About Grace Lessageing

I am writer of novels, short stories, flash fiction, blogs. I lead a creative writing group. I am an Ex infant teacher, living in Christchurch, Dorset, UK. My brand new novel, The Conways at Earthsend was published on January 28th 2021 can be found on Amazon, Waterstones, Hive and Goodreads and is available in either paperback or e-book versions. You can also read The Year of Familiar Strangers, available as an e-book from Amazon. You can visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Jane-Deans-Novellist-Short-Fiction-and-Blog-102757711838272 Happy reading!

Little England on a Chocolate Box

Posted on August 20, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

The Cotswolds is a region of part midland/part south of England that extends to five counties and is much loved by tourists, both domestic and international as well as dwelt in by numerous celebrities, who may well be the only ones to be able to afford the properties. The region is famous for its bucolic countryside of rolling wheat fields and its towns and villages of golden Cotswold stone, picturesque and historic. These villages are what I suppose overseas visitors must imagine when they think of England, an England of thatched cottages, red phone boxes and pink roses around a door.

Husband had booked us into an old coaching inn, in Moreton-in-Marsh, which is either a small town or a large village; typically Cotswold but marginally less stuffed with tourists and traffic than the more famous ‘Stow-on-the-Wold’. The hotel,The Bell Inn lies in about the middle of the wide High Street [pretty much the only street] in a terrace of fine old stone buildings. Tolkien is said to have frequented The Bell and modelled ‘The Prancing Pony’, the hostelry where Frodo and his friends went first on their journey in Lord of the Rings, on this Inn, hence the large map of ‘Middle Earth’ covering one wall in the bar.

Our room at The Bell was out the back, across a courtyard and up some steps. Inside it had low beams and latticed windows and a great bathroom. So far so good, except that there was no fridge, meaning I’d have to ask the hosts to keep my meds in their kitchen fridge and have to trek down there first thing in the morning.

We wandered out and around Moreton-in-Marsh. It was our 20 year wedding anniversary and we opted to book a table at a Thai restaurant across the road, then had a look around. There’s not much to Moreton ITM, although it does have a [posh] Co-op supermarket, a station and a number of decent places to eat. It goes without saying that all the buildings are in carefully matched, golden-yellow stone [even the Co-op!].

Breakfast in the morning was well-cooked, if not sumptuous. Later we drove around and around the countryside until we managed to locate Hidcote Garden, a National Trust property I was keen to see. Built in the arts and crafts style, it is extensive, with many garden ‘rooms’, the planting at this time of year tumbling everywhere having benefitted from all of this summer’s rain. You could spend a couple of days here and still not get to see it all- there are borders of tall perennials, formal squares, huge pond areas, an ancient cedar- huge and graceful, wilder, informal parts that lead to an enormous park where sheep graze.

Towards the end of the afternoon the rain came and we dived into the cafe, then the shop, of course.

The following day we went to find some ancient standing stones nearby, which were impressive- a perfect ring on the hillside, as well as a couple of other stone monuments, then we opted to go to Stratford upon Avon, of which I could remember little from javing visited as a child. The town, of course was heaving with tourists of every nationality. It’s pleasant enough, with the canal and canal boats, the big RSC theatre and statues of the great man everywhere you look. We took a tour round the ‘Tudor Life’ museum, which was hilarious for its mock-ups.

Then it was back to our coaching inn and off for a meal to celebrate the ancient age I have now become- and very nice it was, too [the meal, not the age!]…

Grace is the alter ego of novelist and short story writer, Jane Deans. To date I have two published novels to my name: The Conways at Earthsend [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Conways-at-Earthsend-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B08VNQT5YC/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2ZHXO7687MYXE&keywords=the+conways+at+earthsend&qid=1673350649&sprefix=the+conways+at+earthsend%2Caps%2C79&sr=8-1 and The Year of Familiar Strangers [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Year-Familiar-Strangers-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B00EWNXIFA/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2EQHJGCF8DSSL&keywords=The+year+of+familiar+strangers&qid=1673350789&sprefix=the+year+of+familiar+strangers%2Caps%2C82&sr=8-1 Visit my writer Facebook page [https://www.facebook.com/search/top?q=jane%20deans%2C%20novellist%2C%20short%20fiction%20and%20blog or my website: https://www.janedeans.com/

More Fuel on the Vanities Bonfire…

Posted on August 13, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

I don’t write about ageing all that much, figuring it’s not that interesting to most readers. But I’m breaking the habit and getting on to the subject in this post- mostly because I have reached an age.

When I look back on milestone birthdays they have been memorable, although not always in positive ways. On my 21st my parents brought a gift to my tiny, shared, Wimbledon flat- [a black and white portable TV], and left again. The entire occasion was marred by a row with my [then] live-in boyfriend, whereupon I got very drunk on a cheap bottle of sherry [goodness knows where it came from]. I stormed out and on to a tube train going somewhere, rode it for a while and came back. The relationship, dear reader, did not last…

My 30th brought with it an offspring, my best gift.

I marked my own 40th with a party, but yet again a big relationship split ruined it, resulting in my meandering through the revellers, snivelling, with a bottle of champagne under my arm.

My 50th was remarkable. I got married and Husband threw a brilliant party in a hired barn bar with live music, stand-up comedy and a whole crowd of friends.

