It began, as the best weeks invariably do, at a table. Les Grands Buffets in Narbonne — that magnificent, slightly delirious temple to the French conviction that more is not enough, and that what is needed is considerably more — played host to four of us who had arrived by train from Carcassonne like a small delegation of serious eaters. Chris and Julia, visiting from the UK and thus still unaccustomed to the particular French philosophy that lunch is not a meal but a commitment, were there for the first time. One could chart their progression through the experience: initial polite curiosity, then widening eyes, then a sort of reverential silence usually reserved for cathedrals. They were, in a word, impressed. In several words, they were very impressed indeed.
“One could chart their progression: initial polite curiosity, then widening eyes, then a sort of reverential silence usually reserved for cathedrals.”
Wednesday brought departures, plural, and of varying emotional weight. Chris and Julia pointed themselves westward — a meandering trajectory that would eventually deliver them to Santander and a boat back to Albion. One wished them fair seas and, perhaps more usefully, a digestive pause before attempting the Bay of Biscay.
MEANWHILE, IN THE GARAGE
The second departure of the day was rather less festive. The money — that decisive, irrevocable money — had finally arrived in the bank account, and with it came the new owner of a certain Citroën Méhari, known in these pages and in my heart as the Turtle 🐢.Papers were signed at the kitchen table with the quiet solemnity of a notarial act. Keys changed hands. And then, with a cheerfulness that I found faintly indecent, the new owner drove it away. I watched until the familiar profile — that improbable, loveable, plastic-bodied absurdity — disappeared around the corner. There may or may not have been something in my eye. There was definitely something in my eye.
I should, in the interests of historical accuracy and domestic harmony, note for the record that the sale was emphatically not my idea. The decision originated with my better half, who, in her wisdom, determined that one classic car fewer was the appropriate direction of travel. I have registered my position. It has been noted. Whether it will be forgotten is, I suspect, a matter on which she and I hold differing views, and on which I intend to remain gently persistent for approximately the remainder of our marriage.
“The decision originated with my better half. I have registered my position. It has been noted. Whether it will be forgotten is a matter on which we hold differing views.”
NORTH BY NORTH-WEST
Fortunately, Thursday arrived before grief could fully take hold. We were up early — the kind of early that requires a level of motivation not normally accessible before coffee — and the borrowed car was pointed north. Seven hundred kilometres stood between us, the 4 valiant friends, and the Circuit de la Sarthe. Seven hundred kilometres of motorway, péage booths, and building anticipation, at the end of which lay Le Mans, the race, the noise, the spectacle, and one of the genuine highlights of the calendar year.
What followed at that legendary circuit warrants its own telling — several tellings, in fact — and they will duly appear on this page in the days to come. For now, suffice it to say that the Turtle’s absence had been, if not entirely forgotten, at least temporarily drowned out by the rather more emphatic sound of prototype machinery at full chat. Some remedies are louder than others. This one was extremely loud.
Nine o’clock. On the dot. Bags packed, gîte left in a condition that would not disgrace a TripAdvisor review, and four slightly battered but thoroughly happy Le Mans veterans pointing the Audi Q5 south toward civilisation. The blue sky — which had, to its enormous credit, shown up reliably all weekend — stretched ahead of us like a promise, the motorway was mercifully quiet, and at a steady 130km/h the Q5 hummed along with the serene silence of a car that has absolutely no idea what a naturally aspirated V8 sounds like and is frankly better off for it.
Seven hundred kilometres lay between us and home, via the grand tour of Tours, Bordeaux, Toulouse and beyond — which sounds like either a very ambitious holiday itinerary or a moderately ambitious wine list. Roughly halfway, just north of Bordeaux, the universal law of road trips asserted itself: someone needed lunch. A pitstop was called at Chez Le Brasseur in Aubière, a restaurant chain making its debut appearance in my personal culinary logbook.
The verdict? Food simple, solid and good. The beer — and this is important — excellent. Should one of their establishments appear in my path again, I shall not resist. Consider this an unsolicited but sincere endorsement.
Back on the road by early afternoon, we threaded around Toulouse with the timing of people who have either done this before or been extremely lucky, avoiding the commuter traffic entirely. One by one, the passengers were delivered to their respective homes like very tired parcels, and I, the last to be dropped off at, finally crossed my own threshold with the satisfied air of a man who has done something thoroughly worth doing.
Time to Reflect
All things considered, the weekend was a triumph. The plan was followed almost to the letter — remarkable for any group of humans, let alone a group who had just spent 48 hours in the company of 350,000 racing fans. The race itself was genuinely nail-biting, the kind of finish that reminds you why you make the journey in the first place. The weather was glorious. The gîte was pleasant and well located — though whoever stocked the kitchen clearly believed that cooking consists entirely of boiling water, since sharp knives, salad bowls and frying pans were conspicuous by their absence. Most unforgivably of all, in a French household, there was no corkscrew. No corkscrew. I trust the appropriate authorities have been notified. I wrote a review. It was diplomatic but honest, which is the best one can do.
I do have two small regrets — both involving my three rookies, who deserved the full Le Mans initiation. First, the Pit Lane walk on Friday afternoon, cruelly denied to us by the particular category of our tickets. Second, the 24 Hours Museum, which we walked past on Saturday late afternoon only to find queues of a length that suggested people had been lining up since roughly 2019. A Sunday morning visit might have been the smarter play, though I confess I didn’t push it — I’ve been inside several times and while I understand there have been changes, it was not my personal priority. The rookies, however, shall not escape it in 2027. I am already making mental notes.
The team itself was a joy. First trip together, no dramas, no casualties, harmonious throughout. That, in its own right, is a result worth celebrating.
And Already, The Future Beckons
The ink was barely dry on the journey home before I had fired off a message to the original Le Mans Gang — veterans of previous years, people who understand without explanation why you would willingly drive 700km to stand in a field in the dark listening to brake discs glow. Two replied almost immediately. They’re in for 2027.
There are mornings when you spring out of bed refreshed and ready to conquer the world. This was not one of them. Emerging sometime around 9am, I felt less like a seasoned motorsport veteran and more like something the Cadillac had dragged in. Whether it was the excitement of the previous day keeping my brain in perpetual fifth gear, or simply the universe’s cruel sense of humour, sleep had been in very short supply. Coffee was not optional.
The plan, hatched with the strategic brilliance of a WEC pit crew, was elegantly simple: return to the track late morning, soak up three hours of racing glory, and make a dignified early exit before 300,000 fans simultaneously decided they all needed to be somewhere else. As it turned out, this was an excellent plan — particularly given that we later learned this year’s attendance had smashed records with over 350,000 spectators. One does like to be ahead of the crowd, quite literally.
Our route back to the circuit took us once again through the thriving metropolis of Ecommoy, where a brief tactical stop at the supermarket allowed us to replenish supplies with the quiet efficiency of a team topping up a fuel tank. From there, on through Mulsanne, Ruaudin and the southern outskirts of Le Mans — a road that would have been an automotive car park the previous day, but which today flowed beautifully. Our trusty “secret” parking spot received us like an old friend, and moments later we were back inside the circuit, taking up position just behind the Goodyear Bridge — formerly the Dunlop Bridge, for those of us old enough to remember — where the cars hurtle downhill toward the Esses and the beginning of the legendary Hunaudières straight.
And what a time to arrive. With just three hours left on the clock, seven Hypercars were still on the same lap after 21 hours of racing. Seven. The lead was swapping between the Cadillac and the Toyota with the kind of frequency that makes pit walls simultaneously exciting and ulcer-inducing. At moments like this, strategy is everything — one mistimed stop, one extra splash of fuel, one overly optimistic tyre call, and a race can be won or lost in the pit lane rather than on the track.
