CHAPTER 58
Breakfast was not wonderful, but then we didn’t really expect something amazing in France. Nonetheless, there was a rose on our table for me.

Today was a day for ambling and rambling, and if that happened to be by way of a few French bakeries and cake shops, so much the better. We took a backpack each, with towel and costume, water and sunscreen, and cameras, of course. I was surprised when Tony led me back through the smelly tunnel, and then through some nondescript little back streets right into the middle of the Kremlin. That’s what it felt like, suddenly being presented with a miniature version of St Basil’s.

“I did quite a bit of research before I chose this trip, love” he laughed. “I have another surprise for you round the corner”

It turned out there was another railway station hidden away, a tourist line that led up into the hills, and he booked us a day trip for later in the week. A ride out, lunch, a stroll around in the sun. What had happened to my idea of lazing on a beach in between browsing the boutiques, hmm? We made our way back through the maze of one-way streets to the edge of the sea again, and I was amused firstly by the painted dachshunds on the kerbs indicating where you could let your dog shit near a drain the mess could be rinsed down, and secondly by my first sight of the typical Nice woman, looking innocently off into the distance as her little rat on a string shat right in the middle of the footpath.

I could imagine the conversation. “Dog? What dog? The one whose lead I’m holding? Oh, where the hell did THAT come from?”

Once again we crossed the road, and there was a ‘free’ beach near a broken bit of old pier, where some chairs sat empty on the pebbles. Tony did the magic towel dance to slip into his trunks, while I showed him how much easier it was to get into a two piece when wearing a skirt and T-shirt. He skipped off, still wearing his sandals on the hot shingle, to do his manly ocean thing, while I took a while to look around. Any lingering doubts I had about him wanting to come here to ogle topless French women vanished. There were naked tits everywhere, and I mean everywhere, but their owners looked as if they had been preserved in the same way as a good kipper, by smoking. Skins like shoe-leather sizzled in the sunshine, and I observed several women whose breasts only followed several seconds after they rolled their bodies over to burn the other side. And I thought my own tits were getting droopy.

It’s a girl thing, comparing your body with every other woman’s, and when their entire clothing consists of one small triangle and some string, it’s all too easy to get bitchy. Play nicely, Sarah!

Tony was back, with something in his hands. “I don’t know if it’s the way the pebbles give out onto sand out there, but there are coins everywhere! I’ve got enough here for about four pints later!”

So, those were his priorities. Beer won out over nearly naked French strumpets, at least when their average age seemed to be about ninety! I dried him, and oiled his back. That brought back a memory, of the day we first really got together, me washing his back n the bath that afternoon, my blouse so wet I had to change it. The feel of his solid muscles under my fingers was nice even without that memory, of course, but for a minute I was consumed utterly with thoughts of how far this man had brought me. I kissed the back of his neck, tasting the salt, and he murmured “What’s that for, love?”

“Because I want to and because I can, and because I love you”

I dashed off then, and threw myself into the water, and went looking for beer money.

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We ate in Old Nice that night, a sea food extravaganza that left an impressive pile of shells and carapaces, and then we walked out to the far side of the harbour, where the land rose up above rocky pools and private swimming areas. We looked back to the town over private ‘yachts’ the size of cross-Channel ferries, and as we shared a smooch I realised that almost everyone else there was male. We’d walked out to a gay cruising area, it seemed, so with a wry smile at the attention my boy was getting I led him back through the old town to the boulevards and back streets that took us to our hotel, where I proceeded to forcibly remove all of his clothing and ravish him mercilessly.

Well, perhaps not forcibly, but with the memories that had surfaced at the beach it was certainly quickly!

No, not quickly in that way.

Our train trip was magical. It was on what can only be called a rail bus, but I wondered what all the fuss was about as we rumbled and whined through suburbs of Nice. There was a running commentary in French which Tony translated for me, and I was just wondering if the shops would still be open when the uninspiring urban scenery was replaced by a spectacular gorge, with tunnels and a tumbling river. That was more like it! The gorge slowly opened out, and we passed a village called Annot, where huge boulders lay everywhere, the houses built right up against them. It was gorgeous, and I was happily slumped against a husband who knew when to give up window seats when we arrived at out lunchtime stop, Entrevaux. A great triangular flake of rock held the perfect miniature castle at the top, with a zigzag pathway to it up the front of the peak. Cameras were clicking and chirping away all through the little train as people rushed to get just the right viewpoint before the train pulled into the station.

We were herded along to our lunch stop like good little tourists by a guide waving a stick with a little tassel and, to be honest, I have eaten better, but also a lot, lot worse. A gizzard salad, I kid you not, followed by steak, chips and a lettuce leaf, and then…oh yes, chocolate mousse full of little bits of chocolate that had not been moussed or ground or whizzed, or whatever it is.

But, before that, we had cheese. Odd, the French, they eat their food in the wrong order. We shared a jug of pink wine, well chilled, and after strolling through the almost claustrophobic village we set out up the series of ramps that leads to the citadel, perched on its rock. Tony swore at me, at one point, because I had slipped a hydration bladder into my rucksack so could drink at any time, and he had to keep fishing for a bottle, but then my mother raised neither of her daughters to be stupid.

I write something like that now, and I do it without thinking. It is only when I realise what exactly I have put down that the reaction sets in. I don’t know if I will ever be free of that baggage, even though I have always known what I am. To be honest, I don’t know if I would ever want to be free of the knowledge, the understanding of what it means to be somebody born wrong. I am truly my own person, handmade and newly minted, and Pat’s sermon will always speak to me.

If I had been born the way my soul says I should have been, would I have been as strong as I know myself to be? Would I have been able to help someone like Alice; could I even have understood the hell she was living?

Back to the there and then. We panted our way up, and stumbled our way down, and then Tony really surprised me. I mean, with Russian cathedrals and narrow gauge railways he had certainly caught my attention, and miniature castles on blades of rock were keeping it going, but my man had trumped all that.

There was a museum in the village.

A museum of motorcycles. Sun, castles, spectacular scenery, chocolate, and now bikes. We wandered happily around for what seemed like minutes, but it was only the fact that I had set the alarm on my phone that got us to the train on time for our return to Nice. We ambled back to our hotel slightly footsore, and ate some lamb shanks that Tony said were called ‘mice’ in French, and I thanked him properly that evening. We were, after all, on honeymoon.

The days did run out, of course, and we had to pack up and trudge through the Tunnel of Piss to the station and our bus back to the airport. There was the usual stampede for seats, and then we were off, only half an hour late, and I was still, after all that, sneaking happy glances at my rings.

The sneaky sod had done it again, of course, and chosen a flight that would be met by his mates, including Steph, and we just had to natter and compare notes. That was cut short, when Tony reminded me that two people were awaiting us in the concourse. So, we shared our goodbyes around, and pushed the trolley through the two sets of doors to where Alice waited with Jim. He was clutching an unrolled banner wider than he was tall, which just read “Mum and Dad”, while Alice hung on to the lead of an exuberant Pie.

I found my other little present when we got home. It seems Steph and co had been at our bags before we got them, and while Tony’s bag now held a copy of “A Bluffer’s Guide to Sex”, mine just held a card with multiple signatures, and the words “Welcome Home Mr and Mrs Hall”

Yes, I did cry.