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Wobbly Wheels knows schoolboy French, but given his last name, penchant for croissants and the city of Paris he'd have you believe he is French. Those that know him also know he is no shrinking violet so with that in mind it will come as no surprise what happened yesterday. Riding from Le Cateau, it is early on Saturday afternoon, we are riding through back roads as several glorious French villages go whizzing past. There is a distinct lack of activity, and I mean nada, no one, nothing around. It happens. It is both creepy and calming. Generally though it happens when you start to tire and could do with a baguette. That is until we rolled past the Vendhuile school, population 79, three teachers, no English speakers and their school fete. It looks like private 'do' I say, but WW wanders in the gates like he's an Old Boy, before being affronted by a teacher. He explains we are cycling to Albert and we are hungry. And harmless. Welcome! Come this way, here is the bar, beer, wine, whiskey? In French. There's pig on a spit and potatoes in the open fire, fromage (cheese) and dessert are included in the not unreasonable price of 10€. We are guests of honour, we get served furst, offered bread, drinks, a seat. We try and explain what we are doing, WW says 'my wife has very good legs' in French, I think at least I hope that's what he's saying, and when we explain where we are going there are plenty of eye-rolls and elbow nudges. Whatever. The food is delicious! WW gets carried away and sculls two beers before declaring they probably want him as principal. They're proposing a walk around the village, or something equally odd, but I could really go for a nap. But it is time for us to leave, back to the rolling hills and headwinds. As we get on our bikes at the school gates, WW mutters, 'whatever you do, don't fall off,' perhaps more to himself than me.
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