Watching such drama unfold in blazing midday sunshine is, it must be said, thirsty and hungry work. The food stands were helpfully located just a few metres away, and unhelpfully patronised by several thousand people with exactly the same idea. The queues were long but not unconquerable, and eventually we emerged victorious, dishes and drinks in hand, in search of a table.
We found ourselves sitting next to a charming local French family, and conversation struck up with the ease that only Le Mans seems to produce between total strangers. The father, it emerged, had a friend who regularly rents out his house in Arnage during race week. My ears pricked up with the speed of a naturally aspirated V8 at full chat. Cards were exchanged. Promises were made. One lives in hope.
By just after 2pm, the strategic withdrawal was initiated. We hit the road back toward the gîte, pausing — naturally — at a rather lovely auberge that simply could not be ignored. Some decisions make themselves. Back at base, Radio Le Mans kept us faithfully updated, and the news, when it came, was bittersweet: Toyota took the victory, followed by BMW and the second Toyota. The Cadillac, which had led and thrilled and given Charlie so much hope, was nudged off the podium entirely. Somewhere, Charlie was staring into his drink with the thousand-yard stare of a man who had dared to believe.
As for the rest of us, the evening assembled itself in the most agreeable fashion possible. Some lingered outside in the warmth. I, exercising the hard-won wisdom of a man in his post-Le Mans condition, opted for a pre-aperitif nap of entirely non-negotiable necessity. I regret nothing.
Then aperitifs, pizzas from the oven, crisp salads, and another easy, happy evening outside — trading stories, reliving moments, and collectively pretending we weren’t all a little bit sad it was over. When the first stars appeared, I took it as my cue. A long drive awaited the next day, our legs had covered what felt like a small continent over the past few days, and the 24 Hours — that magnificent, exhausting, glorious, unmissable 24 Hours — was done.
Until next year, Le Mans. We’ll be back. We always come back.
The words that make every other day of the year feel like a rehearsal.
I had, as is my custom, a plan. A proper one. Not the kind scribbled on a napkin at midnight and forgotten by morning, but a real plan — timestamped, sequenced, mentally rehearsed. Years of Le Mans have taught me that the race itself is chaos, so everything leading up to it must be controlled with military precision. The goal: depart by 9:30. The result: departure at 9:30. Some things in this world still work.
The route took us along the B road to Écommoy, which is where the plan encountered its first minor amendment. Three of my companions had, the day prior, purchased Le Mans shirts with the sort of optimism that ignores the fundamental rule of souvenir shopping: check the size. None of the three pairs were correct. A detour to the Super U was therefore not a detour — it was a logistical necessity. The exchange was handled with impressive Gallic efficiency, a few additional items found their way into the basket (as they always do), and we were back on the road without any meaningful damage to the schedule.
From there, the motorway north, the cross-town manoeuvre to avoid the predictable carnage around the official car parks, and then — the secret parking spot. A few hundred yards from a track entrance. My track entrance. I have been protecting this location with the same discretion one reserves for offshore accounts and good tailors. It worked, as it has before. My reputation among the group, carefully cultivated over many years of “trust me on this,” remained intact.
We walked in, crossed the Dunlop Bridge — which Goodyear now insists on calling the Goodyear Bridge, an act of corporate optimism I refuse to dignify — and made our way through the Village, that cheerful labyrinth of merchandise, beer, and overpriced sandwiches that guards the approach to the real business. Our first stop was my preferred establishment, patronised loyally for the past three years. Standards maintained. Beers acceptable. The kind of place that rewards return custom.
Time moves at its own pace on race day. There was the obligatory diversion into the official ACO shop — I am not made of stone — where I acquired the latest LM24 polo shirt, because some traditions must be honoured. Then the long walk south to T29, our grandstand at the Porsche Curves, drink in hand, the crowds thickening with every step.
By 3pm we were in our seats. One hour to the start. On the large screen opposite, the grid was already assembled — 60-odd cars, mechanics making their final calculations, TV crews searching for faces to point cameras at, the whole magnificent circus on its marks.
The plan had delivered us here, on time, in good spirits, with appropriate refreshments.
Everything else was now up to the cars.
There is something truly electric about the hour before the start. The country hymn rings out and echoes around the circuit, spectators rise to their feet, the trophy is delivered dramatically by paratroopers, and then finally, before the official 4pm start, comes the formation lap — the first chance for the crowd to see all the cars pass at a more modest speed. A few minutes before four o’clock, the cars line up behind the safety car for the starting lap, and then at 4pm precisely, the rolling start is unleashed and the race is on.
It doesn’t matter where you are watching from — you can track the leaders simply by following the TV news helicopters hovering in the sky, and within three and a half minutes, the cars appear. Who will be first? The noise is absolutely deafening, and already a clear gap has opened between the Hypercars and the LMP2s, and again between the LMP2s and the LMGT3s. For me, it is always a serious case of goosebumps.
You then have around three minutes before the cars come around again, and you use the time to learn to tell them apart. Some you can identify by sound alone — the Cadillac and the Aston Martin Valkyrie, with their distinctive naturally aspirated engines, are a classic example. Within six or seven laps, the Hypercars are already catching the LMGT3s, and from that point on it becomes a more or less constant flow of cars passing by.
After a couple of hours — a stretch in which an entire Formula 1 race would have long been over — we decide to make our way back to the main start and finish straight. The crowd has thickened considerably in the meantime, making progress a little slower, with an obligatory stop for another drink along the way. The cars continue to whizz past just a few metres away.
By then, my suggestion of heading back to the car and driving into town to escape the noise and the dust is warmly agreed upon. Less than an hour later, we are sitting in a brasserie right in the heart of Le Mans, on the Place des Jacobins behind the cathedral, enjoying a relaxed dinner outside.
We take our time, and when dusk finally settles over the city, we make our next bold move — back to the car and on to the Arnage corner.
Easier said than done. Every year it feels as though the police have changed the route, and it takes a couple of attempts before we find the right lane. The distant roar of the cars helps confirm we are heading in the right direction. Once parked, it is fully dark, and the 500-metre walk to the track entrance is quite an adventure in itself.
For me, standing on the small hill at Arnage is the finest sensation Le Mans has to offer. Listening to the cars accelerating hard out of Indianapolis and then braking sharply for the tight 90-degree right-hander, all in the pitch dark — and seeing the red glow of the brake discs — is simply impossible to put into words. It is something you must experience for yourself.
Reluctantly, we have to leave by 1am for the almost hour-long drive back to our gîte in La Roche Racan. I am in bed by two in the morning, still buzzing from the day. I open the WEC+ app for a final check on the latest positions before closing my eyes — for what will be a far too short night after an excellent, unforgettable day.
McLarens, andouilette and a Bourbon under the stars
A thousand classics, one monumental disappointment at the pit lane gate, and the sort of evening that makes the rest of it worthwhile.
Cloudy skies greeted us when we surfaced, but the coffee machine was on before anyone had found their shoes, and a simple breakfast was dispatched with the quiet efficiency of four people who have shared mornings before. At precisely ten o’clock — as planned — all four of us piled into the car for the seventy-kilometre run north to Saint-Saturnin.
The motorway offered us a traffic jam as a welcome gift, which accompanied us faithfully all the way to the car park of the Classic British Welcome show. More than a thousand classic cars, parked or arriving in slow, magnificent procession — a must for the enthusiast, and not only the British kind. I spotted at least three McLarens circling like exotic birds of prey. One does not simply walk past a McLaren without stopping.