On my 60th we hosted a sedate garden party then flew off to Thailand for an amazing adventure. It was during my sixties, though, that I truly began to feel bodily frailty and an erosion of physical ability. I was obliged to give up daily running, modify exercise. I got diagnosed with a chronic disease and had to learn to manage it.

I began to write in earnest, penning my first novel, the huge buzz on completion unmatched by friends’ responses. [‘well done’ was the most lavish praise from most- who mostly failed to read it].

The 70th, a milestone just passed, has held both delights and horrors. Health scares and problems, only to be expected as we age, are no less frightening for that expectation. They still shock, still shake the ground under our feet. There’s a lot of twaddle written and said about ageing. ’70 is the new 50′, I was told. [it is not]. ‘It’s only a number’, ‘you’re as old as you feel’.

I still exercise, almost every day, although these days it’s alternate dance and Pilates, which I’ve learned to love, followed by garden work, walking or cycling. You can be forgiven for thinking that a healthy diet and regular exercise can stave off age-related diseases and give you a ripe old age. It may not always be so…

That said, there has been a series of beautiful and memorable 70th celebrations, some of which will be described in posts to come…

Mont So Different

Posted on August 6, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

For the duration of this trip we’ve kept mostly to places we are very familiar with, destinations on France’s west coast, places we’ve spent a great deal of time in over the years. I’ve explained in previous [recent] posts how remarkable the changes to these places are; how sites have exploded with development some barely recognisable [one because it wasn’t the site we’d visited after all!].

But nothing has prepared us for how much Mont-St-Michel, the iconic, abbey-topped mound in the sea off Normandy’s coast, has altered- not the mound itself, of course. That looks much the same as ever. But the surrounding infrastructure has been exploited beyond belief.

We last visited twenty something years ago whilst we were still tent campers, driving to the continent in an ancient estate car loaded with bikes and all the camping gear we’d cobbled together from various sources. We were returning from somewhere- Italy, perhaps? The summer holidays were grinding towards a conclusion- always a gloomy prospect. It had been a long day’s drive to get us far enough north, not helped by the weather, which had turned wet.

For an overnight stop we’d opted to shell out and get a budget hotel, something we sometimes did for overnight stops when holidaying with a tent. We used ‘Formula 1’ hotels- no frills, clean, basic rooms offering a cheapish breakfast with surprisingly good coffee. We tried one. It was ‘complet’. We drove to another city: ‘complet’- and another…you get the picture. At last, as the dark descended it became obvious that there were no rooms to be had. The hour was late as we pulled up, in the rain, to the gates of a camp site…which was…closed.

I’ve slept overnight in a car a couple of times. It never makes for a great night’s sleep. We’d no option to clamber into the back, since the entire space was filled with camping gear, so we pulled a duvet into the front, draped it over and tried to relax. I may have dozed a bit. It was a long night. At about 6am we’d had enough and clambered out After finding cups, water and our toothbrushes we cleaned our teeth, the best we could do.

Mont-St-Michel was nearby so we went, parking up on a verge beside the road leading to the pedestrian causway which is tidal. At this early hour it was eerily quiet. We set off over the cobbled sea bed and got an early, tourist-free look around this iconic island.

This time, though, we’re in the van. Signs on the approach inform us of the whereabouts of the motorhome parking. In the event it’s the furthest from the mount, although a good place to lunch, after which we set off, leaving our parking ticket in the van. It’s a fair distance, even to the bridge- there is no longer a tidal causway, owing, I suppose to maximisation of tourist numbers. There are shuttle buses coming and going and throngs of people along the road.

We walk it, the long, bendy road and the bridge. Then we’re into Mont St Michel and ascending, with difficulty, through the crowds on the steep pathway. They are in the shops, in the doorways, in the centre of the path, across the path- it’s quite a task to get far enough up to be able to walk unhindered, but at last we get far enough up the slope to be free of most, since many are not willing to climb so high.

We’ve been before, so we’re not doing an in-depth look, but there’s time to nip into a store for an item for the naff shelves [https://gracelessageing.com/2018/07/08/the-ghastly-gathering/] before we leave and trek back. I realise I should have brought our car park ticket with us, since the payment machines are dotted along the way but not very close to the motorhome park. Hmm.. We’re both a bit footsore by now but I still have to get to the van, get the ticket, yomp to the machine and yomp back to van before we can exit…but I do- only to discover we could have paid on the way out- ho hum…

We’re doing a time-honoured crossing back from Ouistreham, our usual departure, using the aire by the ferry terminal, only stopping on the way to reserve a table at the ‘Phare’ hotel restaurant, which we’ve liked on previous occasions. Once installed in the busy aire we wander into town for a beer in the sunshine.

I’m sad to report that this time, the ‘Phare’ did not come up to scratch. While the restaurant was not full, we still had a long, frustrating wait to be served, plus a 40 minute wait for our main course. A second round of drinks failed to arrive. We’ll be trying somewhere new next time.

