Banks Peninsula avec Jane et Serge

A french girl moans. “Oh Jesus,” I yell. “Oh Jesus holy shit. A cow!” Then she groans.

“I see the cow!” he replies loudly. Our car, a 1996 Nissan Bluebird, slides backwards and to the left.

I grip the armrest and look out the window to the muddy ground far below.

Through the radio, Serge Gainsborough explains “Je vais, je vais et je viens…”. Our tires catch a bit of gravel and we go flying forward. We stared la mort in the face, and it was anything but petite.


Tempted by a shortcut on the map, I gave in. A seasonal, unpaved road connects the north side of the peninsula to the south.

“If it was dangerous, it wouldn’t be on the map!” I reasoned.

It was also my idea to download vintage French Pop classics for our trip to Banks Peninsula.

I had heard there was a strong influence of French culture on the peninsula, and singing “Zou Bisou Bisou” made me feel fun.

Banks Peninsula

We were starring in our own French farce, complete with bellowing cows, sex sounds set to music, and a general fear for our lives. Eventually, the road smoothed out.

We made it to our destination, the clouds rolled in, and we split a bottle of red wine.

Banks Peninsula