A large beer was required to recover from the emotions. This is medically sound advice at any classic car show. Thus fortified, we made our way south across Le Mans towards our secret chosen car park near one of the circuit entrances — a location I shall not divulge, in case next year’s plan requires it. The afternoon objective was the Friday pit lane walk, a Le Mans tradition as sacred to us as the race itself.
It was there that we encountered the major disappointment of the day. Our tickets, it transpired, did not grant pit lane access. This had never been a problem in previous years. Words were had — internally, mostly — and then we did the only sensible thing: we found a restaurant.
I ordered an andouillette. My British and American companions regarded this choice with the particular horror reserved for those who have never been properly introduced to Charolais tripe sausage. I enjoyed every last mouthful of it, which did nothing to help matters. On the walk to the restaurant we had briefly stopped at the Harley-Davidson dealership — a few minutes of dreaming, free of charge and entirely without commitment, which is the best kind of motorcycle ownership there is.
Lunch concluded, we walked back to the car and pointed it towards home — with a stop at the Hyper U in Écommoy for provisions, and a small detour to Martigné-Laillé to revisit the gîtes where I had spent several previous Le Mans pilgrimages. There is something quietly pleasing about showing friends places that hold a history they weren’t part of.
The final thirty kilometres brought us to our gîte in the grounds of the Château Racan. The evening unfolded outside: aperitif, dinner, and then a long, unhurried session of satellite-gazing — the summer sky putting on a show that required no ticket and suffered no disappointment. A bottle of Bourbon was opened. It was, by the end of proceedings, emptied. In my case, this ensured an exceptionally good night’s sleep. Which, given what the weekend still held in store, was probably wise planning.
There is something almost meditative about setting off at 9am for a destination that involves forty-eight hours of sleep deprivation, petrol fumes, and grown men arguing about lap times at three in the morning. We left Carcassonne in good order — which is to say, on time — a minor miracle that deserves to be noted for the historical record.
The motorway swallowed us whole. Toulouse slipped past, then we veered northwest towards Bordeaux, the landscape doing that thing it does in France where it slowly forgets it was ever Mediterranean and starts looking sensibly northern. With no traffic worth complaining about — and believe me, we were ready to complain — we pushed on to our pre-researched lunch stop in Mirambeau, just off the motorway. The establishment in question rejoiced in the name O717, which sounds more like a classified satellite than a roadside restaurant but delivered exactly what road-weary travellers require: simple, honest food, no architectural foam, no microgreens arranged with tweezers. Full marks.
Back in the car for the final 220 kilometres to our lodgings: La Maison Blanche, a gîte of modest but perfectly adequate charms, nestled in the grounds of the Château Racan in the village of La Roche Racan — a village so tiny it could lose itself in a large hedge.
Settling sixty kilometres from Le Mans is, as I have previously explained, a strategy rather than a compromise. Distance from the circuit equals distance from the chaos. One sleeps better when one’s neighbours are owls rather than Porsche engineers.
We arrived as planned, shortly after 5pm. After a cursory inspection of the premises — kitchen functional, beds horizontal, French windows French — priorities were rapidly established: fill the car, fill a shopping trolley with provisions, and, critically, deal with the thirst that had been accumulating since somewhere around Périgueux. A bar had been spotted on the way into the nearest town. It was warm enough to sit outside. The beer arrived. Reader, it went down very, very well.
We introduced ourselves to the staff with the cheerful transparency of people who fully intend to return at regular intervals over the next few days. They seemed to take this in their stride, which speaks well of them.
Back at the gîte, I volunteered for kitchen duty with the enthusiasm of someone who has not yet been humbled by a weekend of French racing hospitality. Dinner was produced. We ate outside, as the night settled in around us, conversations wandering wherever they wished — Le Mans strategy, life, the usual suspects. At some point a couple of owls began making their opinions known from somewhere in the château grounds. The bats emerged and executed their nightly aerobatic display above our heads with the quiet professionalism of a support act that has nothing to prove.
By 11pm, beds had won the argument. Day 2 would not be gentle. We retired accordingly.
This morning I performed what can only be described as a last rites ceremony on four plastic wheels: one final lap of honour with the Méhari.
I eased her out of the garage with the delicacy of a surgeon — or a bomb disposal expert, depending on the day. And then, miracle of miracles: she started first time. As if she knew. As if, sensing the imminence of our separation, she had decided to show what she was made of one last time. Fortyseven years of temperament, and today of all days she chooses to behave. Thank you, dear Méhari. Exquisite timing.
The buyer — soon-to-be new owner, soon-to-be new guinea pig — is expected within the hour. The bank transfer has already landed, which in any automotive transaction represents the precise moment one transitions from seller riddled with doubt to seller of supernatural serenity. All that remains is a few signatures and the customary parting wisdom: the choke, her feelings about damp weather, and why you should never, under any circumstances, rely on her for anything that actually matters.
I would be lying if I claimed to watch her leave without a pang. Let’s call it the kind of pang one feels when sending a difficult child off to a new family: genuine sadness, yes, but also a quiet relief one would never admit to in polite company.
Fortunately, tomorrow morning marks the departure for the long Le Mans 24 Hours weekend — because when you sell a mythical car, the finest therapy available is watching other people’s go round in circles at 340 km/h. Life, it must be said, has a gift for knowing exactly how to console its children.
🇫🇷
Une page se tourne
Ce matin, j’ai accompli ce qui s’apparente à un dernier rite funèbre sur quatre roues en plastique : un ultime tour de propriétaire avec la Méhari.
Je l’ai extraite du garage avec la délicatesse d’un chirurgien — ou d’un démineur, selon les jours. Et là, miracle des miracles : elle a démarré au quart de tour. Comme si elle le savait. Comme si, sentant l’imminence de la séparation, elle avait décidé de montrer ce qu’elle avait dans le ventre une dernière fois. Quarantesept ans de caprices, et c’est aujourd’hui qu’elle choisit d’être coopérative. Merci, chère Méhari. Timing impeccable.
L’acheteur — bientôt nouveau propriétaire, nouveau cobaye — est attendu d’ici une heure. Le virement est déjà sur le compte, ce qui dans toute transaction automobile représente le moment où l’on passe subitement du statut de vendeur plein de doutes à celui de vendeur parfaitement serein. Il ne restera plus qu’à signer quelques papiers et à lui prodiguer les derniers conseils d’usage : le choke, les caprices du temps humide, et pourquoi il ne faut jamais, au grand jamais, compter sur elle un jour de rendez-vous important.
Je mentirais en disant que je la verrai partir sans pincement au cœur. Disons que c’est le genre de pincement qu’on ressent quand on envoie un enfant difficile dans une nouvelle famille : de la tristesse, certes, mais aussi un soulagement discret qu’on n’avouera à personne.
Heureusement, demain matin c’est le départ pour le long week-end des 24h du Mans — parce que quand on vend une voiture mythique, la meilleure thérapie reste d’aller en regarder d’autres tourner à 340 km/h. La vie, décidément, sait comment consoler ses enfants.
Or: how to drive 600 km, watch kites, drink wine, and solve the great Leclerc debate of our time.
La Bande 68
➿➿ Monday ➿➿
Every good road trip needs a logic to it. Mine was, frankly, impeccable: drive north from Carcassonne toward the Alps, but first — stop at Narbonne Plage for the final day of the Natur’Ailes kite festival. Because nothing says “I am a serious adult on a purposeful journey” quite like pulling over to watch things fly.
Fate, however, had opinions. Heavy traffic on the motorway forced a scenic detour through roads less motorway-ish, and upon arrival at the beach, it turned out the wind had taken the day off. No wind. At the beach. A kite festival without wind is, philosophically speaking, just a gathering of people holding string. The big kites sulked on the ground, but the aerobatic light ones — flown by people who have clearly made peace with absurdity — performed beautifully. Full credit to them.
