Author Archives: Grace Lessageing

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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!

Sweltering in Wales

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Having been dropped off at our local garage for the van to be repaired, the recovery vehicle leaves us to collect the car and empty everything into it. It’s a Sunday, so it’s fingers crossed that the garage will look kindly upon us tomorrow.

So…with much lighter pockets and a van with a working clutch, we prepare to set off again. A year ago [ish] we’d bought tickets for a gig at the Principality Stadium in Wales’ capital, Cardiff. Time has caught up. I’ll admit that there were times in the preceding weeks when I didn’t expect to be going, but it has come round and I’m fit to go.

The good news is there is an excellent campsite almost in the centre of this compact and lovely capital city, where we’ve stayed before. The bad news is that by the time we try to book it there’s no capacity. We think again.

Perhaps we can stay outside Cardiff and get a bus or train in? Again, we’re thwarted. We left things much, much too late.

As the date approaches and with no other options we book into a Premier Inn, cheap chain hotel, surprised that there’s a room available.

The next hurdle is parking. There are no spaces available for a van [ie under a barrier] anywhere in Cardiff. This is one popular event! Then we discover ‘Just Park’- a cunning scheme that lets private homes rent out their spaces. We can get a space outside someone’s house and catch a train into the city. Whew! Let’s hope it works.

Having packed the van and with a site en route reserved, we set off westwards, only to turn back when an alarming banging sets up underneath the vehicle somewhere. Horrors! Echoes of the Warminster debacle clanging, we head home and to the garage again; the same routine, emptying into the car. But this time we’re lucky and it’s a bolt that sheered off, replaced by the mechanic for no charge.

Next day we’re off once more.

It’s a hot journey to Cardiff and hotter still by the time we arrive. We need to locate our parking space and it’s away from the centre of the city. We also need to negotiate our way through a vast throng of traffic, clearly in pursuit of the same goal as ourselves. The Principality stadium is popular today!

We reach the housing estate where our space is- marked, as warned, with a yellow spot. It isn’t a large space and it’s between two other snugly parked vehicles, but Husband manages to manoeuvre in, leaving us a space to wriggle out- just. Phew!

Before leaving we draw all the curtains, to keep the sun out and the curious, too.

Now to find the rail station, which takes some doing, By now, the weather has become very hot indeed and traipsing to the station with overnight bags is not for the faint hearted. But then we’re on the train and after a few stops we’re in the city centre. Next- to find the hotel. Having asked several station staff members we discover it- across the road from the station…

At last we can sit in the hotel bar with a cold beer and relax before making our way to the stadium…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

The Good, the Bad and the Sad

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On the last day in Nether Wasdale it rains steadily for the entire morning, then brightens up for us to get out walking in the afternoon.

This time we take a route around to the other side of the lake and it’s beautiful with woods, lanes and spectacular views. Part of our route follows the lake then up through some overgrown paths on to the narrow road. I spend some time attempting to photograph the butterflies on the brambles, without success as they have a tendency to flutter away while I’m trying to focus!

In the evening we stroll across to the pub to get a meal and it turns out to be exceptional for pub food. It’s also busy and characterful- surprising for such an out-of-the-way hostelry- and many of the customers are locals.

Next morning it’s time to go, although I’ve a soft spot for this tiny backwater. We have to dodge rain to pack up and as we leave the heavens really do open. There’s a hiatus while we get in a muddle and go the wrong way, confused by the very narrow roads and turnings, but at last we’re out and away.

The motorway M6 is never a pleasant journey at the best of times and as we negotiate the busy junctions and ‘spaghetti’ that is Birmingham we are dogged by traffic jams. I feel bad for those who must drive routes like these every day.

It’s a long day. Following a protracted search for a stopover to break our journey I found a pub site a camping field in Staffordshire, ‘The New Broom’. The route takes us through some of Stoke-on-Trent, which has historically been a pottery town but has suffered huge economic blows in later years, mainly I suppose from cheaper, imported pottery. I’ve never visited and I’m sure Stoke has some lovely, historic sights but what we see as we pass through is run down and unlovely.

After the early morning rain, the day turns hot and sticky. In the pub’s field, several units are already set up. It’s near to the popular theme park, Alton Towers, so there are families with caravans or vans and excited children. The bar is thronged with customers when we go to check in- some kind of ‘do’…a wedding. perhaps? I ask the barman. No- it’s a wake…

The New Broom pub is by a busy road but the portacabin showers are clean and acceptable, although later, when we go to take advantage of the bar meals, we are obliged to wait a very long time to be served despite the very few fellow diners and when it does arrive, the meal is disappointing,

There’s a noticeable increase in the price of UK sites and stopovers, reflecting, perhaps the general state of the UK economy?

