Walk On The Wild Side (Fear And Loathing In Lost Vegan)

Attracted by the fragrance of an obscure yellow roadside flower, leaning into the hedgerow Lewis sniffed in the scent. One buzz later it was eyes wide open and his vision filled with a black and yellow striped monster. A bee looks very large from two inches away. He jerked his head back and stumbled. He walked on. The striking sound of silence settled him. Only yesterday Lewis had jostled his way through Paris. Shoulder to shoulder with global tourism on the Metro, slaloming between bodies and rucksacks on the steps of Sacre Coeur, declining the invitation to queue with the lunch packs of Notre Dame and finally finding some sense of solitude in the first floor cafe of the Pompidou Centre. The contrast with a Sunday stroll into the village of St Simeon made him smile.

Initially taking the decision to go vegan on health grounds, Lewis had also warmed to the humanitarian argument. Deep down he was unconvinced. His six foot frame was certainly lighter but his face had become gaunt, his blue eyes hollowed and his Roman nose more pronounced - not necessarily helpful to a single man in his early forties. At least his dark shoulder length hair remained thick, showing no signs of dropping out like his older brother's. Almost six years since his last relationship of any note ended, he worried about being on his own. Hunger and weight loss promoted the expectation that singledom might well be a more permanent state than being vegan.

Lewis walked at a gentle pace, the sleeves to his jade cotton sweater pushed up. With a few items in his brown rucksack, rural France appeared vast and spacious, more so than Britain. The openness of the landscape enabled Lewis to see further and bigger. Our lanes are bordered with hedges and fences, but here, just a ditch either side of a narrow road. All sorts of flowers growing wild and randomly. Sounds amplified by rural acoustics - the shrill singing of birds, gentle movement of branches and leaves, unidentified insects emitting indescribable sounds.

The tranquillity of the countryside had relaxed Lewis. This brush with nature was proving therapeutic and he felt good about himself. Horses seemed very popular around these parts. Lewis stopped to watch two dark brown ponies stooping elegantly to eat grass, flies flicked away by tails perpetually primed. Across the road stood an old traditional house with its cream walls, pale blue shutters and terra cotta tiles. A stream ran to its left. Once under the road it became shaded by wild thicket, overflowing with a variety of untouchable berries, such was the density of growth around them. Just over the ridge Lewis took in the allotments, beautifully set out in direct riposte to the wilderness opposite. Vegetables gave way to an orchard, well-stocked and immaculately ordered as the road inclined towards St Simeon.

Rounding the curve at the top, the scene changed. With the village centre in prospect the murmuring of people became the din of a crowd. Above the sound of chatter was the tinny treble and thump of fairground music. Today St Simeon hosted its 'brocante'. In the league of markets it's probably a notch up from a 'car boot' but with a degree of overlap. Lewis ambled round, exchanging smiles with some of the local traders. The sun felt stronger as he scanned the stalls and was both amazed and depressed by the eclecticism of the unwanted. At least it was a form of recycling. He was most attracted by the local produce like honey, jam, cheese - circular Bries from Meaux, Melun and nearby Coulommiers. The bar tabac, invariably closed whenever Lewis drove through, was today most definitely open. The two battered old round tables and four chairs had been usurped by trestle tables and benches with customers drinking beer and wine. Madame stood over a mini cooker churning out 'saucissons et frites' at three euros a time. Over at the highest corner of the sloping triangular village green, white plastic chairs and tables were set out with more food: quiches, croissants, pains au chocolat et raisin, plates of 'moules et frites'...It all made for a happy, relaxed charm that reminded Lewis of the value of community.

He was eager to participate and was pleased to discover a couple of metallic prints of the Moulin Rouge, which he thought would brighten up his study. Starting at E10 each he got the lady down to E15 for the two. Deal! He proudly carried his bag over to the tabac. The barman, a slim wiry man in his mid-forties, with grey cropped hair, grey v-necked sweater and blue jeans, greeted him:

"Oui, Monsieur? Bonjour!"

"Bonjour" said Lewis, "Un café double et un cognac, s'il vous plait."

The only available seat was a stool against the bar. Clearly the tabac was trying to perform more than just its traditional role of selling cigarettes and alcohol. An alcove housed a photo-copier and fax machine; there were magazines for sale; it sold dreams too, in the form of lottery tickets. Lewis found his gaze held by the unlikely prospect of a doner kebab. Closer inspection revealed it to be a suspended sticky strip, now last resting place for a summertime of flies. He wondered if it rotated whether it might act as a cheap mirror ball, the light reflecting off hundreds of tiny wings. Perhaps it didn't ought to be hanging next to the micro-wave...yes, he thought, he'd make a few changes.