“A kite festival without wind is just a gathering of people holding string.”
From there: onward to Montélimar, roughly the halfway point and home to dear friends Cécile and Thierry, who also happen to be part of the gang heading to Savoie. Their welcome was, as ever, excellent. Aperitif: excellent. Dinner: excellent. Bedtime: earlier than usual, by my own rather liberal standards. A civilised evening by every metric.
➿➿ Tuesday ➿➿
Breakfast outdoors in the garden. The kind of breakfast that makes you feel the holiday has already started even though you’re still 250km from the destination. Then into the car for the final leg toward the Alps.
We arrived at the Savoie region with the gîte not yet ready for check-in — a perfectly ordinary inconvenience that led us to the perfectly extraordinary village of Chênaz, a few kilometres away, sitting next to a canal in blazing sunshine. Lunching by the water, watching the light do that thing it does in the Alps, it genuinely felt like holidays had arrived.
As the dessert appeared, so did a phone call from Patrick and Josiane: the gîte was open. We joined them minutes later to find — a small paradise. Canal-side. Enormous private grounds. The sort of place you immediately start texting people about while also trying to keep it secret.
The other seven arrived in small waves. Loungers were deployed. Drinks were poured. And thus began the great philosophical conversations of our age — specifically, an extended and surprisingly heated analysis of the Leclerc supermarket in Saint-Quentin-en-Yvelines.
Our group’s usual aperitif topics: cars. Then, as we age: illnesses. This year’s surprise entry: supermarkets. Specifically one Leclerc. Make of that what you will.
Cars did eventually get their moment, prompted by breaking news: Ferrari had unveiled its first electric car that very day. The response around the loungers was predictably theological — sacrilege, abomination, end of days. I offered what I thought was a measured observation: the average 15-year-old today has never heard of Ferrari and probably just thinks it looks quite nice. This was not received as measured.
Dinner was served on the canal side of the house — all pre-cooked and organised with the kind of quiet efficiency that only Cécile seems capable of deploying at scale. Wine was brought. Wine was enjoyed. A swift nightcap closed the proceedings and everyone retired to bed: tired, happy, and with settled views on at least one French supermarket chain.
➿➿ Wednesday ➿➿
All aboard, and also — apparently we’re not in the Alps
A lake, a boat, a very chatty captain, a medieval abbey, and two people who thought a canal swim before dinner was a good idea.
A group of thirteen people managing to be up, fed, and ready to leave “relatively sharp” is, in itself, a minor organisational triumph. Yet there we were, heading to nearby Aix-les-Bains and the Lac du Bourget for a boat trip — and not just any boat trip. Lunch was included. This detail was, I suspect, the actual motivation for the sharpness of the morning.
We regrouped at the port for coffee, drifted across the esplanade in the way that groups of thirteen tend to drift — loosely, cheerfully, mildly blocking everyone else — and boarded our ship. The table was waiting: thirteen settings, aperitif on the way, the front of the boat, and a captain stationed just ahead who turned out to be one of those rare people who can hold a microphone and be genuinely worth listening to.
He informed us, among other things, that we were not technically in the Alps. The Alps, he explained, were those snow-capped peaks visible impressively in the distance. We were, in fact, still in the Jura. This was greeted with the polite cognitive dissonance it deserved — we had driven toward the Alps for two days, had been telling people we were going to the Alps, and were now floating beneath mountains that were not, strictly speaking, the Alps. The aperitif helped.
“We had been telling people we were going to the Alps for two days. The captain, serenely, corrected the record. The wine, wisely, did not.”
Lunch was served efficiently and enjoyed thoroughly. By 2pm the boat had moored at the Abbaye d’Hautecombe — a Cistercian abbey perched dramatically on the western shore — and we were informed that we had until 4pm, whereupon a boat would return to collect us. Two hours: free range, no itinerary. This is ideal holiday mathematics.
Abbaye d’Hautecombe — Founded in the 12th century, it served as the royal necropolis of the House of Savoy for centuries. Kings, queens, princes — all interred here on this improbably scenic lakeside. It is, genuinely, worth it. Go slowly.
The boat returned as promised at 4pm — no one left behind, which with thirteen people always feels like a small victory — and ferried us back into town. By the time everyone had made it back to the gîte, the aperitif hour had arrived with its customary precision, and the evening settled into a pattern reassuringly similar to the night before. Same canal. Same loungers. Same conversations drifting pleasantly nowhere in particular. Different menu.
The one notable variation: before dinner, two members of the group — the ones who will henceforth be described as the courageous — decided to have a dip in the canal. The rest of us watched from the comfort of our chairs with the quiet admiration one reserves for people doing something you are absolutely not going to do yourself.
“They called it refreshing. We called it a decision. Both things can be true.”
➿➿ Thursday ➿➿
Petrol, pastis, and the Pays Basque had better brace itself
A hilly village lunch, the return of the prodigal gang member, serial canal swimmers, a motorboat, and the ceremonial emptying of a whisky bottle.
Another breakfast outside, another canicule day building quietly in the early morning heat. By now this had become the natural rhythm of things — coffee, shade, the canal glittering nearby, no particular urgency. The plan for the day was, by the standards of this group, almost minimalist: lunch in the village of Chanaz. Everything else was improvisation.
We made our way there separately, which with thirteen people is actually the sensible approach. My own detour included a small errand that had been nagging at me since the previous day: filling the car up. An attempt the day before had ended with the discovery that the chosen petrol station had, impressively, run out of petrol. A petrol station. Out of petrol. I filed this under “things that technically shouldn’t happen” and tried again. Success. A full tank — home is now mathematically guaranteed.
Chanaz itself is a charming hilly village of the kind that rewards a wander before you’re expected anywhere. Some of us did exactly that — a discovery walk through the lanes — before converging at the restaurant with the collective air of people who have earned their lunch.
And then: a surprise. The missing member of the gang appeared. He lives an hour or so away and home commitments had kept him from the three main days, but he’d made the effort for lunch and was received accordingly. There is a particular warmth to the table when the group is finally complete, even if only for a couple of hours. News was exchanged, catching up was done, everyone was satisfied.
After lunch the group split in its various directions. I drove back to the gîte with every intention of a nap. What happened instead was sitting outside in the shade by the canal, which turned out to be so comfortable that the nap simply failed to occur. I regret nothing.
The Canal de Savière — a short but historically significant waterway linking the Lac du Bourget directly to the Rhône. One of those geographical connections that sounds modest until you look at the map and realise it’s actually rather elegant.
By mid-afternoon the full group had reassembled and the canal was, once again, seeing action. The courageous — as they must now permanently be called — were back in the water for their second consecutive day. Others took the gîte’s motor boat out along the Canal de Savière toward the lake. Four of them eventually made it to the Lac du Bourget for a proper swim in it.
I remained on dry land, pastis in hand, entirely at peace with this decision. Is there anything better than a cool pastis at the end of a hot, sunny, thoroughly unhurried day in the south? I have considered this question carefully and the answer is no. There is not.
“Four swam in the lake. I held the glass. We all contributed in our own way.”
Then aperitif became dinner became the last evening together — joyous, mostly harmonious, as these things tend to be when everyone is tired and happy in equal measure. And then, the moment that gives the whole gathering its sense of purpose beyond the obvious: we voted, unanimously, on next year.
The Pays Basque. May 2027. Two volunteers have stepped forward to plan it. They will be thanked warmly now and consulted frequently later. The Basque Country, with its mountains and its pintxos and its rather strong opinions about things, has no idea what’s coming.
