Drouff and the white chocolate. That sounds like the title of a toddler book. But of course it's just a vacation story.
Inside, that saved 30 kilometers on the map. Just paper Michelin maps are a lot, however, than a GPS. So we drove through the forest at a leisurely pace. Heading for the sun. The paths were clear. The day was beautiful. A fat man with a gun stepped over his shoulder and a young lanking on our path.
In France you take men with guns seriously.
"What we did?" "We found a short route to 'X'" we smiled innocently. The forester looked at our engines. Foreign off roads, that could be shot at. But two clearly classic motorcycles, one with a boulemic sidecar, that did not fall under the local hunting decision. ”C'est d'accord. Continuez votre route ”smiled the fat man.
We asked if he was also working on a shorter route or was doing something else.
Ah! That was indeed true! "Allons, nous cherchons Drouff". "Drouff avec double 'f'" clarified the thin one, who turned out to be a forest ranger. Drouff with the double 'f' turned out to be the tame wild house boar of the forester. The beast sometimes ran away. Down the yard. Enter the forest. A short explanation followed about the wild boar location. In the afternoon they sit in the valleys, on the east side of the most humid slopes. "And he loves white chocolate," added the thin one while taking a bite of a white chocolate bar.
We asked if we could help with the absurd boar hunt and were given white bars of chocolate.
Drouff was found and happily grunted on a leash. The thin and the boar went into the sidecar. The boar had absolutely no problem with that. Because the beast didn't have to walk and the supply of white chocolate turned out to be inexhaustible. The fat one went behind the Honda. Seen from behind, it seemed that the fat man was floating above the ground in a half-squat position. His rifle protruded beyond the helmet of his driver. The stuff was delivered to the Landrover company and we were invited to come and have a glass later on the local terrace. In France, traffic and alcohol go well together.
A big Mercedes-Benz came by on the terrace.
He honked. The equally fat driver raised a heavy gold-ringed hand. On his wrist he had a golden watch the size of a pizza plate. Forester and ranger assistance looked at each other with an empty look. "Le con". So 'the dick' ... The man was the local contractor. Had a lot of French euros. He was only tolerated because he had the best mob of dogs in the region. But last fall, he was waiting behind the game screen to get some wild game ready for cooking. . He heard something behind him. Turned with unexpected flexibility of his stool, squatted and shot.
His best hunting dog was double double full in the chest and died with a last surprised look at his owner.
It was getting late.
We slept in the forester's house.
Because in France, drinks and traffic go well together.
But there are limits.