A slew of traffic holdups when we left has forced us to rethink our route home. The weather turns hotter still. We stop at a small service station outside Warminster and I go to get us an ice cream as a pick-me-up. I make tea. We go to set off again- except that we’re going nowhere- there’s no way to get the van into gear. We’re at the roundabout by the garage. Husband forces the gearbox into first gear so that we can limp round into the car park- which also happens to be the Travelodge car park- and there we stop, our only option the insurance recovery, which I ring, receiving a promise of a 2 hour wait.

Six hours later I ring again. It’s now almost 10 o’clock, which is the time by which you must book if you want to reserve a room at the Travelodge, which we do. The recovery call handler expresses shocked disbelief that nobody has come and assures me that someone will be here in the morning. There’s nothing else for it- it’s a night in the dubious splendour of the Travelodge with a choice of Burger King, Greggs or Subway. Luckily we have bread and cheese in the van and in any case- Subway, as the apologetic server explains, has no bread left.

Next morning the AA man arrives promptly to tell us what we already knew. We need a recovery vehicle to get us and the poor van home. Ho Hum…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

The Nether Regions

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The site at Nether Wasdale is at a working farm and has, allegedly, a farm shop, which sounds promising, although when we pull up to check in it appears to have everything except items you would expect from a farm shop, eg vegetables, fruit, meat and so on. A cursory glance around reveals a wealth of sweets, toys and ice cream, which might say more about the clientele on site than the farm. Later, when we call in, in search of potatoes, the woman behind the counter tells us there’s no call for them. They do provide breakfasts- presumably of the ‘full English’ kind- but we’re not breakfasters.

The site is in an attractive location, surrounded by hills and has been sympathetically landscaped, except that our allotted pitch is almost entirely encased in trees. We move to a sunnier, more open pitch next door. There are very few tourers here, although the chalets look busier.

The weather has turned changeable but we’re keen to get some walking in, especially as I’ve had a few months off from exercise. We start by having a wander around the village, which doesn’t take long. Just outside the entrance to the site there’s a tiny church, white painted, which you could easily mistake for a house- its interior cute. I wonder what size of congregation attends the services.

Along the road there are two pubs opposite each other, one looking more actively operational than the other. Further on there’s a stone bench and a phone box plus a sign to tell us it’s ‘Copeland’s best kept small village’. We are none the wiser- we’ve no clue as to the whereabouts of Copeland. Opposite the sign there’s some kind of stone monument, looking like a miniature castle, that may have been a drinking fountain. Other than a few houses further up the hill that’s about it for Nether Wasdale.

We strike out in the other direction, away from the village and discover more habitation. There’s a cafe with a gift shop on the site of an old water mill, the mill wheel still turning behind a glass window. It’s a pleasant spot, clearly popular with walkers and we can sit outside with a coffee, by the river. I become fascinated by the conversation a group, sitting around at the tables outside, is having. They are some young people in deep discussion with an older man, [group leader, perhaps?] and are not at all happy- indeed are disgruntled- especially one young woman who declares herself bored and not enjoying the activities on offer on what is, perhaps a youth centre break. The older man is trying to establish a consensus on what they’d all like to do next day, with little success!

Next day we set off on a longer expedition- to Was Lake, up a gravel track, through a farmyard and down between fields of sheep- which are, of course, everywhere. Up above us , rocky hills have thin streams of water tumbling down their steep sides. Once we reach the lake there’s a large pipe in the water, coming from a stone building on the edge of the lake, here to alleviate the drought conditions which are affecting most parts of the UK currently.

But this is as far as we can walk on this side of the lake, unless we want to try and walk round on the scree- which we don’t!

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Off the Beaten Lakes Track

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At Hillcroft campsite, Pooley Bridge, Ullswater, we are directed to the top of the steep, terraced hill, where we are almost in splendid isolation with just two fellow tourers in our area.

The fine weather has departed, leaving us with scudding, intermittent rain, although it’s not cold. It’s a long walk down through the site [and back up!] but once down at road level there’s only a couple of minutes more to get into the village, which is small and cute and has just about everything you might need, from groceries to books as well as coffee shops, pubs and hotels.

We can’t see the lake from our pitch but it is visible from further down the site, where there’s a camping field and pods. Down in the village, a footpath before the bridge takes us to the lake’s edge where we can see a small pier. There should be steamers running but they aren’t stopping at Pooley Bridge at present,

The tiny gift shop has some lovely, locally made items but no jewellery, which I was looking forward to getting for a family birthday. We conduct a short survey of the village pub/restaurants for the following night, choosing the ‘Pooley Bridge’ itself, which gets good reviews. We are to find that the reviews are not entirely accurate, since although it’s pleasant inside and popular with diners, my steak is disappointing and flavourless and the meals overall lacklustre.