The evening closed — as a last evening properly should — with the ceremonial emptying of the whisky bottle. Not a drop wasted. Not a regret expressed. Tomorrow: everyone out before 10am.
“The whisky bottle did not survive the night. We gave it a good send-off.”
➿➿ Friday ➿➿
The gîte owner, a person of evident organisational conviction, had plastered instructional stickers in every room. Empty the bins. Close the windows. Turn this off. Turn that off. Fold the garden furniture away. The list was comprehensive enough to suggest either deep distrust of departing guests or a previous incident of some kind. We did not ask.
With thirteen people in good spirits after a light breakfast, the tasks were dispatched with almost suspicious efficiency. There is something to be said for group logistics when the group is motivated and the coffee has been drunk. By 10am the gîte was pristine, the garden furniture geometrically stacked, and the goodbyes — always the difficult bit — were underway.
The convoy dissolved in several directions: three cars heading straight home, one bound for Brittany via Tours, one staying in the area a little longer. We, however, had a different plan. North toward Lyon, then the Beaujolais, and the village of Chasselay — and a reunion twenty-two years in the making.
“Real friends, it turns out, do not actually require twenty-two years between meetings. But when that’s what happened, they pick up exactly where they left off.”
I had lost touch with Florence a long time ago. After much research — the kind of patient, determined searching that the internet makes possible and stubbornness makes necessary — I found her again. We arrived at her house before noon. The reunion was not without emotion. These things rarely are, nor should they be.
We drove to Jols, a restaurant in nearby Limonest, for an excellent lunch outside in lovely surroundings. Twenty-two years of news to exchange, and somehow within minutes it felt as though none of it had passed at all. That is the particular alchemy of real friendship — it doesn’t corrode.
Too soon, as it always is, it was time to say goodbye. With serious promises made on all sides to not let another twenty-two years elapse. These promises will be kept.
From there, south to Nîmes, where a room at the Novotel beside the arena was waiting. And here, an observation worth making: this is precisely what retired life is for. No rush. No schedule. A city you like the look of, an evening to fill however you choose. The hotel: recommended. The Vieux Nîmes: also recommended. And as the aperitif hour arrived, we found ourselves sitting beside a Roman arena built roughly two thousand years ago, drink in hand, doing absolutely nothing in particular.
“There is something magical about old stones. Especially at aperitif time.”
The Arènes de Nîmes — built around 70 AD, one of the best-preserved Roman amphitheatres in the world. It still hosts events today. Two millennia of use and not once has anyone suggested knocking it down. Architecture, take note.
➿➿ Saturday ➿➿
An early night meant an early morning, which meant walking through a waking old town before most of it had quite decided to open. The mission: find Les Halles, do some grocery shopping, bring something good home. The mission was only partially accomplished — what we were specifically looking for was not found. This happens. Nîmes was not diminished by the experience.
What replaced the plan was better anyway: a very leisurely breakfast at the Place de l’Horloge, sitting outside, watching the Saturday morning world arrange itself around us. Tourists, locals, pigeons with questionable priorities. The coffee was good. The pace was slow. It was exactly right.
Then, regrettably, the hotel had to be checked out of, the car had to be boarded, and the A9 southward had to be driven. Two fast hours later: home, Carcassonne, lunchtime. The week complete.
An excellent week. Mostly because of the friendships — thirteen people who have known each other long enough to argue about supermarkets, mourn Ferrari’s electric pivot, swim in canals voluntarily, and still manage to agree unanimously on next year’s destination. But also the places: Chindrieux, the Lac du Bourget that isn’t quite the Alps, the Abbey at Hautecombe, the canal, Chanaz, a Beaujolais village, Nîmes in the evening sun. And the weather, which behaved impeccably throughout.
The Pays Basque, May 2027. The planning volunteers have been identified.
The countdown has begun.
À l’année prochaine, les copains.
🇫🇷
Les copains d’abord
Ou : comment parcourir 700 km, regarder des cerfs-volants immobiles, boire du vin, et résoudre le grand débat Leclerc de notre époque.
➿➿ Lundi ➿➿
Tout bon voyage en voiture se doit d’avoir une logique. La mienne était, franchement, imparable : remonter de Carcassonne vers les Alpes, mais faire d’abord un détour par Narbonne Plage pour la dernière journée du festival de cerfs-volants Natur’Ailes. Parce que rien n’affirme mieux le sérieux d’un adulte en déplacement que de s’arrêter pour regarder des trucs voler.
Le destin, cependant, avait ses propres idées. Un trafic dense sur l’autoroute nous a obligés à emprunter des routes moins autoroutières, et à notre arrivée sur la plage, il s’est avéré que le vent avait pris sa journée. Pas de vent. Sur la plage. Un festival de cerfs-volants sans vent, c’est philosophiquement parlant un rassemblement de gens qui tiennent de la ficelle. Les grands cerfs-volants boudaient au sol, mais les acrobatiques légers — pilotés par des gens qui ont clairement fait la paix avec l’absurde — se sont montrés excellents. Chapeau à eux.
« Un festival de cerfs-volants sans vent, c’est un rassemblement de gens qui tiennent de la ficelle. »
Direction ensuite Montélimar, à mi-chemin, chez nos chers amis Cécile et Thierry, qui font d’ailleurs partie de la bande qui nous rejoint en Savoie. L’accueil fut, comme toujours, excellent. L’apéritif : excellent. Le dîner : excellent. Le coucher : plus tôt que d’habitude, selon mes propres standards pourtant assez libéraux. Une soirée civilisée à tous égards.
➿➿ Mardi ➿➿
Petit-déjeuner dehors dans le jardin. Le genre de petit-déjeuner qui vous convainc que les vacances ont déjà commencé alors qu’il reste encore 250 km à faire. Puis en voiture pour le dernier tronçon vers les Alpes.
On arrive dans la région trop tôt pour s’installer au gîte — contretemps parfaitement banal qui nous conduit au village parfaitement extraordinaire de Chênaz, à quelques kilomètres, au bord d’un canal en plein soleil. Déjeuner les pieds au bord de l’eau, les vacances sont officiellement arrivées.
Au moment du dessert, coup de fil de Patrick et Josiane : le gîte est disponible. On les rejoint quelques minutes plus tard pour découvrir un petit paradis : en bord de canal, dans une propriété privée gigantesque. Le genre d’endroit qu’on photographie immédiatement en essayant simultanément de garder le secret.
Les sept autres arrivent par vagues. Les transats sont déployés. Les verres sont servis. Et ainsi commence la grande conversation philosophique de notre époque : une analyse aussi étendue qu’étonnamment animée du Leclerc de Saint-Quentin-en-Yvelines.
« Nos sujets d’apéro habituels : les voitures. Puis, avec l’âge : les maladies. Cette année, entrée surprise : la grande distribution. Précisément un Leclerc. Tirez-en les conclusions qui s’imposent. »
Les voitures ont quand même eu leur heure de gloire, grâce à une actualité brûlante : Ferrari venait de dévoiler sa première voiture électrique. La réaction autour des transats fut proprement théologique — sacrilège, abomination, fin des temps. J’ai proposé ce que je croyais être une observation mesurée : le jeune de 15 ans d’aujourd’hui n’a jamais entendu parler de Ferrari et trouve probablement que ça a l’air bien. Cela n’a pas été reçu comme une observation mesurée.
Le dîner, organisé côté canal avec l’efficacité silencieuse dont seule Cécile est capable à cette échelle, fut excellent. Le vin également. Un dernier verre mit un point final à la soirée. Tout le monde alla se coucher fatigué et heureux, avec des opinions tranchées sur au moins une enseigne de grande distribution française.
