Fly off

The Loire looks harmless enough

A peaceful lunch in Vouvray before trouble arrives


I could kick myself. Here I was procrastinating, wasting my time. Indecisive, unsure of myself, doubting my ability to stand up to the ogres that I was shortly to meet. Was that the way to face up to the challenge in front of me? Are people who practice survival of the fittest in all they do, squeamish about the details? Of course not, they sit down to an elaborate Christmas lunch while the soldiers kill the women and children in Iraq. No weak stomach there. A nation admired and courted by the Russian mafia, and before that, Al Qaeda, both of whom found a welcome mat in London.

So forthwith I set off for Tours airport, determination in my every step. I took the quick route. Normally I would go the long way round and admire my two favourite roundabouts. Very well designed and maintained in a Japanese style with pinus sylvestris, hornbeam and graminées. No time to finesse today, I was meeting people who can do no better in roundabouts than stinging nettles and broken crash barriers.

I was quickly at Tours airport. It was used by Churchill during the war before the armistice and later by NATO. The latter were told to ‘fly off’ by the Général. Which they did, in a sulk. There is unlimited free parking at 100 m from the entrance and only one check in counter and boarding gate. An airport right sized if ever there was one.

Well finally I was early after all. So I sat down at the little café to have another espresso. The action had distracted my mind from my dark thoughts, but these came crowding in again. I saw the 1 million Irish dying from famine. I imagined pompous aristocrats in the newly rebuilt Palace of Westminster announcing that the world was a better place without these feckless individuals. Was I feckless also? Was I as easily expendable as the aborigines of Australia? Then, in my minds eye, I saw the faces of the travellers in the plane, with that monstrous crowd psychology which overtakes the Brits as they escape from their isle. The grotesque faces, distorted by alcohol. The grins from deformed ear to deformed ear. They started to chant; ‘We’ll get you, we’ll get you, You frog’. Soon they would be overhead, they would make a swoop over the airport with their ill maintained, vibrating, gnashing engines. I would see the gaps in their teeth, smell the bad breath.

I was terrified.

I found time for my favourite roundabout afterall