Early next morning we’re up, stowed, ready and roll round to the ferry queue- but we’ll be back…

Returns and revisits

Posted on July 30, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

We leave the Isle of Noiremoutier via the ‘Passage du Gois’, a paved causeway that is exposed at certain times of day when the tide is out. It is just about wide enough for two vehicles to pass. On the approach road, cars and vans are parked up on the verges but we’re able to descend on to the cobbled road across the sea without too much trouble. We progress slowly across, the exposed seabed stratching away on either side teeming with people. They are collecting shellfish, barefoot with trousers rolled up or welly-clad, entire families sometimes, making a day out of it. There’s 4.2k of the causeway, then we’re at the other side, where oyster shacks and seafood cafes line the road and there’s a convenient aire du pique-nique for us to stop for lunch.

We’re heading back to another site we’ve stayed at before, at La Bernerie-en-Retz in South Brittany, although it’s quite some time since we were here with our little VW pop-top van, our first van. The site is memorable in that Husband nipped out in the twilight and returned with a hedgehog tucked under his jacket. He brought it into the van and I gave it some pate before we returned it to the hedge. But the site is yet another that has become part of a chain, developed, acquired multiple swimming pools, slides and faux-cliffs as well as a vast number of chalets. Ho hum…

We also discover that we’re about to exit the discount dates on our ACSI card, something we’d neglected to consider, so we opt to cut things shorter, using aires or municipal sites to get home and return a little earlier than planned.

We have an afternoon stroll down to the town and the seafront. It’s pleasant enough although nothing special and there doesn’t appear to be anywhere whizzo to dine.

Next day we set off towards Pornic for what will be our third visit to the picturesque port town. We’ve done this cycle before. It’s more undulating than our cycling has been so far this trip and requires a fair bit of effort for ancient legs, but we get there, park the bikes and wander round in the sunshine. There’s a railway station by the bridge- last time we’d cycled there and brought our bikes back on the train to La Bernerie. On this occasion, though we’re cycling back to site.

Our discount ACSI camping card having run out of discount dates, it’s time to curtail our wanderings and begin the trek north, so we set off on a much driven route towards an aire that we used years ago when we made the enormous gaff of parking in the service bay. In the morning we woke to irate faces glaring in at the windows of our little VW pop-top. Now we’re no longer rookie aire users and know better. The aire is at St Brice-en-Cogles, an extremely quiet town, although the aire is magnificent- large, with marked out hard-standing places, toilets and all services [and all for the princely sum of…nothing].

We just about manage to get a meal in the only restaurant that isn’t ‘complet’ then in the morning we’re off again, following our usual route towards the bay of Mont St Michel…

The not so Super Super-U

Posted on July 23, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

Some time in between leaving a site and travelling to another there will be grocery shopping to do. I’ve no objection at all to foreign supermarkets, in fact I quite enjoy seeing the range of different or exotic products on offer, none more so than Tesco Lotus in Thailand, where the array of items is mysterious and fascinating.

French supermarkets range from bijou to vast and the biggest sell just about everything [barring ships or hotels]. A cheese section alone can take hours to peruse. In the commercial centre we’ve arrived to, Husband is held up in an ‘Intersports’, deliberating over bike accessories and urges me to get on and shop without him, even though the chances of his locating me in the gargantuan Super-U are as remote as my finding a Sweet-and-Sour sauce, about which, more later…

Somehow, this trip has been planned in a way that has us between places on Sundays- meaning that shopping must take place on a day that the French regard as sacrosanct, supermarkets being open, at best, up until midday so we need to get a crack on if we’re not to be left in the lurch. On one such Sunday, the shops are entirely closed although it always possible to get bread, plus I carry one or two contingency foods such as pasta and ready-made sauce.

The first hurdle in the giant Super-U is to find a trolley. I’m armed with our tiny, plastic ‘sniglet’ [named by ourselves] in order to release one from its chains, thus eliminating the need for a coin. Said sniglet was a gift from a site called ‘La Chaumiere’, high up near the Belgian border, years ago. La Chaumiere is a story in itself…

Seeing a couple emerge from the car park with a trolley, I find one. There are hoards of boutiques and stores to trundle past before entry to the supermarket, then I’m in, past the household stuff, past the ‘offers’, past a whole load of things that could easily waste my precious time.

I arrive at the beer section feeling smug. It was easy. Then I grab a baguette on my way to the fruit and veg. It must all be weighed, which is commonplace for large stores. I need fruit and nut mix and can get it from a row of dispensers against a wall, the hoppers letting down an amount into a paper bag via a handle. So far so good. I continue around the fruit and veg counters. French fresh produce is luscious; the nectarines large, ripe and juicy, the melons like ice cream, the tomatoes huge and flavoursome. Before long I’ve a pile of bags to weigh. At the machines there’s the usual queue but once I get there I see they’ve introduced a new stage to the weighing in that I must select the bag I’ve used. I work my way through the weighing and continue to collect more goods, slogging up and down the neverending aisles in searches- some fruitful, some not.

I find the oat milk [only ever long-life in the supermarche] and some tinned veg, then search in vain for Sweet-and-Sour sauce, tracking backwards and forwards along the Asian cuisine aisle several times. This vexes me! I can ask where to locate most things but I don’t know the word for ‘sour’, although I can look it up for next time.

I’m ready for the checkout, having spent a long time. I’m still, however in good time before the srore closes. The tills are busy. I choose one with a short queue and am immediately subjected to a cross tirade from a woman pointing at an overhead sign- something to do with the cafe. I move to the next, which, it is pointed out by the woman, is about to close. I move to another and wait.

