We bought a lot of hash from the French ginger guy we met just an hour ago, and we still had about a week until the harvest began. What was there to do in the meantime? Well, we found a list of hot springs freely available in the nature, and there happened to be one close to us. It was an easy pick.
As we drove further and further east, the plains became mountains, and sun hid behind massive storm clouds. In no time, rain was falling down in torrents, and a storm was raging all around us. It was at this point, that the idea of a hot bath became almost irresistible. We pictured ourselves sitting in the warm water, smoking hash, drinking beer. We prepared a plan – as soon as we arrive, R will go to the water, to test it out. It was pretty cold and rainy outside, and there was no use in all of us getting wet at first. If he wasn’t back in a few minutes, we would know it was all good, and we would follow him into the springs.
We finally reached the destination, the rain had already stopped. R went to scout the area, according to the plan. I had a job to do as well. We needed something to smoke, and it was up to me to prepare it. I rolled the spliff, and then we changed into swimwear, and waited. Minutes passed, and R wasn’t returning. We were just about to follow his footsteps, when he rushed back into the car, wet to the bone, shaking uncontrollably.
“It’s not a fucking thermal source! It’s cold as fuck! Shit!” he screamed as he warmed himself up.
After he dried, he got dressed, and eventually calmed down enough to explain what actually happened. He found the small natural pool, got in, but quickly realised that the water wasn’t warm enough for a late evening bath. Obviously, he wanted to get out, but slipped, and fell into the water instead. That was unlucky. For him, as well as for us. We drove five hours in a storm, through the mountains, just to be left with a pool of lukewarm water to frolic in.
We still needed a place where we could spend the night. We got out of the car and scouted the area. There was an old cabin, but it was locked. There were the infamous pools, three in total, with water cascading from the top one into the bottom. There was a small field next to the pools, but it was too wet to build tents on. Next to the old cabin, we found a barn which wasn’t locked, only a shoestring tied around it’s handle…
At this point, it’s important to say that we’ve already smoked the joint, and we were pretty stoned. Too stoned, I dare say. We walked into the barn, and it gave us creepy vibes right from the start. It was totally empty, too clean, and there was a rope hanging from the ceiling.
“Somebody definitely killed himself here,” K proclaimed, and we all agreed.
The barn was the only dry place around, but we hesitated. After a quick discussion, we decided to keep looking.
As we were coming back to the parking lot, a bunch of black cars stormed in from the main road. With blasting headlights they made an abrupt stop on the parking lot, and about ten people got out in unison. We were scared to the bone. Just a few minutes ago, we found an old barn where somebody definitely commited suicide, and now there was the secret service coming for us, because we wanted to spend the night at a thermal spring which wasn’t thermal.
“Hey, is there a place to sleep?” the newcomers asked.
“Y-yes… I mean, there’s an old barn, but it’s scary.”
They just laughed, and went straight there. It took us good few minutes to realise what just happened, and when we went to check on them, they were already enjoying the dry comfort of the wooden structure. Well, no barn for us that evening. We found some spot in the bushes where it wasn’t as wet as everywhere else, we built our tents there, and we fell asleep.
In the morning, the group was gone, and of course, realising our grave mistake, we swiftly homesteaded the barn. Besides the obvious benefit of a roof above our heads, it provided other comforts as well. A wooden couch and a table, stationed at a cozy front porch with a pergola, a steady gravel ground, and the imagined safety of the shoelace locking mechanism. Good enough for few days.
Indeed, we had plenty of time with nothing significant to do. We played cards most of the time, drank beer and smoked spliffs. When the heat of the sun was too much, we went to cool off into the thermal springs. It was the only way to enojy that water. It was an anti-thermal spring. Many tourists were coming an going, but since the barn was a bit on the side, we had our privacy.
One thing gave us hard times, and that was the flies. There were too many of them. They enjoyed our food, our sweaty clothes, sweaty bodies, and basically everything that was going on in the front porch. We were constantly bored, drunk, and stoned, and the flies quickly became annoying. We held our ground firmly. We were not playing games with the flies.
After a day or so, we declared war. We caught them into the empty beer bottles, ten and more at a time; we filled the bottles with spliff smoke, water, or anything that was at hand. Every thirty minutes or so we stopped whatever we were doing, and killed as many of them as possible. We tore their wings apart and left them on the table for their bretheren to see that only death awaited. They never got the messsage. We even stoned one of them, and it was the weirdest thing. Imagine touching a fly with a stick, a living fly…
Dostoyevsky once said something along the lines of that when you give a man all the free time in the world, and satiate all of his needs, he will start breaking things just to stir up some excitement. I think this is exactly what happened there, at the thermal spring that wasn’t thermal. We had too much time on our hands, too much comfort, and we were clutching at straws to be amused somehow.
After about a week of this we finally decided to return to Châteauneuf-du-Pape. It was just about time the harvest finally started, and we coudln’t stay at the place anymore. One day I may return there just to see if the old barn is still standing, and if there’s still as many flies around, and if the water is still thermal. Until then, this vacation remains a meme between me and R, when we discuss our next adventure:
“Let’s go to ——!”
(I reserve the right to keep the places and people in my stories more or less anonymous. Not because I fear that the masses reading this would go around ruining the place, but because I think some experiences are better left obscured, so that you can enjoy making bad judgements of your own.)