Pilgrim's Road

plentiful in France than in Britain and have become quite a problem. The local councils try to keep them out of the general camp sites as they have a depressing effect upon tourism. Coming into contact with just a few of them gave me some sympathy for the authorities, though there is the question of providing adequate facilities for the travellers, which is not being met. Certainly these people didn’t fit into the usual civilised French camping scene. Free-ranging lurcher dogs and tough children beating up the place on high-revving miniature motor bikes most effectively shattered the peace. The women had completely taken over the toilet block to do their mountain of washing, while their sinister-looking men took turns to patrol endlessly up and down within yards of my tent, staring boldly and fixedly at me each time they came level. Having such a small and adaptable tent, I can pitch it almost anywhere, and on this occasion I had chosen a spot under the peripheral belt of trees so as to be as far away as possible from the noise and commotion, so the prowling men had to go out of their way to pass so closely. I didn’t think their behaviour was anything more threatening than the unfocused hostility of a minority group whose life-style attracted so much official harassment, but it made me nervous, and I didn’t feel I could leave the tent or the bicycle unguarded.
    It turned very cold in the night, and I hadn’t the energy to crawl out and pile on more clothing, but burrowed down more deeply into the sleeping bag instead, warming myself with my own breathing. I slept quite well in spite of the travellers, because before I’d turned in I had made the acquaintance of a German couple, Ilse and Dirk, who were also using the site that night and whose caravan was parked not far away, so I did not feel so completely isolated among strangers as I had earlier. I had met them passing to and fro from the shower block, and we had exchanged the usual pleasantries, commenting on the weather and the paucity of camping sites. Later they had invited me into their smart, neat caravan for coffee, and then pressed me to stay for a meal.
    It was obvious that there was something physically very wrong with Dirk, he looked so ill and frail, and I must have said something or asked a question that invited confidence, or we might not otherwise have progressed beyond safe conversational topics. They appeared to be very self-contained people, but having begun, the relief of talking openly, especially with a stranger, overcame barriers, and they told me that Dirk was suffering from a virulent form of osteoporosis and had not long to live. The illness had been brought on by drugs prescribed, he said, for a completely different and far less serious condition, and he had been fighting the effects for a year or so, during which time his stature had been shrinking dramatically. He was determined now to use what time he had left to the full, which was why they were making this trip through the French countryside which he and Ilse had always loved. They couldn’t wait for warmer weather, because already Dirk was finding it very tiring to drive far, or indeed to move about much at all, and they had been forced to exchange their more manoeuvrable motor home for a caravan in order to provide greater comfort for him. I could see he was not the sort of man who would give up any activity without a struggle, and that poor Use would have to watch and be unable to intervene or help in any way until he allowed her to, and I thought the ordeal they were living through was probably far more heart-breaking for her than for Dirk himself.
    I learnt that he was a highly successful man financially, and owned an international computer concern which he ran with his son. But since his illness his ideas had altered and his priorities had changed, he said. Now he wished his son would explore life a little more while he was still young, and think of money and responsibilities a little less. I asked him jokingly if he would prefer a son like mine, who was much the same age as his, but who was a confirmed wanderer; a young man who spent his life sailing the seas single-handed, owning nothing other than the small boat he lived in, and working only when he needed to top up his bank balance. I expected him to reply in the same vein, with something like ‘perhaps an amalgam of the two young men might be a good thing’. Instead, Dirk said solemnly that I should be happy to