I begin to load the shopping on to the belt, soon getting to the fruit and nut mix which, horror of horrors, has not been weighed. The young woman is kindly- would I like to go and weigh it? Yes. I leave the checkout and yomp back through the store, wait at the scales, navigate through the instructions and get my label, then gallop back to the checkout, where my trolley has been pushed to the side, the small pile of items she’s checked through at the end, the impatient next customer piling the contents of her trolley on to the belt, leaving no room for me to complete unloading.

I’m left to pass my food items one by one to the checkout lady and pack them under the irate gaze of the woman behind me.

It’s all in the bags, all in the trolley ready for off. Then I place my card into the machine, where it is roundly rejected. This happens repeatedly. I try a different card. Rejection. It’s not my day.

Much like the cavalry, at this point, Husband appears. We are led over to customer services. He uses his card. The transaction is approved.

We go to the van, stow away the shopping, make coffee, munch the pastries I’ve managed to buy [after having to ask how to use the bakery purchase machine].

Vous ne pouvez pas tous les gagner…

Cycling and Sardines

Posted on July 16, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

The site just outside Bretignolles, Cabestan, is much smaller than those we’ve stayed in so far this trip. Allegedly [acc to ACSI], near to town, it’s actually a substantial walk or cycle to both the seafront and the centre; but having parked up we set off to look at the beach, attempting to follow the map we’ve been given but getting confused all the same. The route starts in residential streets, the white, single storey homes almost identical with blue shutters and front doors. We spot one with grey paintwork and another with pink, so clearly there are a few rebels among the residents.

We find the cycle path and follow it past a lake and through a park, then there’s another road with houses [blue shutters and doors] and at last we’re in the tiny commercial centre behind the beach- basically a few bars and shops selling beach items. There’s a dearth of restaurants though and we’ll content ourselves with a post walk beer,

By far the best thing about Cabestan is that once you are at the seafront, the excellent Velodysee cycle path runs either way for miles. Our first full day sees us taking the route to St Gilles, a lovely ride, coastal and wooded, the path meandering and undulating. St Gilles is a pleasant town, lying around a busy marina and lively with tourists. On the other side of the bridge is St Hilaire, even busier, packed with sightseers and gift shops.

The next stop on the plan is to revisit the Ile de Noirmoutier, accessed by bridge from Fromentine. It’s a long, flat island and the site we’ve selected is near the end. When we get there it’s immediately clear that our site houses the only hills for many miles around, being entirely situated in the dunes. We’re sent off to a pitch in a kind of dip, which makes internet signal tricky but the site is appealing and has a bohemian vibe. We’ve chosen it for its proximity to L’Epine, a leisure port, where we’d been sure there would be a choice of bars and restaurants but when we investigate we learn there’s very little to the community, the only places to eat or drink being opposite the campsite gates.

At this point the weather steps in and intervenes, an exploratory cycle getting curtailed when billowing clouds of drizzle blow over us and we turn back, giving up for the day.

The Cadillac bar, outside the site entrance does not have an extensive menu but does offer grilled sardines besides the obligatory pizzas and we’re happy to give it a go. To begin, we share a salad, which when it arrives consists entirely of sliced tomatoes in a dressing with a few olives. It is utterly delicious, due I think, to the quality of the tomatoes and the tasty dressing. The sardines come and are salty, crispy and scrumptious. There’s excellent bread and some local, Noirmoutier potatoes. As a meal it’s simplicity itself but nothing could be tastier.

The night brings huge storms, noisy and with torrential rain but in the afternoon we try a cycle to Moirmoutier-en-Ile, the island’s capital, which is not too far. The town is charming and characterful with a beautiful chateau and we dodge a shower by ducking into a cafe.

We’re off again next day, leaving Noirmoutier via the amazing Passage du Gois, moving on to La Bernerie en Retz- another place we’ve been before…

West is Best

Posted on July 9, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

We leave Montjean-sur -Loire on a steaming hot Sunday, while a bike race/rally/event is taking place, stewards, barriers and throngs of cyclists making things less straightforward for an exit of the town, but not unsurpassable.

We’re heading for the coast, to revisit a site we stayed in 10 or 12 years ago, at Fromentine, which overlooks the island of Noirmoutier on France’s west side where the Atlantic rolls in. When we came before we had our first little van, a beautiful VW with a pop-up top. We were still finding our van feet at this time and the Fromentine site, lying under the pines and with beach access, was sparsely occupied- no more than a handful of occupants.

Nowadays sites have developed and are chocablock full of ready-made chalets. We tourers must park in whatever spaces are left between the huts. But Husband thinks he’s identified the site we stayed in and we pull up and check in with no trouble. Later we discover that it isn’t- but our previous stay was next door. It’s still hot but there’s a fresh breeze here and we know there are excellent cycle paths criss-crossing the forests as well as a 20-minute walk into the little, beach-side town and port. A passenger ferry makes trips out to another island, Isle de Yeu and holiday makers make their way to and from the terminal trundling cases back and forth. The tiny town’s main street is a little busier than it was but not greatly changed.

