Our House is Certainly Not in Paris by Susan Cutsforth

Author:Susan Cutsforth [Cutsforth, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Travel Writing
ISBN: 9781922129321
Publisher: Melbourne Books

41

Le Tour De France

On the morning of our much-anticipated outing to watch the Tour de France in the nearby town of Souillac, I vigorously resist venturing out to la grange to check the kittens; they are not mine after all. It has not made matters any better though when over dîner the previous night, Stuart glanced out the window and remarked that ‘our cat’ was walking down the road to the village. ‘Non, non,’ I protest. ‘It is not our le chat.’

The Tour de France is going to pass just three kilometres away from Cuzance in the nearby village of Cressensac. There has been much discussion and speculation for weeks with our friends about the best vantage point. Stuart has long had his strategy worked out. He’s determined to go to Souillac to see the cyclists tackle the steep hill just over the Dordogne. While Cressensac is very close, it is flat and they will simply pass by without the challenge end exertion of a vertical climb. He has even worked out precisely where to park, at Point P, Materiaux de Construction – a place he is very familiar with from ordering our sand and gravel. It is on the outskirts, will not be crowded and we should easily find a place to park. When Dominique and Gérard give us a copy of the local paper, La Dépêche, it is exactly the place that is suggested for locals to park. Our strategy and time to leave is further revised when Jean-Claude tells us that the main roads into Souillac will be closed from 9.30 am. He advises us to go on the back roads that only locals know, a circuitous route that goes through the hamlet with the delightful name, Le Pigeon.

Day after day, the sun plays hide-and-seek with the clouds. On the Tour de France day, we are very lucky – it is not wet nor too cold or hot. The weather gods are on our side. We park on the outskirts of Souillac an hour before the tour whizzes through. As we walk from near the ancient, soaring stone viaduct, to find a viewing position, an efficient, alert gendarme enquires where we parked. I am able to reply ‘Derriere, du pont,’ – ‘Behind the viaduct.’ So simple, yet I am so pleased with myself to be able to tell him.

With a throng of other followers of le Tour, we walk to the edge of the town centre. Our plan is to walk up the steep hill near a roundabout at the end of the main street, so we can see the cyclists pick up speed and swish up the incline. As we near the roundabout, there are thick crowds already lining each side of the hill. Clearly, many have been there for hours, judging by the way they are set up with their folding chairs and picnic hampers. It is then we spot the perfect vantage point, a curved, arching wall that runs parallel to the hill. Behind it is a narrow road, lined with houses.

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