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'WE COULD BORE OURSELVES TO DEATH, DRINK OURSELVES TO DEATH, OR HAVE A BIT OF AN ADVENTURE...'
When they retired Terry and Monica Darlington decided to sail their canal narrowboat across the Channel and down to the Mediterranean, together with their whippet Jim. They took advice from experts, who said they would die, together with their whippet Jim.
On the Phyllis May you dive through six-foot waves in the Channel, are swept down the terrible Rhône, and fight for your life in a storm among the flamingos of the Camargue.
You meet the French nobody meets - poets, captains, historians, drunks, bargees, men with guns, scholars, madmen - they all want to know the people on the painted boat and their narrow dog.
You visit the France nobody knows - the backwaters of Flanders, the canals beneath Paris, the heavenly Yonne, the lost Burgundy Canal, the islands of the Saône, and the forbidden ways to the Mediterranean.
Aliens, dicks, trolls, vandals, gongoozlers, killer fish and the walking dead all stand between our three innocents and their goal - many-towered Carcassonne.
372 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2005
‘In England shops are normally open, and in France they are normally shut. When they are open the lights may be out and you bang on the door to get in. Market stalls close like oysters as you draw near. The brass plates of doctors and lawyers have a piece of paper with yellowing tape saying that no opinion will be offered until ten to three Thursday fortnight. Outside a restaurant in Sens the list of closing times is longer than the menu. There are supermarkets the size of a city that seem to be open from time to time, but they are not - they are going round behind you making faces.’When a friend lent me this book in October, I was somewhat surprised, to start with, by the way it was written. From the blurb I'd expected a more straightforward sort of comedy memoir in the style of Bill Bryson, but Terry Darlington's prose is almost Joycean - full of brief sentences, poetic allusions, stream-of-consciousness, foreign phrases and bawdy jokes. Less like reading a book than being told a story by a very erudite, well-travelled and quite drunk friend over a dram of whiskey (or in this case probably calvados), at the kitchen table, at about 2AM, surrounded by crumpled cans of bitter and a dozen dog-eared books he wants to lend you. (God I miss the days before COVID.) You hear Darlington's voice as you read -- although in this case the voice I heard was the wrong one: I'd read that he was born in Wales and imagined him speaking in a Swansea brogue, only to dig up a Youtube interview when I was about 50 pages from the end and discovered he actually speaks in RP.
‘In the water, red stems and green hair, and clouds and inverted trees. I tried to look through the reflections. I knew there were forests of weed beneath the glassy cool translucent wave, and green herds that swim through rainbows from the skies ... the Phyllis May was an airship passing through the clouds, forbidden to land, though her captain longed for the streams and woods below.’You'd never get that in Notes from a Small Island.