➿➿ Mercredi ➿➿
Treize personnes levées, nourries et prêtes à partir « d’assez bonne heure » constitue en soi un exploit organisationnel. Et pourtant nous voilà partis vers Aix-les-Bains et le Lac du Bourget pour une balade en bateau — pas n’importe laquelle : déjeuner inclus. Ce détail était, je soupçonne, la vraie raison de la ponctualité matinale.
Café au port, traversée de l’esplanade à la façon dont treize personnes traversent les choses — en file lâche, joyeusement, en gênant légèrement la circulation — et embarquement. La table nous attendait : treize couverts, apéritif en vue, à l’avant du bateau, avec un capitaine qui s’avéra être l’une de ces rares personnes qui méritent vraiment qu’on les écoute.
Il nous informa notamment que nous n’étions pas techniquement dans les Alpes. Les Alpes, expliqua-t-il, c’est ces sommets enneigés qu’on apercevait majestueusement au loin. Nous étions, en réalité, encore dans le Jura. Ce fut accueilli avec la dissonance cognitive polie que cela méritait — nous avions dit à tout le monde que nous allions dans les Alpes pendant deux jours, et voilà que nous flottions sous des montagnes qui n’en étaient pas vraiment. L’apéritif aida.
« Nous avions annoncé les Alpes à tout notre entourage depuis deux jours. Le capitaine, sereinement, rectifia. Le vin, sagement, s’abstint. »
À 14h, accostage à l’Abbaye d’Hautecombe avec consigne de revenir à 16h. Deux heures libres, aucun programme imposé. C’est la formule mathématique idéale des vacances réussies. L’abbaye en vaut vraiment la peine — fondée au XIIe siècle, nécropole royale de la Maison de Savoie pendant des siècles. Rois, reines, princes — tous inhumés ici, dans ce cadre d’une beauté improbable. Prenez le temps d’y aller lentement.
Le bateau revint comme promis à 16h. Personne d’oublié, ce qui avec treize personnes mérite d’être noté. Retour au gîte, heure de l’apéritif, même canal, mêmes transats, conversations déroulant doucement vers nulle part. Menu différent.
La seule variation notable : avant le dîner, deux membres du groupe — qu’on appellera désormais et pour toujours les courageux — décidèrent de plonger dans le canal. Le reste d’entre nous observa depuis nos chaises avec l’admiration tranquille qu’on réserve aux gens qui font ce qu’on ne fera absolument pas soi-même.
« Eux appelaient ça rafraîchissant. Nous appelions ça un choix. Les deux peuvent être vrais. »
➿➿ Jeudi ➿➿
Nouveau petit-déjeuner dehors, nouvelle journée de canicule s’annonçant discrètement dès le matin. Le programme du jour était, pour ce groupe, presque minimaliste : déjeuner au village de Chanaz. Le reste : improvisation.
On y va chacun à son rythme. Ma contribution personnelle à l’aventure du jour : faire le plein, tâche qui me harcelait depuis la veille. La tentative de la veille s’était conclue par la découverte que la station-service choisie était en rupture d’essence. Une station-service. Sans essence. J’ai classé ça sous « choses qui ne devraient techniquement pas arriver » et recommencé. Succès. Plein complet — le retour à Carcassonne est désormais mathématiquement assuré.
Chanaz est un village de collines charmant, qui récompense la flânerie avant d’être attendu quelque part. Certains s’y livrèrent avant de converger vers le restaurant avec l’air collectif de gens qui ont mérité leur déjeuner.
Et là : une surprise. Le membre manquant de la bande fit son apparition. Retenu chez lui les trois premiers jours pour des raisons domestiques — il habite à une heure environ — il avait quand même fait le déplacement pour le déjeuner. Il fut accueilli en conséquence. Il y a une chaleur particulière à la table quand le groupe est enfin complet, même deux heures seulement. Les nouvelles furent échangées, les retards rattrapés.
Après le déjeuner, retour au gîte avec de fermes intentions de sieste. Ce qui se passa à la place : s’asseoir dehors à l’ombre au bord du canal, ce qui s’avéra tellement confortable que la sieste ne se produisit tout simplement pas. Je ne regrette rien.
Le Canal de Savières — courte mais historiquement notable voie d’eau reliant directement le Lac du Bourget au Rhône. Une de ces connexions géographiques qui semblent anodines jusqu’à ce qu’on regarde la carte et qu’on réalise l‘élégance de la chose.
En milieu d’après-midi, le groupe au complet était de retour. Les courageux — le titre est désormais permanent — étaient à nouveau dans l’eau pour le deuxième jour consécutif. D’autres prirent le bateau à moteur du gîte pour remonter le canal vers le lac. Quatre d’entre eux atteignirent finalement le Lac du Bourget pour y nager sérieusement.
Je restai à terre, pastis à la main, en paix totale avec ce choix. Existe-t-il quelque chose de mieux qu’un pastis bien frais au terme d’une journée chaude, ensoleillée et parfaitement inoccupée ? J’ai réfléchi longuement à la question. La réponse est non.
« Quatre ont nagé dans le lac. J’ai tenu le verre. Chacun a contribué à sa façon. »
L’apéritif devint dîner, le dîner devint la dernière soirée ensemble — joyeuse, globalement harmonieuse, comme il se doit quand tout le monde est fatigué et heureux en proportions égales. Et puis vint le moment qui donne à ces rassemblements leur sens au-delà de l’évident : le vote, à l’unanimité, pour l’année prochaine.
Le Pays Basque. Mai 2027. Deux volontaires se sont proposés pour l’organisation. Ils seront chaleureusement remerciés maintenant et fréquemment sollicités ensuite. Le Pays Basque, avec ses montagnes, ses pintxos et ses opinions bien arrêtées sur à peu près tout, ne sait pas ce qui lui arrive.
La soirée se conclut — comme toute dernière soirée qui se respecte — par le vidage cérémoniel de la bouteille de whisky. Pas une goutte gaspillée. Aucun regret exprimé. Demain : tout le monde dehors avant 10h.
➿➿ Vendredi ➿➿
Le propriétaire du gîte — personne à la conviction organisationnelle bien affirmée — avait placardé des autocollants d’instructions dans chaque pièce. Videz les poubelles. Fermez les fenêtres. Éteignez ceci. Arrêtez cela. Rangez les meubles de jardin. La liste était suffisamment exhaustive pour suggérer soit une profonde méfiance envers les occupants sortants, soit un incident passé dont on ne parle plus. On n’a pas demandé.
Avec treize personnes de bonne humeur et le café bu, les tâches furent expédiées avec une efficacité presque suspecte. À 10h pile, le gîte était impeccable, les meubles de jardin géométriquement empilés, et les au revoir — toujours le moment difficile — étaient en cours.
Le convoi se dispersa dans plusieurs directions : trois voitures directement chez elles, une vers la Bretagne via Tours, une restant dans la région un peu plus longtemps. Nous, en revanche, avions un programme différent. Direction nord vers Lyon, puis le Beaujolais, le village de Chasselay — et des retrouvailles vingt-deux ans après.
« Les vrais amis n’ont en réalité pas besoin de vingt-deux ans entre deux rencontres. Mais quand c’est ce qui s’est passé, ils reprennent exactement là où ils s’étaient arrêtés. »
J’avais perdu le contact avec Florence il y a longtemps. Après de patientes recherches — le genre que l’internet rend possible et l’entêtement rend nécessaire — je l’ai retrouvée. On arrive chez elle avant midi. Les retrouvailles ne furent pas sans émotion. Ces choses-là le sont rarement, et c’est comme il se doit.