A slightly more Gallic version of Lewis emerged into the bright afternoon light. He walked across the green past the children's carousel, the hook-a-duck stall, the rifle range, the gaufres and doughnuts. Venturing along a lane adjacent the imposing church he ignored even more delightfully unsellable items. Until he spied a paperback copy of Zola’s ‘La Bete Humaine’…in French, of course. ‘It must be the cognac’ he thought, another euro lighter.

Strolling downhill, the tables ended and the cars parked on verges disappeared. Past the cheese factory on the left and rural peace returned. The sun squeezed out another couple of degrees as if to prove it wasn't yet September. It was just after four when Lewis clambered over a stile and followed a worn track over a wide meadow. Another stile mounted, he found himself alongside a brook, its clear water splashing over stones and pebbles. Cupping the water to his face he looked around and decided it was a beautiful spot to sit awhile. After a minute or so, he carefully laid down his rucksack towards the top of a grassy knoll. Reclining, he set his head for comfort. The water bubbled by soothingly. As he listened to his environment his eyes slowly closed behind his shades.

'Auberge du Petit Morin’ announced the sign over a hotel and restaurant, its red script set against a bright green background. The sun sat lower in the sky and Lewis hadn't really much idea where he was. As he approached the impressive building at the corner of the village junction, an attractive woman with long dark hair emerged. Holding a cigarette in the index fingers of her right hand, she took out a lighter with her left, lit the cigarette and sat at a small table. The area in front of the hotel was enclosed by an old brick wall with a broad coping stone on top.

Passing through the small tables and chairs Lewis considered the framed menu on the wall next to the entrance. He stole a furtive glance at the woman as she casually blew a ring of smoke skywards and turned slightly to smile at him. He went back to the set menu of E59. Like the woman, it was a bit out of his league. And sufficiently mouth-watering to give a faltering vegan sleepless nights.

"The chef here is very good" came a voice from his right, as if she'd read his thoughts.

"Good food is...how you say...sensual?" she added.

She spoke with a slow, soft voice. Between her accent and her deep brown eyes, Lewis was captivated.

"Yes", he replied "good food can be very sensual."

She wore an ivory blouse with a fawn cashmere sweater tied loosely around her shoulders in that chic French way. Close fitting charcoal moleskin trousers accentuated her long legs. The buckled brown leather belt and scuffed ankle-high brown boots lent her a sense of understated cool.

"Let me show you the restaurant" she offered, stubbing out her Gauloise.

"Oh...thank you" spluttered Lewis. "That's very kind."

"Where are you from, er...? Sorry, I forgot to ask your name."

"Beatrice...and I am from Limoges."

"What a lovely name."

"Thank you." She smiled a smile that made Lewis feel giddy.

"Are you staying here?"

"Yes. It's my third night. It's very relaxing but a little quiet. What about you?"

"Oh, I'm in an apartment outside St Simeon. The next village I think, just across the fields."

Beatrice led Lewis inside, showing him the restaurant, the lounge and reception area. He wondered if she was on commission or simply bored.

"The rooms are all different. Let me show you mine..."

"Oh, there's no need..."

"It's OK, no problem."

The room was surprisingly modern. It smelt of her perfume...intoxicating, heaven scent. As Lewis looked at the view from the bay window, commenting inanely on what he could see, Beatrice drew a curtain over with her left hand. Turning toward Lewis she took hold of his shoulder with her right hand, moving him to almost face her. A frozen expression came across his face and she moved her right thigh against his, her left hand now on his waist. He retained the startled rabbit look as she took her hypnotic gaze closer and caressed his cheek. Her lips moved slowly round to his and when they met he melted out of his state of shock and began to feel what was happening to him. Beatrice chewed his bottom lip playfully before passionately and fully enveloping his mouth.

'I can't believe this!' thought Lewis. Helping remove her sweater he dropped it on the bed. Beatrice' lips now felt their way around his neck. He began to pull out her blouse. Sliding his hand under, he felt the warmth and softness of her lower back and with his other hand pulled nervously at pearl buttons. She mirrored his actions and was soon running her fingers across his chest and kissing his shoulders.

"Oh, my God...Beatrice..."

As they kissed harder she began pulling at his belt. Despite his years of inactivity Lewis managed successfully to remove her bra. He stretched his fingers across her shoulder blades, then slipping his hands down around the small of her back he pulled her closer to him until her breasts pushed against his chest.

"Oh, Beatrice..."

"Mmmmm...."

"mmmmMMMMMMM..." became progressively louder and as Lewis looked up he was confronted by a huge cream cow. He tried to jump up but surprisingly it was the stiffness from his neck that prevented him. Other cows stood behind their standard bearer and a farmer grinned alongside.

"Pardon, Monsieur, mais..."

He gesticulated to explain that Lewis was preventing his herd from moving through to the next field. Rising gingerly to his feet and holding his rucksack in front to mask his embarrassment he walked away awkwardly, his adventure interrupted and his ardour somewhat cooler. Time for tea.