THE LONELINESS OF THE BELLS

Another  tasty   Filthy  French  Postcard  from  nomadic   Peter  and  Judi   Burleigh who arrive  back  in  Paris  from a soujourn  in Yugoslavia to resume  the  hard  life on  their cruiser
 

A segue, in case you haven’t looked it up in your Webster’s, is a kind of dissolve from one scene to another. It can vary in length from a few seconds to a few days. We  segued in France for nine days so we   could re-educate ourselves about the higher qualities of self-indulgence. After that we had to escape again – this time to that non-Schengen stronghold, Tunisia.

Darren and Mark came over from the UK for three days. They are good friends and know  three days is the maximum you can live on a boat together. Not only that, they are our international benchmark of what it is to be indulgent and they have surpassed us in almost every way, having started conspicuously consuming in Australia before we did. We have tested our joint stamina for Champagne and Pate and find that three days is the limit for our own livers, hearts and other vital organs to withstand the onslaught of fats, spices, sugar and alcohol. More than three days and these organs will burst out of our bodies and slither screaming into the sunset.

For your information, the best Trattoria in the world is in the French city of Dole. It’s on the left opposite the Petit Casino supermarket as you climb the main street. Look out for the two dark red awnings. It sells exquisite marinated prawns, duck liver pate with truffles, quail pies, smoked eel, rare cheeses, heartbreakingly beautiful berry tarts and probably other outlandish luxuries like Sparrow Breasts and barbequed Swan Hearts. It’s outrageously expensive and outrageously wonderful.

We pretend to go cruising in a different direction but consensus pulls us back to Dole. When you’re home, you’re home, so we moor there and don’t move again until all three of us are pale, our wallets anaemic, and we’ve used all the plates, utensils and glasses on the boat…While this decadent behaviour is happening on De Vlinder, tourists flock to the birthplace of Louis Pasteur, just a quail’s throw from our rear deck. He was born in a stream-fronted street of tanneries which runs along the bottom of Dole’s main hill. In these tanneries hides were stripped and soaked in chemicals, washed, shaved, scraped and de-scummed direct into the stream.It must have reeked like a Labor Party branch-stacking .

 

All aquatic life for fifty miles was dead or mutated. No wonder little Louis took an interest in purifying beer and milk, two products which had an excellent record for making people sick. Today, of course, every damn thing is sanitized. When you visit Dole and think how pretty the Rue des Tanneries is, remember your memory of the worst smell you’ve ever encountered and apply it in front of Louis Pasteur’s childhood home. You may never wear leather or drink milk or beer ever again.

The bells sound from the church at the top of the hill. They are tolling for we, who have maintained Saint Hedonism’s cultural heritage for another year but resent being woken up by some guy in a cassock jumping up and down with a rope with a bell on it. Respect is what it’s all about. NEXT: More exotic locations .