Déjeuner au restaurant Jols à Limonest, en terrasse, dans une très belle atmosphère. Vingt-deux ans d’actualités à échanger, et en quelques minutes, l’impression que rien de tout cela ne s’était écoulé. C’est l’alchimie particulière de la vraie amitié : elle ne rouille pas.
Trop vite, comme toujours, il fallut se dire au revoir. Avec des promesses sérieuses de ne pas laisser passer vingt-deux nouvelles années. Ces promesses-là seront tenues.
Puis direction sud vers Nîmes, et une chambre au Novotel à côté des arènes. Et là, une observation qui mérite d’être faite : c’est exactement à ça que sert la retraite. Pas de précipitation. Pas d’horaire. Une ville qui vous plaît, une soirée à remplir comme bon vous semble. L’hôtel : recommandé. Le Vieux Nîmes : également recommandé. Et quand l’heure de l’apéritif arriva, on se retrouva assis à côté d’une arène romaine construite il y a deux mille ans environ, verre à la main, à ne rien faire de particulier.
« Il y a quelque chose de magique dans les vieilles pierres. Surtout à l’heure de l’apéritif. »
Les Arènes de Nîmes — construites vers 70 après J.-C., l’un des amphithéâtres romains les mieux conservés au monde. Elles accueillent encore des spectacles aujourd’hui. Deux millénaires d’utilisation et personne n’a jamais proposé de les démolir. L’architecture devrait prendre note.
➿➿ Samedi ➿➿
Coucher tôt, lever tôt, promenade dans une vieille ville qui se réveille avant que la plupart de ses commerces aient vraiment décidé d’ouvrir. Mission du matin : trouver les Halles, faire quelques courses à ramener. Mission partiellement accomplie — ce qu’on cherchait précisément ne fut pas trouvé. Cela arrive. Nîmes n’en fut pas diminuée.
Ce qui remplaça le programme s’avéra meilleur de toute façon : un petit-déjeuner très tranquille Place de l’Horloge, en terrasse, à regarder le monde du samedi matin s’organiser autour de nous. Touristes, habitants, pigeons aux priorités discutables. Le café était bon. Le rythme était lent. C’était exactement ce qu’il fallait.
Puis, regrettablement, il fallut rendre la chambre, reprendre la voiture, et affronter l’A9 vers le sud. Deux heures rapides plus tard : maison, Carcassonne, l’heure du déjeuner. Semaine bouclée.
Une excellente semaine. Surtout grâce aux amitiés — treize personnes qui se connaissent depuis suffisamment longtemps pour débattre de la grande distribution, pleurer la déchéance électrique de Ferrari, nager dans des canaux de leur plein gré, et réussir quand même à voter à l’unanimité pour la destination de l’année prochaine. Mais aussi grâce aux lieux : Chindrieux, le Lac du Bourget qui n’est pas vraiment dans les Alpes, l’abbaye d’Hautecombe, le canal, Chanaz, un village du Beaujolais, Nîmes au soleil du soir. Et la météo, qui s’est comportée impeccablement du début à la fin.
Le Pays Basque, mai 2027. Les volontaires pour l’organisation ont été identifiés.
Or: how one man heroically resisted the weather and watched a lot of television about it.
The week opened on a genuinely triumphant note — the kind of drive that makes you feel briefly like the protagonist of a European arthouse film. Down from the foothills of the Puy de Dôme, through the volcanic grandeur of the Auvergne, then swooping across the Pont de Millau — that extraordinary viaduct where you float above the clouds and feel, momentarily, like a minor deity commuting to work. Truly, if roads were operas, this would be Verdi.
And then: Carcassonne. The sky’s shutters came down. The wind arrived, uninvited, with all the enthusiasm of a damp relative who wasn’t expected until Tuesday. Rain followed. Then more rain. The meteorological ambition of the week, it turned out, was to make the Auvergne look like the Riviera by comparison.
“Essential indoor activities” — a phrase which, in the annals of self-description, covers a great deal of territory and requires absolutely no further elaboration.
What followed were several days of what shall be diplomatically described as essential indoor activities. The sofa saw things. The television worked overtime. Somewhere in a streaming service’s algorithm, a flag was quietly raised: this account has watched more vintage comedy than is perhaps medically advisable. One does not simply watch old comic episodes — one studies them. This is cultural enrichment, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
Then, as if ashamed of itself, the sun reappeared on Sunday. The brother arrived with spouse in tow. A pleasant lunch was had. And so, in the grand tradition of those who have waited out a siege, the afternoon was spent exactly as it should be: horizontal, pool-adjacent, victorious.
The pool itself, however, remains diplomatically described as “bracing.” A couple of degrees have slipped away during the week’s meteorological unpleasantness, and the water is currently in that liminal state beloved of no one — too warm to be refreshing, too cold to actually get into without considerable personal courage and at least one firm pep talk. It has been observed from the lounger. Respectfully. From a safe distance.
Next week promises heat. The pool is on notice.
The forecast, mercifully, points toward warmth next week. At which point the pool will be re-evaluated, the television will be rested, and the Puy de Dôme will be allowed to become, once again, a beautiful memory rather than the high point — in every sense — of an otherwise waterlogged week.
Until next time: may your roads be spectacular, your skies cooperative, and your pool exactly the right temperature.
Today is Himmelfahrt—a day so uniquely German that it manages to blend the sacred and the saucy into one glorious, beer-fueled, handcart-hauling celebration. If you’ve ever wondered how a nation could turn the Ascension of Jesus Christ into an excuse for men to drag barbecue grills through the countryside, welcome to the fascinating duality of Christi Himmelfahrt and Vatertag.
▶️ The Heavenly Bit – Christi Himmelfahrt
For the devout (or the historically curious), Christi Himmelfahrt marks the 40th day after Easter, when Jesus Christ ascended into heaven. It’s a public holiday across Germany, and since 1934, the nation has been taking the day off to reflect, pray, and—let’s be honest—enjoy a Thursday off work.
Mountain Masses & Processions: In Catholic regions like Bavaria, you’ll find Berggottesdienste (mountain services) and Flurprozessionen (field processions), where the faithful climb hills to symbolize Christ’s ascent. Because nothing says “spiritual reflection” like a steep hike in your Sunday best.
Blessings & Penance: Some areas hold special blessings, while others lean into the penitential side of things. (Though, let’s be real—after 40 days of Lent, a little divine mercy is probably welcome.)
▶️ The Earthly Bit – Vatertag (or Herrentag, or Männertag, Depending on Who You Ask)
Now, here’s where things get interesting. While the religious folks are busy with their prayers, the rest of Germany—particularly the men—are busy with something far more terrestrial: beer, sausages, and handcarts.
▶️ A Brief History of Father’s Day… with a Twist
16th Century: Farmers prayed for good harvests, then celebrated with copious amounts of ale. (A tradition we can all get behind.)
18th Century: Village men were paraded to the town square, where the mayor awarded prizes—often ham—to the most prolific fathers. (Yes, you read that right. The original “World’s Best Dad” trophy was literally a ham.)
1880s Berlin: The Herrenpartien (gentlemen’s outings) began, where groups of men escaped to the countryside with handcarts, beer, and sausages. Because nothing bonds men like hauling your own drinks through the woods.
▶️ The Bollerwagen: Germany’s Most Iconic Mobile Party
The modern Bollerwagen is the crown jewel of Vatertag. Picture this:
A handcart, often elaborately decorated.
A stereo blasting oompah music (or, let’s be honest, 90s Eurodance).
A fully stocked bar—sometimes with a beer tap and barbecue grill—all on wheels.
