Abbeville
Our very first stop in France was in Abbeville, a small town about an hour south of Calais. We almost drove the wrong way up a tiny one-way street, but worked it out at the last minute and ended up parking in the centre of the town, near the Office de Tourisme. I had a vision of us finding a small cafe, consulting our road map, perhaps calling a campsite and booking in somewhere for the night.
Instead, I got distracted by a lovely-looking old church. I stepped in to take a quick look, and was immediately greeted by a very friendly guide who spoke impeccable English. He pressed some shiny brochures into my hand — one about this church, another of a nearby church, a third of a map of the area, also a feedback form, and a guide of local activities. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that we weren’t stopping, so I politely looked around and nodded knowingly at stained glass windows and meaninful-looking artworks I understood nothing about; the captions were all in French, and the information booklet had no, well, information.
After this detour, we walked to the nearby river and sat on a rusty bench in the sun. We agreed to press on with our journey, via a detour to a toilet. The only public toilets on the town map were inside the town hall, but upon arriving into the main square it became immediately clear that the town hall was undergoing some extensive refurbishment. The toilets were just beyond a chain-link fence, so close I couldn’t promise myself that Liam wasn’t judging what his range might be were he to relieve himself from where we stood.
Instead, we went to the Office de Tourisme, which we were sure would have both toilets and somewhere to re-fill our water bottles. “Yes, through here, and on the right” said the woman on reception, waving to an archway next to us. We obediently and eagerly ducked through, and found ourselves in a large, semi-circular lobby, with white walls, high ceilings, and no windows. The space was light and bright, and completely empty, save for a sofa in the far corner.
Tucked away on the right hand of the room was what looked like a fire door. It was industrial green, with an illuminated sign of a stick person running down some steps. It was also locked. Optimistic, I strained my ears. “I think maybe I hear a hand dryer?”
We looked around for another door, any other potential exits or signs. There were none. We waited, in case someone came out. No one did.
After a few minutes, we had to admit that we were stumped. There were no other public toilets in the town, and no one else to ask. “Good job I’m not desperate,” I concluded, as we sloped off back to reception. I didn’t want the woman on reception to think we had failed, and found myself hoping that we’d left enough time for her to think we had used the toilet.
We retreated to the car, having failed to find a campsite for the night, work out where we were going next, or even find a toilet.