We set off on to the cycle paths through the forest and head towards Notre-Dame-de-Monts, taking the roads where it’s quiet. In the centre there’s a handsome church with a striking tower but nothing much else of note, except that the flower beds are spectacular and a quick mooch yields a Super-U supermarket for picking up a couple of things.

The return becomes tricky once we get hopelessly lost, all woodland paths looking much the same as we try different routes and attempt to work out the way from the [very few] unhelpful maps. My enquiry to a walker confirms we’re heading in entirely the opposite direction to Fromentine.

It’s time to dine out so we opt for a beach front restaurant which we may have visited on the previous occasion, although it’s busy, perhaps due to most other establishments being closed. I’m going for oysters, an order the waiter appears not to have heard, since he brings Husband’s giant crevettes and nothing else but they do arrive at last and are worth the wait

Wanting somewhere new to cycle, next day we pootle off towards the ‘Marais’, the marshes, where the roads are flat and quiet. The cycle path signs give no indication until we try a lane through a housing estate then we’re there- more by luck than judgement.

All goes well and the cycling is pleasant. I’ve already told Husband that if he looks over his shoulder and I’m not there it’s because I’ve stopped to photograph something, so I stop in a gateway, calling to him. He cycles away, disappearing into the distance and I take my shot, thinking he’ll wait at the bridge where we turned; but when I reach the bridge he’s gone without a trace. I track back through the village, taking the exact same route we came on, until I reach a corner where we’d stopped to consult a [useless] map. I call him. It goes to voicemail.

I deliberate, as there are about 4 options from this junction. Which path did we arrive on? I’m about to set off on one when I remember that we were following a family who crossed the road here and it’s a lucky break because I cross back and take the correct path. Then I navigate back to camp just exactly as we came, because what else can I do?

And of course, Husband is there in the doorway of the van, phone in hand, not lying supine in the middle of a road or crashed into a tree. Phew!

Encounter with Vampires

Posted on July 2, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

Husband’s sights are firmly fixed on Heric for our next stop. The plan is for us to cycle some more parts of the towpath along the Nantes-Brest Canal, stretches we didn’t travel last time we came. He’s chosen a site near Heric for its proximity to the canal,

The weather has become very warm, sticky and sultry. We arrive to the site and notice immediately that it’s not near any kind of community that we can walk or cycle to and that the main road is very busy and inhospitable to pedestrians or cyclists. But for all that it looks a cute site, not huge and with some quaint features,

I’m standing at the check-in desk, proffering our ACSI card when I feel several sharp, piercing sensations at my ankles. When I glance down there’s blood emerging from small puncture holes. The itching soreness begins straight away and I know the culprits- having plenty of experience, of course they’re horseflies. It’s not a good start and I’m keen to leap into the van and get at the antihistamine cream before my ankles swell to elephants’ dimensions.

We get parked and install all of our cooling technology [ie fans]. A desultory inspection of the small site reveals a half-resurrected bar area, an indoor pool and a ‘zoo’ [consisting of two goats]. one goat is tethered, the other wanders at will but when she appears by the van she is disdainful of the lettuce I offer, preferring the dead, brown laurel leaves that have fallen from the hedge.

It transpires that the site is not, as claimed, by the canal at all but 7k away, meaning that a 7k ride will be necessary before we even begin on the towpath. Hmm. A jovial Irishman stops to chat. He comes here every year, ‘Yes- there are horseflies. His wife gets bitten a lot. No- it’s not near the canal. Do we not have electric bikes then?’

No, we don’t.

Given that we’re not near anywhere and I’m being eaten alive by flies we opt out of a 3 night stay, deciding to move on tomorrow.

We travel on down to the Loire, at Montjean-sur-Loire, where it is still hot but offers much more convenient cycle paths from outside the site gate. Montjean is a pleasant town with an imposing church and lots of arty sculptures everywhere, There’s a handsome bridge across the river but it’s a shame to see the mighty Loire reduced to a narrowish channel with a wide expanse of beach each side. A couple of bars by the bridge are open for early evening drinks in the sun,

The temperature has climbed unto the 30s but next day we get into cycle gear and head off across the bridge, which is easier than expected, to follow the track along the riverside. Here the narrow roads are shared, bike/car, car users giving priority to cyclists, so that there is no irate hooting or swooshing past with centimetres to spare.

Although we’ve left our cycle until late afternoon it’s still hot and feels like hard work in full sun. We’re glad to get to the next bridge and cross back before plunging into a wooded stretch.We come to another bridge and there’s a beautiful cafe/restaurant across the road which we must leave for some other time. We press on, but the path appears to be heading off in the opposite direction, across the fields. Using guesswork, we cycle through what appears to be someone’s garden, Monsieur mowing the grass assuring us that ‘Oui’ this is the correct route and at last we’re back in Montjean and sinking down into seats at the bridge bar, under a sunshade…

Bimbling

Posted on June 25, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

Husband coined the term ‘bimbling’. It refers to the way we sometimes meander in an area- a kind of ‘slow travel’ if you like.

Circumstances have kept us at home for longer than we’d have liked, but now we have a window of opportunity and here we are in Normandy, having completed our tried and tested Brittany Ferries crossing; all the usual routines- stumble up, last items [fridge] in the van, off to Poole, queue, on to ferry, grab coffee and [excellent, French] pastry, retire to the downstairs recliners for a snooze.

