Our traditional morning fire, then a tour of the apprentice cabins before we packed up camp. The boys went back to the roof of the pool bar, we had already become shadows of the past, no use lingering. Farewell to Ben and we were riding towards the coast, Millar had warned a storm was coming. Up and down hills we raced the gathering clouds, they broke as we reached a town and we sought shelter and an early lunch. Triangles of sandwiches, a very English looking meal.

The rain stopped and we took our chance. We rode down a narrow road past a vicarage and a cathedral from a different time, the gulls began to call, we were getting close. Then things were looking familiar, we were in Brighton. We rode on to a shower and a warm bed.

The night before we had mentioned to Ben’s brother our day on with the flyfishing reconstructive surgeon. He turned up midmorning in 4wd and a very serious looking fishing vest, ready for battle. My plan for the day had only consisted of ‘find cake’ to repkace the hole in my soul where a croissant should have been, so Paul and I piled in to have an adventure. Happily Paul’s girlfriend had made him some fruit cake and we grabbed provisions from the Lodsworth Larder for a picnic lunch.

When we arrived we passed a huge pond filled with fish, Dan explained that members of the club can win a day fishing in the pond, it didn’t seem like much fun to any of us. The flyfishing lakes were revealed to us as we emerged through a gated hedge. It was bizarre, perfectly manicured lawns, swans and bridges. It was like fishing in a city park. Paul and I left them to it and went for a country ramble.

It was nice to explore with a friend, the friend part perhaps the most novel after so many months on the road. Through the woods and bursting out onto yellow slopes of canola. There was an awkward moment as we interrupted a man relieving himself by the path, turned away from his sun lazing pals and facing towards us, no one expecting the encounter. Then back down into the darker woods, downward. We chatted with the candor of people who probably wouldn’t see each other again with about insecurities, childhood joys, struggles and uncertain futures. Then we realised we were lost, we headed upward in what seemed like the right direction and came out from the woods where we had encountered the peeing man, he and his friends had left. Then downwards towards the manmade lakes, past an old huffing man who we wished our best to.

Nothing was biting, except a curious eel. Paul and I picnicked, sharing sardines and salad sandwiches. Then I stalked goslings and a little black cat who was snorkelling through the long grass after birds, its tail all that could be seen. It was a startled thing and leapt away at full speed. there was the obligatory words about how fishing is pleasurable even without catching fish and we headed back to the clubhouse where we were greeted by hot tea and a tier of brownies. Surprise brownies tend to be a highlight, and my cake itch was definitely scratched.

This is a cheat, we used a can of baked beans, but we added some extras and points for cooking on a campfire!

Baked Beans

Fry onions, garlic in butter until golden, then add thyme leaves and garlic chives. Add chopped chard, kale and sorrel with a 1/4 cup water and stir.

Meanwhile heat baked beans, when leaves are wilted mix through beans and serve on hot toast.

Serge walked into the pub like a king, head high, gesturing from side to side with a hand palm held upward. He commanded the room, it was his, but there was one who didn’t register the gravitas of the Tunisian’s entrance and Serge’s half smile froze a little as he zeroed in on his quarry. This guy was a regular, a banker, whose job in London was so stressful that on the weekends he just destroyed himself with beer after beer and maybe the aid of some white powder. When he arrived the barmaid asked him if he wanted his Spiderman suit back, he too apparently liked to make an entrance, I was kind of disappointed he hadn’t arrived in costume. He was loud, and he was messy in his movements, Serge collected three coasters, two with thistles and one a swallow. His hands shuffled the coasters and spat them out, “where is it?”, the drunk chose, the swallow, “ah, very good, very good, now how much?” “I don’t know man, I’m drunk man” “How much? 50P, choose” Thistle, “5 quid” thistle, “20 quid” thistle, “I let you win” thistle. The drunk’s volume was diminished, of course he didn’t take any money, but he had confused the guy into a respectful silence. Ego restored Serge sat next to us in the corner to play guitar.

“People in this village don’t appreciate good food, they won’t eat couscous, they want rice. The only way to cook couscous is to steam it and there is nothing that compares.” We had enjoyed a very good meal earlier, but yes the aubergine was accompanied by rice. Dylan had the pub staple of fish and chips, but when quizzed could not name the secret ingredient of star anise.

Sally, his co-owner then joined us looking weary. “People are more alive than dead here, tomorrow we’re holding another wake. It’s a relief to see some young people in here.” She bought us a drink. “People don’t approve of Serge, we mainly get out of towners, there have been several celebrities dining with us tonight.” We looked around, but wouldn’t have recognised these English actors anyway.

“The woman in the shop doesn’t like my croissants!! She refuses to sell them, so I only make them every second Sunday on her day off.” I had tried these the weekend before, they were dark like a true French croissant and melt in the mouth buttery, I was crestfallen we would miss out this weekend having planned our day around it like the food obsessed Melbournians we were, “if you are ever here on the right Sunday I will show you how to make them.” He then started rattling off ingredients and measurements, that we had no hope of remembering, but we were touched by his open spirit.

We had come to see Millar’s first night behind the bar and as it grew later and the crowd thinned the atmosphere settled into that comfortable ease of close friends. Serge tried to teach Paul and me the coaster trick, and it became clear that it was more mental than anything else, the lull and the pounce, everytime you thought you were onto his game, his mannerisms, thistle! Someone offered us some Twiglets, they tasted like Vegemite, but didn’t make me homesick.

“This is how I earned my ticket from Marseille to London” he proudly confided, then he became a successful restauranteur in London, Sally and he were sorely disappointed with Lodsworth. Serge had an air of mystery about him, and exoticism that would be a boon on London or Melbourne, but was met with suspicion in small town Lodsworth. The rumour was his parents were the last people guillotined in France, we didn’t ask. Sally too had lived a full life, wife of an petroleum man, she had lived all over the world, South America perhaps being the most memorable. Houston was the hardest for her, we shared our stories of how Americans were so similar to us, then would say something that would surprise you and the gap of difference would seem an abyss, more often than not it was about guns.

Serge settled in to be the star, fingers dancing over the guitar strings with card shark speed, his gravitational pull swallowed the room. French songs, Spanish songs, then a rather entertaining Buffalo Soldier, in a strong French Tunisian accent. It was one of those nights that glows red hot and you can feel it burned in memory forever, Oregon Fishing, Jazz in New York, a campfire on Mount Tamalpais as the fog closes in, we spilled into the night feeling we had caught a glimpse of something special.