On our final day at Pooley Bridge we head off into the village and on to a riverside footpath which leads us across fields, up through a farm/campsite, across more fields, along a road, back to the river and returning to the village for tea and cake at the coffee shop overlooking the river.

The campsite, Hillcroft Farm, has new modern, huge showers and even a dishwasher! But I’m mystified by the games room, which has slot machines and other games plus a vending machine for snacks- and yet there is no bar or cafe and only a tiny, ill-stocked shop, both of which would be much more popular with visitors.

But we’re off next day, leaving Pooley Bridge and following the lakeside towards Keswick. We can’t stay there as the lovely lakeside site is full, but we need some groceries so we’ll make a stop for a supermarket. I’d forgotten all about Booths, although we must have shopped there the last time we came, so when it pops up on our SATNAV shopping chip, we pull in to the car park.

Booths is an exceptional supermarket. I f you thought Waitrose was posh, you haven’t visited Booths. Everything in this spacious, upmarket store is top quality- from the [very expensive] butcher’s counter to the delectable bakery items. Faced with such an array of delicious and tempting foods, we decide on some eye-wateringly expensive steaks [to make up for the tasteless offering at Pooley Bridge]. Following this and after stowing everything, we stay and have lunch before getting back en route.

The final part of the journey to Nether Wasdale is tortuous, with tiny, bendy lanes but at last we arrive to the miniscule village, which has very little, seemingly and it’s easy to spot the site- at another working farm…

ovels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Strawberry Hill

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Our first proper destination on this northern trip is to a site near Durham called Strawberry Hill Farm. The older sibling I’m visiting cannot accommodate a van but we’re near enough to do visiting and meet up.

When we arrive to site, having religiously followed the instructions and not our SATNAV, we pull up opposite reception- which- in spite of the sign indicating it should be open- is firmly closed. We peer in at the window at the tables, chairs and stacked shop shelves [the site claims to serve breakfasts and teas]. We stand at a side gate marked ‘private’ with a view of sloping lawns and dogs not inclined to bark. There is no bell, buzzer or phone number to ring. At last a young man appears and opens up. The site is quiet. We’ve booked. Were we not expected?

We’re directed through a barrier and to our pitch, which is fine. We’re opposite a large, new shower block- unfinished. The existing showers are next to reception, there are two and they are a little past it, something we knew already from reviews. But if it’s clean and there is hot water I’m rarely concerned about site showers.

Later on, the rellies turn up to visit, which is lovely, except that while we’re in mid-flow of catching up, an interested campsite caretaker is Hell bent on getting a conversation too…

In the early evening we decide to go down to the nearest pub- which is about half a mile down the road, walkable except that there’s no footpath alongside the busy dual carriageway. A path down through the fields would have been lovely though. we pile into the car.

We have a couple of days going out and about doing family things in County Durham. The weather has turned hot and once Friday comes we return from an outing to find the site jam packed for the weekend. The ‘Giddiup’ bar [a repurposed horse box] is doing a roaring trade and the tables outside reception are full.

It’s time to take our leave, but as we’re not about to make this journey without seeing a bit more of the north of our country so having packed up, we turn the van towards the Pennines. The day becomes squally and we’re dogged by traffic jams. We’re not able to find anywhere remotely ‘picnic’ for lunch, which we must stop in a layby to have, the views across the moors obscured by gales and rain.

We’re heading to the Lake District- a beautiful part of the UK that is also a tourist magnet. The last time we came up here was during a winter, in January, cold but still lovely. Now though, in June, it’s much busier and our preferred site, at Keswick, is packed and has no availability, so we’ve opted to visit a much less well known place at Ullswater, Pooley Bridge. The site- an enormous area by a working farm, is only just out of the village up a steep hill, but it’s walking distance. So far so good!

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Going up the Country [apologies to Canned Heat]

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We’ve had a lengthy period at home since our French trip. This has been due in part to my incarceration from a nasty IBD flare. For the uninitiated, IBD can be revealed by googling. It is neither glamorous nor pleasant, this bout being by far the worst I’ve ever experienced. It also revealed what a parlous state the NHS seems to have got into, as the lengthy duration and virulence was, in part, due to my being unable to obtain my usual meds or access the specialist team.

During this prolonged spell of confinement to home, we’ve had a late spring/early summer heatwave and the garden had been a source of great solace, as while I wasn’t able to actually do much, lolling about outside was soothing. I was relieved, however, that I’d done a lot of work before the current flare set in!

