, who faintly remind us of Vincent Gallo's folks in Buffalo
66 if the film was actually about how great they were, we
all drop Aline off at the station, and drive over to Lake Geneva
to idly skim stones and chuck bits of wood like the young hooligans
we are. It's another awesome sight, but by now we're almost taking
these Alps for granted. Plus, dark and mist is encroaching on our
wonderful views, so it's time to hit the pub and sample some ludicrously
expensive/authentic Swiss beer with our final francs, in some gesture
of solidarity with Switzerland's bizarre and somehow disturbing
opulence. After quaffing such richness, we bid adieu to Christophe,
and begin a journey over to Dijon, where we supposedly have beds
at a suitably dirt-cheap hostel waiting for us.
It would be my personal happiest hour of the tour that followed,
where we pummelled ourselves with Sleep's mighty Dopesmoker album
at healthy volumes as we ascended to 1500 metres above sea level
on our way back to France... hmm, increasing light-headedness leads
to greater appreciation and enjoyment of the greatest stoner rock
song/album ever made. Who would have thunk it?
A fairly nightmarish journey actually then ensued, as we do our
first bit of extensive driving in the dark, and Simmo finally goes
mad on the edge of Dijon and won't stop playing his old Yamaha
keyboard which is battery-driven. It finally reaches a point where
we stop, throw open the sliding doors, prise the damn thing from
his clutches, and confiscate its power source. We then return it
to him, and he continues to play it unplugged. We then have a fairly
nihilistic time at 1am faffing around in central Dijon looking
for this damn hostel, which turns out to be in the town's dodgiest
area, and we
are assured that Doris will be on the receiving end
of rocks and bricks from local kids if we dare park it anywhere
within the area. On the eve of returning the damn over-priced thing
to its owners, we declare Fuck That, and go for broke on trying
to find somewhere else appropriate to stay (and to our meagre funds)
or contemplate all seven of us sleeping in the van tonight.
Luckily, we hit jackpot on Hotel Formule 1, which ends up costing
us something like £3 each for the night. Sure, it looks like
a gaudy cartoon version of THX1138 inside, but it has
beds, showers, and a place to stash the Beans. Plus, it's in a
complex of hotels and the car park is secure, so we thank our good
fortune and bed down for the night.
|