Rather than disembarking and shooting off down the Autoroutes though, we motor a couple of miles along the coast, to a tiny hamlet called ‘L’Anse de Bruick’, a terraced site overlooking a small, exquisite beach. Once established on our pitch we wander down to the bay and it’s a sandy carpet fringed with emerald boulders and rock pools alive with all manner of creatures.

It’s the bar for internet on this first night, as the site is enclosed by an ancient quarry and there’s no signal to be had anyhwere else [cunning of the site, of course].

Next day we drive east along the coast road, stopping by the rocky shore to get a walk on the coast path followed by lunch. The path winds through grass and wild flowers grown tall and teeming with bees and butterflies- it’s a welcome sight, since at home the principal insect in our garden seems to be the mosquito…

Then it’s off into Cherbourg to complete our first task of the trip- to get a carte SIM for our little mobile wifi pebble. It’s always a challenge for my linguistics, always at the start of the travel and I must explain what we need and why, whilst also explaining that we don’t have the required skill to ‘recharge’ the SIM ourselves. I tell the Orange salesperson that we were here last year and offer a small, silent thank you to some unknown deity that we’re dealt with efficiently and without question- and Bravo! We have wifi- although not in the current site in a quarry dip.

We’re off next morning, a short hop to St Martin de Brehal, by the seaside. The site is large, open, clean and tidy, a short walk along the prom to a few bars and restaurants, a pleasant enough place though not characterful enough to photograph. We go for a cycle along the quiet marsh roads, past dunes and roaming sheep. It’s our first cycle of the year so easy does it! But we follow it with an attempt to get to Granville, along the coast, via the prom cycle track and it fizzles out before we’ve got far. We turn off inland but it’s clearly too far to Granville…some other time, perhaps-

Later we sit in the evening sun at a corner restaurant and it’s summer solstice- the longest hours of daylight better still here, where the light remains in the sky until past 11pm.

In the morning we’re off again- south and west.

Wish You Were Here

Posted on June 18, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

Jacob is lonely and a loner, until events conspire to change his circumstances. A brand new story on Anecdotage for you today…

The postcard has been on Jacob Cunningham’s shelf for almost ten hours; and for at least two of those hours Jacob has sat and frowned at it, the remaining hours having been occupied by work, sleep, travelling to and from work and shoving a ready meal into the microwave oven. Jacob is not one to prepare elaborate meals, having only himself to feed and care for, so he rises from his armchair, takes his eyes off the postcard just for the time it takes to heat the meal and returns with the plastic tray and a fork to his chair, cutting down the time and effort involved in taking a plate from the drawer and having to wash it up afterwards. It’s a meagre life, almost monastic in its austerity.

While he chews, Jacob revisits all the thoughts and ideas he’s had so far about the postcard, which is handwritten and unsigned. First of all, could it be from a friend? Jacob ties his brows into a perplexed knot as he considers this. The problem, as far as he sees it, is that he has no friends, or at least nobody who fits into the friend category. He does, of course have colleagues, if you count his line manager at the Co-op and the two check-out staff, Olek and Sue, who greet him when he arrives and bid him goodbye if they catch him leaving. No one at the Co-op, however, would be likely to send him a postcard, would they? And no one knows his address, except perhaps for Big Beryl, his manager, who interviewed him for his role as warehouseman and shelf-stacker. The idea of Big Beryl sending him anything, least of all a postcard is beyond Jacob’s imagination. In any case, she isn’t on holiday and when she has been on leave, she’s returned to work in an even worse humour than usual, having spent her time caring for her unruly grandchildren, not be-sporting herself on a sun-drenched beach in the South of France.

Jacob plucks the card from the shelf and inspects it again. The photo is of the beachfront at Nice, a curving bay of creamy sand decorated with palm trees and fringed by pastel coloured apartment blocks, the balconies all facing out to an azure sea. The entire scene is bathed in sunlight and Jacob can make out figures walking along the path between the sand and the road, the Promenade des Anglais, as the caption informs him. He’s read it countless times. He flips it over, stares at the stamp, a rectangle with a turquoise, monochrome image of a young woman in profile. She’s wearing a cap and has long, flowing curls escaping from underneath it. The postmark is from three days ago.

He appraises the handwriting. It’s elegant and curving in an old-fashioned way that is seldom seen these days. He thinks. You seldom see any handwriting at all these days. In fact, you seldom see postcards. No one writes, not letters, not postcards and rarely greetings cards. It’s unusual to receive anything handwritten.

His next thought is of family members. Neither of Jacob’s parents is alive and he was an only child, much loved- even doted on, by his mother and father. He doesn’t know why he had no siblings but suspects it was more for economic reasons than anything else. His Dad was a skilled man, a tool-maker, but spent the whole of his working life on the same factory floor without ever achieving a promotion like line manager. His mother had worked in a care home, loving the work but receiving little remuneration. They’d been proud people, though, his parents, and kept the small, terraced, two -bedroom house they’d worked to buy spotless and tidy. Jacob closes his eyes. Thank God they weren’t around to see how little he’s made of his life, how he struggles to just about cover the rent on his housing association, one bedroom box of a flat and works as a dogsbody in a supermarket.

