Having decided to confine ourselves to the pleasures of France, and not to visit Italy after all, we turned southwards from Bourg d’Oisans to a little place called Les Vigneaux just south of Briancon. This was quite a hard decision to make as we both wanted to see Italy, or at least part of it, but the problem was where to go and where not to go. Once on the road, it is very difficult to say ’So far and no further’, because the view from the top of the next hill is always beckoning. But the distances are great, and we are now starting to look at just how far it is to get back to our starting point. So far we have covered about 7000 kilometres which is a fair amount of countryside!
So there we were, on the way to Les Vigneaux. First, though we had to negotiate the mountain pass of Col du Lautaret. This rises up to 2058 metres above sea level and one is certainly aware of the thinness of the air when walking around there. Just to make us realise how weak and unfit we are, a group of cyclists appeared just as I was taking o photograph of the notice board giving the height of the pass!
Further along the way, we stopped at Briancon as we had read that the ‘Old Town’, dating from the time of Louis XIV, was pretty much still intact. And so it is, with it’s lovely tall, old-fashioned houses cosily leaning towards each other like children sharing secrets. A stream still runs down the centre of the very steep main street, but is a lot cleaner than it probably was in time gone by. The street is so steep, that there are notices posted at the entrance to the town advising against running. No doubt a tumble could end up as a crumpled heap at the bottom of the hill! But for all its age, the little town was not particularly picturesque, and we felt that possibly more could have been made of it. But perhaps we are being too critical. Possibly villages in the Middle Ages were drab, dark and dank and it is only the modern tourist who demands flower boxes bright with geraniums to liven the scene.
On leaving our campsite the following morning, we stopped in a tiny town called L’Argentieres, where silver was mined many centuries ago, to buy a tube of silicon sealer. We had discovered that our ‘grey water’ tank (the one that holds washing-up and hand-basin water) was leaking and needed to fix it. However ‘silicon sealer’ is not the sort of phrase one finds in a tourist phrase book, but, armed only with self-confidence we went into this tiny hardware shop. Well, tiny it may have been, but the amount of stock would have made any giant hardware chain-store proud. It was packed so tight one could hardly get to the shelves. There was already one person in the shop and with the two of us and the owner behind the counter, it was really full! The other person turned out to be a supplier’s representative and readily joined in the conversation, supplying odd words here and there when our French failed us and the owner’s English couldn’t keep up. It took about half an hour but when we left, having been first mistaken for English and then being welcomed with open arms because we are South African (you know – rugby, Mandela and ‘Le Cap’), not only did we have something which we think may work but we also had made some new friends.
Our next adventure was not of the pleasant variety and is certainly one which I wouldn’t want to repeat in a hurry. Neels suddenly developed agonising pain in his lower back and nothing that we had available was helping. By now we had realised that the campsite that we were now in had only French-speakers in it, including the management, except for one young fellow who was sometimes on duty in reception. Aware that we would have to summon a doctor, and fairly quickly too, I went to reception and was thankful to discover that the one English speaker was on duty. That’s not to say he is fluent, but between his English and my French, I managed to get the message across. However, when he asked what I thought the problem was, I was completely stumped but eventually came out with ‘un Pierre du rien’ (a rock of the kidney). He quickly translated that into more acceptable French and passed the message on. A doctor was soon on the scene, but seemed unable or unwilling to make up mind as to what the problem was, gave Neels an injection and left again, with the traditional doctor’s maxim of ‘If it isn’t better in three days call me again’. Well, it certainly wasn’t better and after a very disturbed night, I returned to reception to ask them to call the doctor again. Perhaps it was a good thing that his offices were closed and the campsite owner, who had now also got into the act, called her own doctor, bundled us into her car and rushed us into town. There a very pleasant and efficient lady doctor did a number of rapid tests and confirmed that it was, indeed, a ‘rock in the kidney’ and gave Neels another injection. This one, though had an almost instantaneous effect and within hours he was more comfortable. Meanwhile, the owner continued to go out of her way to help us. She later drove me back into town to fetch the medicines which had been prescribed; she phoned the District Nurse and arranged for her to come and give the rest of the course of injections over the next two days; and took me to the supermarket to get some much needed groceries, insisting that it was something she also needed to do, although I noticed that all she bought was some bread and a box of tissues! They have all been kindness itself and we are immensely grateful to them. Having a serious health problem is never fun but having it when you are almost unable to communicate is extremely stressful. They say though that every cloud has a silver lining and how right they are. I have a whole lot more words to add to my French vocabulary including the word for ‘kidney stone’!
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