21 April

Well, dear reader, as the writer of Tom Jones would say, what a comedy!
After doing all my writing and photo editing and uploading, I went to go to bed. I immediately thought I was back on a school camp and someone had short-sheeted me. The top sheet came only half-way up the bed. It had been folded over and tucked down the other end, under the covers. So that was the first problem to be overcome. That was simple.
I had hung my jacket up. For those of you unfamiliar with a Formule1 room will have to picture this (because I forgot to take a picture, but I will if I am ever sentenced to such again, though for what Ill at this time escapes me): a double bed with a single over it, at right angles to it; the ladder for the single against the door wall and next to the double bed; hanging space under one end of the single bed; a long and a short fluorescent light next to the head of the double bed at the other end of the singe bed; a small partition between the double bed and the basin (in the corner) and opposite that, a small desk with a TV overhead.
Being neat of nature (stop sniggering), I hung my jacket up. The hanger survived only long enough until I was nearly asleep and then the jacket crashed down. However, children running to the toilets and showers then stopped me slumbering again, but as I became used to the noise, another patron, more forthright, opened his door and yelled at the children to SSHHHH! That was finally overcome but then nature called so, apart from getting dressed to go out, I had to remember to take the receipt with me so I could get back in to my room. Hanging everything up again, I then hit my head on the bottom of the single bed and misjudged the height of the double and ended up crashing down into it. I didn’t want to put the fluorescent on, so had the screen of the laptop as light, and the shadows hid the bed covers.
Eventually I rose. I have forgotten, dear reader, to say that I approached the girl on the desk the evening before for a towel. I thought they had mistakenly given me two bath mats – but no, she said, the towels were petite, and gave me another one. I headed off to have a shower – no shower curtain so it was necessary to place everything carefully to miss getting saturated – and switched the shower on. I started and the shower promptly switched itself off. After repeated goes, I found out you get thirty seconds of water for your shower (unless, like me, you just elbow it every twenty seconds, and get sufficient water but a sore elbow). Using the aforementioned towels, otherwise known as overgrown face washers, the three did get me dry. Now cleaned (and dressed, in case you did not imply that), I went out for my petit dejeuner. Now breakfast was not the only small thing. The pieces of bread to put in the toaster were so small that, after burning, they only ejected high enough to give a tantalizing glimpse of the contained bread and not enough to grasp. Tongs placed nearly were just large enough not to fit in, so a knife had to be used (against all my better training). The burnt bread (I cannot in truth call it toast) then promptly disintegrated while butter, then vegemite, was attempted to be spread on it. I gave up and settled for cornflakes, but then the spoon supplied was smaller than a teaspoon, so it took a long time. I said merci to the girl on the desk and expected Basil Fawlty to come out from somewhere, but he didn’t (be thankful for small mercies). Back in the room I packed, took everything to the car and then left. The only good thing in the whole deal was I could do it on my card.
I headed into Orleans. After that night, what other fate could befall me? The answer came as I inched (sorry, centimetred) my way into Orleans. Every joke I have said about council workers in Australia I take back. Ten vehicles, about twenty men, two excavators, hundreds of traffic cones, working on an area about two square metres (I kid you not because I returned the same way two hours later and the hole was now the full two square metres, with everyone watching and one directing traffic around) but with much more blocked off because of all the vehicles and men.
After taking half an hour to travel four hundred metres (and no, I couldn’t turn off because there wasn’t anywhere to turn, except the Loire on my right and doors on my left) I eventually found a parking spot near the Tourist Information Centre. I parked, paid, walled up, and found … it didn’t open until 10! I went to post a letter, asked a council worker where Le Poste was, got given clear directions and walked up two blocks, then along the mall (which, like Melbourne, has trams running down it, so you have to walk on the footpath – brilliant planning!). Then I eventually found Le Poste and … it didn’t open until 2! I walked back to the Tourist Information Centre, which I found was about one hundred metres from where I was (I could have not gone the tourist route of about one kilometre) and it was now open. Could I have a list of chambre d’hotes for the region please? No, was the reply in clear English, we only have the one copy left, so you will have to read it here and make your selection. Can I have a map of the area, please? Certainly, and then I left.
I went to the next town down the road with a Tourist Information Centre, Meung Sur Loire. Found the Centre, but … it’s closed on Mondays! Off I went to the next town, Blois, hoping I would have success before I hit the coast, hundreds of kilometres away.
Here I was successful. After parking the car (and paying, and finding I didn’t have to, as it was lunchtime), I walked past a luxurious public toilet and sampled its wares. Then I found the Tourist Information Centre and got a list of chambre d’hotes for the region and a map, as was asked for my nationality in clear English. Robert Ritter, if you are listening, my French is really that bad! Going back to the car, I splurged on a chocolate donut. Not wishing to embarrass myself or others, I just pointed to the item in question, paid and got a “Thank you” back. Do I have a sign saying, “English only spoken” like the mark of Cain on my forehead?
Now back in the car, I selected a likely place, on its distance from highways and centralness to the region. Heading there, I called into Le Poste in a small village. I asked, signwise, for a stamp to go on an envelope to Australia, and got the cost given to me in English (memo to self: look carefully for the mark of English on forehead after shower in morning). Success with that emboldened me to ask about a parcel to go to Australia – yes, for seven kilograms (so I will have to pack it carefully) and I got it. I can post it at any post office in France, so may do it on the way back.
I headed out to the farmhouse I had selected (minus one false direction, where the SatNav wanted me to drive across a railway line where there was no crossing) and found it easily, booked in for two nights and then headed off along the Loire, eastwards. After I crossed it, I drove along the D915 and saw cooling towers for a power station (I presume coal, so I will find out at breakfast), shopped at a SuperU (reasonable cheap, especially for their generic brands), saw many canola fields, orchards, vineyards, ploughed fields, growing wheat and maize (corn) and the river a t a few points. Eventually I turned around and headed back. At the McDonald’s in Meung Sur Loire, I had some tea and sent out emails, as well as replying to a few. I also went into Le Leclerc, which is a French version of either a SuperWalMart or a BigW. Note that in France, McDonald’s does not fly a flag, but pennants (in Australia, McDonald’s flies a McDonald’s flag, but has to fly an Australian one sightly higher).
Then it was back to my accommodations. Fortunately, dear reader, the blight with which I had been accursed this late morn, had been lifted from mine ides and I brought my gear up, settled in, did the photo work and penned this journal entry with a thumbnail dipped in tar (now doesn’t that sound better than “typed my blog”, but cleaning the screen after is a real job), did some actual letters and postcard writing and then fell into the arms of Morpheus.