Brittany

“I remember growing up, when holidays took us with the predictability of the sunrise to a cottage in Brittany where the landscape was so similar to home as to make the whole thing seem almost as if the populace of a small French town had been moved to our back yard. I know people dream of visiting this place, think of it in some dream of rustic romance or something, but I was born and raised in the heart of the countryside. The biggest differences I could make out there was that I didn’t speak the language, and none of my friends were there.

Situated a ten minute walk from the large village it was ostensibly a part of, I’d spend many mornings trudging from our cottage, down the single car width road, kicking a stone with arcing, lazy sweeps of my leg, jumping up onto the bank of grass at either side if a vehicle of any sort approached, daring myself to touch the electric fence which I’d prod at with a stick or throw things into, but never actually touching it regardless of how much I wanted to. I don’t know why, I suppose I was just curious, like when you put your tongue to the tip of a battery.

Somehow, as the years passed, I failed to pick up any substantial amount of the language. The older people in the village who ran the bakery and worked in the shops, generally spoke enough English to communicate with me, saving me the effort of having to make an effort, while the children – surprisingly few I always thought – were wholly uninterested in yet another migratory English kid sniffing shyly around the outer perimeter of the park or market place or wherever it was they happened to be on that particular day, and I was far too shy to instigate any kind of stunted conversation or hint that I’d like to play or hang out with them. Still, I’d watch them sometimes, from a distance, in the park, underneath a tree with a stick in my hand, slapping it absentmindedly against the trunk, or in the village itself where sometimes I’d be able to walk right through the middle of their game faux oblivious or aloofly, depending on my mood.

On one occasion I did get to play football with them, solely to even up the numbers. I stood between two jumpers at the stream end of the pitch and resigned myself to picking the ball out of the water when I predictably failed to get my body between it and a further addition to the opponents’ rising score. My existence hardly even acknowledged, even by my team mates, it was a far more demoralising experience than being completely ignored.

That’s not to give the impression the holidays were a wholly unpleasant experience. I fear a retrospective self pity is setting in here. After all, there’s always perks to be found in going unrecognised. Once I was out of the cottage, I led a blissfully hassle free, if occasionally lonely, existence. I was left to roam where I pleased and, on the rare occasions when someone did try to speak to me, they were invariably wasting their breath. Feeling like a regular Tom Sawyer, I’d cut across fields, beating a path with a stick, ducking into corn or whatever tall crops I was amongst, at the slightest hint of another person, and build myself secluded hideaways where I could sit, wiling away whole days in daydreams and idle speculation, watching cloud patterns shifting, splitting and merging, forging lazy constellations in mockery of the rigid order of the night sky. It was a revelation; coming from a village where everybody knew me as ‘the boy from the shop’ it was impossible to go anywhere unnoticed. I found the idea of anonymity exhilarating. Quite what this did for an already shy and insecure boy when he returned home and had to restart school is beside the point. For two weeks every year I was free to indulge my imagination and become whatever I wanted.

And then there was the coast. Beaches, ragged cliff tops coated in heather and gorse, bright patches of purple and yellow. As years passed, I became allowed to walk the couple of miles to the beach on my own, though I was always told to steer clear of the cliffs, the one place that held a true fascination for me. I wasn’t one for climbing. As a child I was too overweight to take to it effectively, but to walk along a cliff top – especially with the added excitement of not being allowed to – to look down at the sea, the rocks, or just the sand and people, from above. The sights, the smells, the cold, strong wind…

That was when I saw the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. A proper old fashioned galleon. It was sailing close to the shore, its sailed blown out into big white vertical mounds, propelling it forwards and onwards. I couldn’t believe it. It literally took my breath away. It made me feel, its hard to put into words exactly, but it was like the whole of the world, all of history opened up for me and everything was possible. It was the most magical thing I’ve ever seen.

Anyway, I was found later by a member of the search party, lying in a pool of blood. There was no way to tell how long I’d been unconscious. I was in hospital for most of the rest of that trip while the doctors did tests to make sure the concussion wasn’t going to cause permanent damage. They scanned my brain and gave me tests. They were pretty nice to me really, but the food sucked. I mean, it was mainly soup, because I hadn’t had my new teeth made yet. My mouth was mainly a hole of pain and despair. I’d only had my braces taken out at the start of that year. I was getting myself ready to do some serious kissing.

There’s not really much else to say about it. I never saw who did it. Or if I did, I never remembered. My wallet and bag were never found, obviously. Or my trainers. They were brand new before the holiday too. I remember that much.

I still think that whoever hit me crept up on me while I was watching that galleon gliding out and away to wherever it was going, but my parents think it was a dream I had while I was unconscious.”            

“Ok,” she said. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”

        “I haven’t?”

        “No.”

        “Oh.”

        “Well?” She asked.

        “No,” I said. “I don’t want to spend a week in bloody Brittany with your parents.”