This is a photo of the town of Tarascon taken from the river bank at Beaucaire. The two towns appear together on road signs because they’re only separated by that trickle we know as the mighty Rhone. Historically, I’ve always maintained that Tarascon is the more interesting of the two. However, I’ve now concluded that the compare and contrast exercise is futile as each has things the other doesn’t. Beaucaire, for example, has an indoor public swimming pool (which is not something many places around here can boast).

The other day, I made a second attempt to participate in a spot of water-borne activity; the first was abandoned in favour of lunch when it became apparent the place was closed. The pool has strange opening hours: 12 – 1.15 the day I went. It seemed the whole town had turned out for the re-opening – queues down the steps and a great huddle in the foyer. Madame, the ticket distributer, was beside herself: the ‘problem’ being no-one was going anywhere near the water unless they’d shown a vaccine pass. The gang of ladies doing aqua-fit had to share the smaller pool with an organised outing of people with learning differences and their carers. Of course, in these politically correct days of diversity, folk were theoretically ok with the mixing and matching, but there was no getting away from the fact that it was LOUD.

Meanwhile, having broken through the ranks of ‘les groupes’, I had arrived at the ticket box without a bonnet, and a bonnet was obligatory even before covid arrived on the scene. Likewise, in regard of health associated swimming clobber, men must wear speedos as anything less body hugging, like Bermuda shorts, are deemed to be prone to collecting dust and debris.

Here’s the thing which is good and bad depending on one’s place in line. Wherever you go in France – the shop, the post office, the swimming pool – the person serving will give you their utmost attention until you can move on. Thus, Madame, the ticket distributer, on learning that I was English, and without a bonnet (swimming cap), also assumed (probably correctly) that I was incapable of rectifying the situation alone. She left the sanctuary of her ticket box, took all the loose change she could find about my person, and fed it into a handy bonnet dispenser. ‘Et voila, plop’, she explained as, like one of those claws that sometimes grabbed prizes at an old funfair machine, my new bonnet dropped into a drawer. And not a single person in the queue behind me muttered or raised an eyebrow. It’s not true that the French hate us: they assume we’re all dense and it works.

In truth, the pool wasn’t great. It’s school holidays here so the place was rammed. I have a lot of hair and the bonnet, which was never going to be this year’s fashion accessory, insisted on raising like a beehive on my head. And somehow, this seemed to slow me down. I managed 18 lengths, weaving in and out of the population of Beaucaire, then gave in only to discover that the changing rooms are gender neutral with no hair dryers.

I left for a tasty lunch at a nearby Moroccan joint, followed by a jaunt around the back streets of the town.

It’s like everywhere else around here : wherever you turn, history stares you in the face.

This is an old image of the famous Beaucaire Fair which I came across in the amazing tourist information office. I even had to show my vaccine pass to get in there which I don’t mind, but it gives you an idea of how those who chose not to have the jab are excluded from mainstream society.

And I came across this gorgeous Roman frieze whilst ambling along an inconsequential alley. I wish I could’ve got it all in my camera’s frame.

I like to think that the priest, late for confession, abandoned his bicycle at the steps to this glorious church. Swimming wasn’t up to much, but loved my day out.