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I stopped the bus next to the river that day; I turned off the motor and I was far from knowing that my life was about to take a sharp turn.

“OK Fleche, you know the old folks home over in Barjac, tomorrow you’ll take the seniors from “les Pins Penches” (The Bent Pines) on their annual picnic. You’ll drive the SAVIEM bus, the blue one, and you get all those beautiful people back home by 6 p.m. OK?” commanded my boss.

 There were a good thirty of the little old folks slowly descending the bus. Some of them had crutches, others limped along like race horses that failed to negotiate the obstacle.

When we set out the tablecloths and installed the folding chairs on the grass ledge of the river, they were all laughing like kids The sun was on our side and the day showed great promise.

It was Fernand with his Belleville accent and his quivering mustache who started everything.  “OK guys! we have to get a move on and get the fishing rods ready because the sandwiches fixed by the rest home are only good for filling potholes. And I’ll give my right hand if this river isn’t full of sunfish and gudgeon. You’d better believe that I never turned down a fish-fry of gudgeon! Let’s go guys, en route!”

In a flash the fishing rods were mounted and a good dozen of the old geezers were excitedly watching their bobbers.

 “We should use corn as bait!” insisted Leon from the Perigord.

“No, no!” cried Fermand, “chum the water with buckwheat balls! It’s the only thing!”

“Buckwheat my ass!” said Robert. “Me, I have always used DUDULE. With Dudule, it’s the fish that pull!” It’s written right on the package and its really true!”

“Look at this… a gudgeon… and it’s only the first one… We’re off to the races guys. Tonight we are going to feast, didn’t I tell you!”

And it’s true that at lunchtime, after the aperitif, the aroma of fresh fish being fried permeated the campsite. Of course they invited me to the feast and I have to admit that the meal was a taste of paradise. The entire little fish, ungutted (“You have to eat everything, it’s the tripes that give it the savage taste”, affirmed Brigitte, the tobacconist’s widow from Bessas.)

We had barely finished our dessert, canned pears in syrup, when old Helene cried out: “What the fuck, something bit me in the back…  damn it, somebody help me!” she screamed wriggling around.

The grand doors of Sodom and Gomorrah opened and Jean-Louis was the first to profit; impetuously he moved onto Helene, in spite of her bird-like screeches, he tore the clothes off the poor old woman. In truth, the screeches rapidly transformed into a cooing sound of parakeets in heat and Jean-Louis found himself revisiting his lively adolescence.

Me, I didn’t want to look, first out of a sense decency and frankly, I didn’t want to disturb them. But the wine and the sun was at work… a quarter of an hour after the first episode, the whole colony was fornicating like dogs in heat and it wasn’t the HA and OUMD! it was Ole! and yes, yes, yes and you’re hurting me, you crazy fool!

 Even the great Bruegel would have had a problem imagining an orgy of this magnitude! It wasn’t only wrinkled skirts, bras hanging from branches, plates overturned, old tittys in the air, skinny legs, hanging buttocks… but it was a scene of an extravagant force and of great beauty.

As for the general siesta that followed, even the cicadas and the crickets were quiet so as not to disturb anyone. Watteau and Boucher would have been pale with envy. It only lacked, for accompaniment, a few notes of a clavichord and the viola de gamba to make the scene perfect.

When they woke, the little old ladies and little old men were in an olympic form but I could see that something was not right.

It was Raoul who took the initative, he cleared his throat and spoke to me.

“Fleche, we have something very important to tell you. Well, here goes… We have decided not to return to the “Bent Pines”. That’s it. We don’t want to check our of this world watching the dumb TV and eating that shit that even the dogs won’t touch. Now then, If you decide to help us and drive us southward, that would really be fantastic of you.”

This is a prayer, one filled with common sense, how could anyone resist? That’s the reason that, after a stop at the Casino of Monte-Carlo where Brigitte won enough to buy champagne for everyone, I’m writing you this letter from the Isle of Capri in Italy. We are camping on the beach and the real men are busy catching the fish for tonight’s fish-fry.

The sunset is splendid and life is wonderful.