A group of men, some in lederhosen (optional but encouraged), pulling said cart through forests, parks, or village streets.
It’s like tailgating, but with more tradition and less parking lot.
▶️ Regional Flavors: Because Germany Can’t Agree on Anything
East Germany: Calls it Herrentag or Männertag, emphasizing the masculine camaraderie. (Less family, more “boys’ day out.”)
West Germany: Prefers Vatertag, often framed as a family-friendly affair. (Though, let’s be real—the Bollerwagen doesn’t exactly scream “kid-friendly.”)
Rhineland: The Gymnicher Ritt, an equestrian procession with riders in traditional costume.
Weingarten: The Blutritt, Europe’s largest mounted procession, with 3,000 participants. (Yes, that’s a lot of horses. And probably a lot of beer afterward.)
▶️ Practical Notes: How to Survive Himmelfahrt
✅ Shops, banks, and offices are closed. Plan accordingly. ✅ Brückentag Alert: Many Germans take Friday off to make a four-day weekend. Smart. ⚠️ Police Presence: Expect increased alcohol checks. The combination of handcarts, beer, and public roads is… a choice. ✅ Participation Tips:
If you’re a man, you’re expected to join a Bollerwagen tour. Resistance is futile.
If you’re not a man, you’re either cheering from the sidelines or rolling your eyes at the spectacle. (Both are valid.)
Hydrate. But not with water.
▶️ Final Thought: A Holiday Only Germany Could Invent
Himmelfahrt is a beautiful, chaotic, uniquely German fusion of faith and festivity. It’s a day where you can attend a solemn mountain mass in the morning and stumble past a beer cart with a live grill in the afternoon. It’s where centuries-old Christian tradition meets 19th-century male bonding meets 21st-century portable party technology.
So, whether you’re ascending spiritually or descending into a beer-induced haze, Himmelfahrt has something for everyone. Just don’t forget the ham.
Prost, und frohe Himmelfahrt! 🍻⛪
🇫🇷
L’Ascension divine et la descente terrestre
Aujourd’hui, c’est l’Ascension (Himmelfahrt en allemand) — un jour si typiquement allemand qu’il parvient à mélanger le sacré et le profane en une célébration glorieuse, arrosée de bière et rythmée par des chariots tirés à la main. Si vous vous êtes déjà demandé comment un pays pouvait transformer l’Ascension de Jésus-Christ en prétexte pour que des hommes traînent des grillades à travers la campagne, bienvenue dans le monde fascinant et dual de Christi Himmelfahrt et Vatertag.
▶️ Le côté céleste – Christi Himmelfahrt
Pour les croyants (ou les amateurs d’histoire), Christi Himmelfahrt marque le 40e jour après Pâques, lorsque Jésus-Christ est monté au ciel. C’est un jour férié dans toute l’Allemagne, et depuis 1934, la nation en profite pour réfléchir, prier… et, soyons honnêtes, savourer un jeudi de congé.
Messes en montagne et processions : Dans les régions catholiques comme la Bavière, on trouve des Berggottesdienste (messes en montagne) et des Flurprozessionen (processions dans les champs), où les fidèles grimpent sur des collines pour symboliser l’ascension du Christ. Parce qu’il n’y a rien de tel qu’une randonnée en costume du dimanche pour une réflexion spirituelle.
Bénédictions et pénitences : Certaines régions organisent des bénédictions spéciales, tandis que d’autres misent sur la pénitence. (Mais avouons-le, après 40 jours de Carême, un peu de clémence divine est la bienvenue.)
▶️ Le côté terrestre – Vatertag (ou Herrentag, ou Männertag, selon à qui vous demandez)
Maintenant, passons aux choses sérieuses… ou pas. Pendant que les religieux s’occupent de leurs prières, le reste de l’Allemagne — en particulier les hommes — se consacre à quelque chose de bien plus terrestre : la bière, les saucisses et les chariots à main.
▶️ Un bref historique de la Fête des Pères… version allemande
XVIe siècle : Les agriculteurs priaient pour de bonnes récoltes, puis célébraient avec des quantités copieuses d’hydromel et de bière. (Une tradition que nous pouvons tous apprécier.)
XVIIIe siècle : Les hommes des villages étaient emmenés sur la place du marché, où le maire remettait des prix — souvent un jambon — au père ayant eu le plus d’enfants. (Oui, vous avez bien lu. Le trophée original du “Meilleur Papa du Monde” était littéralement un jambon.)
Années 1880 à Berlin : Apparition des Herrenpartien (sorties entre hommes), où des groupes d’hommes — souvent des pères de famille — partaient à la campagne avec des chariots à main, de la bière et des saucisses. Parce que rien ne soude mieux les hommes que de trimballer ses propres boissons à travers les bois.
▶️ Le Bollerwagen : Le joyau mobile de la fête allemande
Le Bollerwagen moderne est la pièce maîtresse du Vatertag. Imaginez :
Un chariot à main, souvent richement décoré.
Une enceinte diffusant de la musique oompah (ou, soyons réalistes, de la techno des années 90).
Un bar entièrement équipé — parfois avec un robinet à bière et un grill — le tout sur roues.
Un groupe d’hommes, certains en culotte de cuir (facultatif mais encouragé), tirant ledit chariot à travers forêts, parcs ou rues des villages.
C’est comme un pique-nique, mais en mieux… et avec plus de bière.
▶️ Les saveurs régionales : parce que l’Allemagne ne s’accorde sur rien
Allemagne de l’Est : On l’appelle Herrentag ou Männertag, avec une emphase sur la camaraderie masculine. (Moins familial, plus “sortie entre mecs”.)
Allemagne de l’Ouest : On préfère Vatertag, souvent présenté comme une fête plus familiale. (Bien que, soyons honnêtes, le Bollerwagen ne crie pas vraiment “activités pour enfants”.)
Rhénanie : Le Gymnicher Ritt, une procession équestre où les cavaliers portent des costumes traditionnels.
Weingarten : Le Blutritt, la plus grande procession montée d’Europe, avec 3 000 participants. (Oui, c’est beaucoup de chevaux. Et probablement beaucoup de bière après.)
▶️ Conseils pratiques : Comment survivre à l’Ascension en Allemagne
✅ Les magasins, banques et bureaux sont fermés. Prévoyez en conséquence. ✅ Alerte Brückentag : Beaucoup d’Allemands prennent le vendredi pour faire un week-end de quatre jours. Malin. ⚠️ Présence policière : Attendez-vous à des contrôles d’alcoolémie renforcés. La combinaison chariots à main, bière et routes publiques est… un choix audacieux. ✅ Conseils de participation :
Si vous êtes un homme, on s’attend à ce que vous rejoigniez une tournée en Bollerwagen. Résister est inutile.
Si vous n’êtes pas un homme, vous pouvez soit encourager depuis les lignes de touche, soit lever les yeux au ciel devant le spectacle. (Les deux options sont valables.)
Hydratez-vous. Mais pas avec de l’eau.
▶️ Réflexion finale : Une fête que seule l’Allemagne pouvait inventer
L’Ascension est un mélange magnifique et chaotique, typiquement allemand, de foi et de fête. C’est un jour où vous pouvez assister à une messe solennelle en montagne le matin et croiser un chariot à bière avec grill intégré l’après-midi. C’est là que des siècles de tradition chrétienne rencontrent la convivialité masculine du XIXe siècle et la technologie festive mobile du XXIe siècle.
Alors, que vous soyez en train de monter spirituellement ou de descendre dans un brouillard de bière, l’Ascension a quelque chose pour tout le monde. Il ne vous reste plus qu’à ne pas oublier le jambon.
I do it my way 