For a moment, he allows the idea that the postcard is from his son, Lee to drift into his mind. How old is Lee now? Early twenties? Mid-twenties? Where is he, even? The thought that a child of his could be holidaying in such a place, a place for rich, privileged, classy people fills Jacob with a warm, proud glow, before his imagination hits the brick wall of reality. Of course, Lee isn’t rich, privileged and classy; far from it. Lee will have been as lost to life as Jacob is himself, following Jenny’s death. He takes a quick, inward breath when he thinks the words, ‘Jenny’s death’. It isn’t something he often allows himself to dwell on. He wishes it were different, that he’d tried harder with Lee, but then his own, fragile, mental state had been like a raw wound, exposed and ugly as if anyone could see it and recoil from it.

If only he’d tried harder with Lee when there had been two parents. Jenny was a natural mother, dealing with all the trials and tribulations of parenthood like she was born to it and delighting in all the joys, too, whereas he himself had been at a loss even before she went, never slotting into life as a dad, with all the pleasures that other fathers and sons seem to share- no football games in the back yard, no mock wrestling, no fishing trips or scoffing popcorn in front of the TV. It’s painful to recall how stiff and uncomfortable he’d been as a dad. No wonder Lee had left home as soon as he was able, vacating the house while Jacob was at work, leaving nothing to indicate his whereabouts and not answering any calls. He’d been sixteen then. Jacob had spent many sleepless nights wondering and worrying and feeling he ‘d let Jenny down. The police response had been, at best, lacklustre; too many teenage runaways to deal with, they said. If the boy wanted to disappear then he would.

None of this is shedding any light on the mystery of the postcard. He reads the message again:

Hi there!

Sun, sea, palm trees, French cuisine and all the vin you could want! This place is formidable! I should have done this Europe trip years ago! You should try it, Jacob. It’s true what they say about travel broadening the mind! Leaving tomorrow for Italy. Watch this space! xxx

‘Watch this space?’ What does that mean?

Jacob doesn’t have too long to consider what the words mean. Four days later there’s another postcard waiting on the mat when he returns from work. He stares down at it, at the shiny surface of the photo, pausing and frowning at it before placing his carrier bag with a ready meal and one can of beer on to the floor. He reaches down and plucks it from the mat. This time the photo is of a cluster of yellow and ochre buildings terraced above the sea, the lowest and nearest building looking like a café or bar with white parasols outside. In the foreground there is a row of white boats pulled up on what looks like a road; in the middle distance a greyish beach. He continues to inspect the scene as he picks up the bag and pads the few steps into his tiny kitchenette and slumps down on to his one dining chair. ‘Genoa town beach’ proclaims the caption under the picture, and at the top of the beach he can just make out a restaurant with outside tables bathed in the golden, evening light, tiny figures seated around one. He imagines the scene. They’ll be eating pasta and drinking wine, those people.

At work next day, Jacob withdraws the cards from his back pocket and perches on a palette in the yard. He’s studying them when Sue emerges from the delivery entrance and wanders over to join him.

‘Alright Jacob?’

He nods, glancing up at her then back at the Italian post card.

‘That looks nice. I wouldn’t mind being there now, would you?’

Jacob looks sideways at her as she sinks down beside him on the palette. She nods at the cards in his hand. ‘Well, some bugger’s having a good time, eh? Is it a family member?’

He frowns, shakes his head. ‘Tell you the truth; I don’t know who it is.’ He pauses, searching for the words, unused to conversation. ‘I’ve received these two postcards but they aren’t signed and I don’t know who sent them.’

Sue leans forward, eyes wide. ‘Oooh! I love a mystery, me! Who do you think it might be? Who do you know that travels a bit? Could be a youngster, I should think. What’s the handwriting like?’

He turns the cards over to display the neat, curving script. ‘Maybe not a young person, then’ she suggests, peering at the writing. ‘And look, there’s no surname in the address side.’

Jacob sighs. It feels different, sitting out here with another person. He’s used to taking breaks alone, looking at his phone and sipping from his thermos cup but having Sue’s substantial, interested presence feels soothing somehow and when Big Beryl appears in the doorway to give them both a pointed stare, he feels disappointed that his break is over.

Over the next couple of days Sue asks if he’s any nearer to finding the sender of the cards, then on the day before his day off, while they are outside sharing a break he finds himself having a proper conversation with her, telling her things he’s never shared with anyone- stuff about Jenny and about Lee. He feels like a tap in his head has been undone and some of the pressure released.

‘So you don’t reckon the postcards are from him then, Jacob? From Lee?’

He shakes his head. ‘No, no. I don’t know how he’d have got the money to travel like that. And I think he’d write ‘Dad’, not Jacob.’

On his way out, shrugging into his jacket and picking up his carrier bag of groceries, Sue stops him. ‘What are you doing with your day off? Got any plans?’

He pauses, scratches his head. ‘Bit of cleaning, washing- stuff like that.’

She grins. ‘Not much fun!’

He shrugs. Fun doesn’t figure too much in his life these days. Sue persists. ‘If you don’t have much planned, you’re welcome to join our walking group. We go out most Sundays. It’s not too strenuous and they’re a friendly enough bunch. The more the merrier!’ She tells him where and when the group meets but that there’s no obligation, if he doesn’t fancy going.

