An absence of recording and social media, but not an absence of Extreme Boule.

A boule clatters into the pebbles, its rusted shell apathetic to the presence of the nearby Jack despite the vocal urges of its launcher. A primordial shout, then a wizened sigh. There will be another chance soon. 

Another boule skids off the seaweed heading further and further away from the jack, nestling in the bladderwrack. Both now temporary abandoned, briefly unloved - the seaweed by the tide, the boule by its deliverer.

The Jack sits on the shingle nestled near a cracked limpet shell, a hollowed whelk and a patch of egg wreck. These are it's only companions. No boule are near, as all previous shotss are poor, just botchy boule you might say. The next player takes aim, with the jack sat in acres of space there is so much to aim for, so much to hope for. A gift is waiting to be snatched. Their hand clutches the boule, preparing for his next shot. There is a slight quiver in their arm - like a mother elephant gently caressing her calf with her trunk. The player nurtures the boule, waiting for the time to be right to launch the boule

An oyster catcher calls out  - is that Gressier sending support? The Lochs surface shimmers with a grey foreboding- Hornblowers spirit is there. The lichen covered rocks briefly take the form of Gwen Thomas, offering encouragement and a seal pops it head of the water - Woolridge is watching. The jackdaw on the harbour wall is now Hopkins, a dog Walker transforms into Pippa Waterman, the anemone clasping to the rock is Perrot. On the limestone pebbles the face of Grandad John Gillard forms, quickly shifting to Richard Waterman as the light chances. The history of extreme boule is etched into the landscape, whispering, urging, knowing. The player, Stanley Topalian, knows this. He looks to the jack, 12m away. Thoughts race through his head…  the terrain is uneven and unpredictable. Perhaps the limpet shell could act as a backstop, guiding the boule towards the jack? Maybe the raft of seaweed looks promising. It is a good 3m from the jack but would catch the boule, securing the boule.  No one else’s boule are anywhere near, so this would win the round. It would be  a safe shot and an easy point -  a gift offered and taken.

Topalian looks around, his thoughts uneasy. The safety shot, the easy point doesn’t feel right. He looks up - the lichen is now just lichen, the pebbles expressionless, the water calm, the seal gone. The gods, the heroes of the past, they have all left him now. The safety shot to the seaweed it is – no glory but an easy point will be his. He looks at his boule ready to launch. He passes for a second, as a slight reflection on the boule catches his eye. He peers at the metal orb, rusted from years of use but still reflective in patches. Was the boule used in the famous James Perrot Ham House match? Maybe it was one of the ones launched from the top of a Brecon Beacon? Did Balance Boy Ben Martin once polish it before decadently launching towards a jack? Perhaps it was even present in one of those pioneering graveyards matches almost 2 decades ago? If only boule could talk, Topalian thought. He stared at the boule. His own haggard catweazley expression reflected back at him. But what was this? His reflection began to morph – his eyes were now longer mildewy and tired but chestnut brown and alive with promise. His hair and beard glistened like a fresh conker and skin was now bronzed and, well, French. It was no longer his reflection. He was staring at Jean Baptiste Gressier. It was the Extreme Boule pioneer, part man part God, unheard of for almost 15 years,  starring back at him. Gressier’s succulent red lips pursed, a drop of golden spittle glistening in  the corner of his mouth. It looked as if he was about to blow a kiss -  Topalians heart raced. The sweet taste of port flooded Topalian’s mouth and yet it was hours since his morning gulp - what was happening to him?

Gressier mouthed those words, unprintable but all too real to Topalian.

Topalian didn't understand French but he knew what to do. No safety shot. No easy point. By Gressier, he was going to land his boule directly by the jack. NO, he was going to land on the jack. An exquisite kisser -  a dream of a shot. This terrain could be tamed. These conditions mastered. This would be a  shot that would be talked about for months, years even. 

He swung his arm and released. The boule arced through the air. Could it land directly on top of the jack and balance there? Would it be the greatest shot ever?

The boule the shingle with a thud 5 metres from the jack, smacking into an iron bru can, tossed up in the previous high tide. It ricocheted crudely to left away from the jack bouncing past a discarded plastic spoon . It was already a complete cynt of a shot. On it rolled further from the jack, over the sand past a used tissue, past an opponent's boule, then another. A slight change of direction on touching the broken buckfast bottle, and the jack long out of reach now.  On it trundled, pass the final opponent’s boule to finally nestle in a dog turd, or possibly human judging by its sizeable girth.

The round was over and the point was lost. Dejected Topalian walked the walk of shame to collect this abject failure of a shot. Why had Gressier and the other boule legends forsaken him? Had all the omens meant nothing? He picked up the boule. As he wiped the fecal matter off on a wheat crunchie packet, he caught site of the reflection in the boule again- it was Gressier, slightly browned, but still Gressier. A broad French smile spread across the face in the boule, vibrant through the shit. Topalian understood. This was true meaning of it all. This was Extreme Boule.