B
oris Johnson is the last
person who should
spring to mind. But as
I hover halfway down
a zip wire, jerking my
backside to generate
momentum, I’m sure
I must look just
as ridiculous as the
London mayor did
during last summer’s Olympic Games. Like him, I’m also
attracting quite a bit of attention from French people,
who seem delighted to have another Brit to laugh at. Add
a couple of plastic flags and I’d be a spit for the portly
politician, dangling here in mid-air.
Unlike Boris, however, I’m not suspended in the
middle of Victoria Park in East London, but inside a
sea-filled cave on Le Bec de Sormiou in Provence’s Parc
National des Calanques. My heart filled with horror,
thighs strung like trussed tenderloin, I try to affect a
Gallic nonchalance as I shuffle along the rope towards
the next foothold.
“
Allez
,
Moneeeesha,
très bien
!”
calls Pierre Clarac, my
climbing instructor, as I hang there, eyeing swimmers
slipping over the clay-covered rocks below in an effort
to flee the water. “
Méduse
[
jellyfish]!” comes the cry and
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