That evening he rummages in the bottom of his narrow wardrobe until he finds a battered, shabby pair of trainers, trying them on before placing them ready by his bed. In the kitchen bin there’s an old plastic bottle which he rinses and puts on the draining board ready to be filled with water. He sleeps a deep, dreamless sleep, untroubled by postcards or anything else.

He’s up in good time, out on the landing locking his door as his neighbour two doors along steps outside. They nod to each other, the extent of their contact to date since Jacob moved in five years ago. He knows there’s a family there, West Indian, two young children- but hasn’t spoken, having not progressed beyond the nodding stage. Now the young man calls to him.

‘Morning!’

Jacob looks up, startled, then rallies. ‘Yes- morning to you, too’ The neighbour approaches as he’s putting his key away.

‘Can I ask you something?’

Flustered, he drops his water bottle then straightens. ‘Er, yes, yes ok.’

‘Have you had any post that wasn’t addressed to you? You know- with someone else’s name on?’

Jacob shakes his head. ‘All my post has my name on’ he says. ‘Sorry- I must dash. I have to be somewhere.’

As he walks down the stairs, the novelty of having to be somewhere swells inside him like a malt whisky. Down in the square he spots Sue milling about among a small group dressed for walking in cagoules and hiking boots and he’s conscious of his scruffy trainers and cheap windcheater jacket. But Sue grins when she sees him, drawing him in and introducing him, although he’s taken aback when she says ‘and this is my partner Raj’.

They set off along the street towards the outskirts of town, Jacob finding himself walking alongside Raj, who engages him in easy conversation. During lulls he wonders if he’d begun to think of Sue romantically and decides he hadn’t, not really; he’d been seduced by her warmth and friendship. Now she’d been generous enough to share her friends with him too. He’s a lucky man.

He’s unused to walking but after a mile or so he finds a rhythm and a stride then he and Raj settle into a companionable silence that enables him to take in his surroundings while his mind meanders into a journey of its own. They’ve got out into the lanes now and are heading towards a village pub where they’ll get lunch- ‘a ploughman’s’, Sue had explained the day before. He settles in the garden at a table with Raj, Sue and a couple of the others. Raj is solicitous, including him in the conversation and asking his opinion.

It’s only when he gets home that he realises how tired he is, sinking into his armchair and kicking off the trainers before closing his eyes. When he opens them it’s late and the first thing he sees are the two postcards, confronting him as if he’s abandoned them for the day, which of course, he has. He spent an entire day without thinking about them- or about Jenny or Lee.

Sitting with Sue on the palette on Monday morning he confesses he’s sore and stiff.

‘But did you enjoy it, Jacob? Will you be coming next time?’

He nods. ‘But I might go and have a look at some proper hiking boots at lunch time though.’

‘Had any more of those postcards yet?’

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out this morning’s arrival. The mystery sender is in Rome, the card a picture of the Coliseum.

Sue takes the card. ‘Wow!’ She gazes at it. ‘Have you travelled much, Jacob?’

He shakes his head. ‘Not much out of the country, no. We went to Devon once, when Lee was little. Stayed in a caravan. It rained a lot so we felt a bit cooped up, you know.’

Next morning, as he’s exiting the flat, his neighbour appears, a rucksack on his shoulders, says ‘Morning’ and strides away down the landing. A young woman, presumably his wife, hangs out of the doorway holding a Tupperware box.

‘Jacob! Jacob!’ she hollers as he disappears down the stairs.

Jacob? Jacob frowns, then dashes along to the stairwell and calls,

‘Hey mate, mate!’

Below him the dark head of his neighbour turns up towards him.

‘I think you’ve forgotten your lunch’.

The other Jacob grins and leaps back up, taking two steps at a time. He runs back, grabs the box and dashes for the stairs, calling ‘Cheers’ as he passes Jacob.

He re-enters his flat and collects the postcards before knocking on the neighbours’ door. When the woman opens it, she’s all prepared to go out, with a toddler in a stroller and another standing in a coat.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he begins, ‘I have a feeling these are your husband’s postcards. You see, I’m called Jacob, too.’

Outside on the palette, he tells Sue of the development. ‘Goodness! What are the odds of having two Jacobs within two doors of each other, do you think?’

Jacob remembers the young woman, Tara’s face as he thrust the misplaced cards at her; remembers her delighted smile and tinkling laughter, the wide eyes of the toddlers on him as he stood in the doorway.

‘Are you up for next Sunday’s walk?’ Sue asks him, ‘we’re going over the downs, weather permitting of course’.

‘Yes. I’ll be trying out my new boots’ Jacob lifts up his feet to display the brand, new hiking boots he’s been wearing to work to get accustomed to, on Sue’s advice.

Later he plods along the landing towards his flat and spots something on the floor by his door. It’s a bottle of red wine and an envelope. He carries the items inside before sitting down and opening it.

‘For our neighbour and friend, Jacob’ it says, ‘to thank you for finding our lost post’

He stares at the card for a long time. At last he stands and places it with almost reverend care on the shelf where the postcards used to sit, then he removes his walking boots and pads into the kitchenette, taking a plate, knife and fork from the cupboard and setting them on the tiny, formica table before placing his meal in the microwave oven.

Anecdotage

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