At last, however, though not out of the woods, I felt able to cope with a van trip- one that had been planned for a long time and that I’d been very reluctant to cancel or postpone. We are off to see an older sibling of mine.

I must confess we’ve not been wonderful at contact over the years, since he moved further and further northwards and I further south. We’ve done plenty of worldwide travel between us, but not in the direction of each others’ homes. It’s time to put this right.

Preparing the van for travel can be hard work at the best of times, but it all gets done and we set off on the first leg of the journey up country, using motorways, principally and stopping at services en route.

Motorway services are a bugbear of mine, each visit an experience of such low quality as to be endured rather than enjoyed. Once the service stations had sold out to the likes of MacDonald’s, Burger King, Subway, KFC, Starbucks and the like, all semblance of a pleasant, restful break was dashed on the rocks of fast food and disposable garbage. There are a couple of exceptions- one notable one being Gloucester Services, a farm enterprise built in an eco=friendly structure and selling home-cooked meals as well as providing a shopping experience of delectable, local foodstuffs and other items. There is a landscaped outside area with a beautiful pond hosting ducks and other wildlife, too. But I digress…

We make a stop at the inappropriately named ‘Leicester Forest’ services- where you would be hard pressed to spot a tree- a dire, hideous place.

A later, lunch stop at least provides a Cornish pasty, which is some comfort. We’re lucky in having the van and able to park by a patch of green to have lunch.

Then we’re off to our overnight spot- a site near Sheffield, over the Rother valley. It’s high up, a modern site, huge, landscaped and sparsely filled with tourers. I’d guess it’s popular at weekends with those from large, northern towns.

We check in. There’s a cafe/bar of sorts, although when we walk up after dinner to see if Husband can get a beer it is, of course, closed.

The heatwave continues, we deploy our two fans and I get the best night’s sleep I’ve had for several weeks, which is a result!

We head off again in the morning- onwards and northwards…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

The Last and St Vaast

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Continuing back up towards Caen, we’ve still a couple of nights to go before our crossing back to the UK and we’re taking things easy, visiting a few places we’ve tended to drive through or past instead of stopping to look. We’d driven through Dinan before and thought it very photogenic- an interesting place to explore. So we opt to stop here first. There is a municipal camp site near the castle and I book us in there. It’s a devil of a place to find though, down a steep hill and left into a narrow opening.

This site is basic- little better than an aire, really, and it’s sloping. The pitches are all grass and are decidedly soggy. Monsieur, at reception, once he’s turned up and had a chat with a friend, a cigarette drizzling ash on to his desk, allocates us a pitch and tells us to leave our front wheels on the tarmac aisle. We go to inspect the pitch, which is down at the lower end of the site and bathed in shade. This is all a bit mystifying, given that there are, at best, four other units occupying this modest site.

We return to reception and change to a better location.

It’s a steep walk up into the centre of town, past an excellent castle, across a huge market square, currently car parking, and on into streets of half-timbered buildings, gift shops, cafes, cobbled streets et al. It’s proper olde-worlde and busy with tourists. We cast around for somewhere to eat but are surprised to find it isn’t gourmet central and we may find ourselves making do with a takeaway- or chips to go with something we cook.

Back at the campsite we make use of the utilitarian showers- water not quite hot enough, only 2 cubicles, dark, light cuts out after a couple of minutes. This is the first unsatisfactory shower this trip.

We begin to feel we may have done Dinan, pretty and historic though it is. We’ll cut our losses and move on tomorrow to somewhere on up the coast where we just might be able to get our last oyster fix. Perhaps we’ll stay at an aire overlooking the sea where the oyster tractors chug along the sand in the evenings and visit a beachside cafe we’ve used? But we change our minds. We’re off to a site in another harbour village we’ve stayed in before. This pleases Husband as he can indulge his nostalgia remembering a past trip with students in the dim and distant past.

The sun is out for our last gasp of trip, although there’s a stiff breeze. This is Saint Vaast la Hougue, another oyster mega-town, trailer loads of them up and down along the quayside.

We spend some time checking out the seafront restaurants, settling on one for later, then attempting to book a table with no joy. We wander, later to our second choice. As long as we can get a shedload of oysters to share it matters little.

That’s it then- in the morning it’s back to port and back to the UK, for, as it happens, some rather wonderful spring weather…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Marvellous Mechanical Beasts

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The first sight to greet us on crossing the bridge over half of the Loire to Ile de Nantes is the Palace of Justice- a vast, modern, glass building in elegant black. We turn right at the end of the bridge and walk by the river for a few minutes.

We’ve walked quite a bit since we left the tram, so when we happen upon a small cafe, we dive in- and it’s a little gem; a tiny, cosy cafe dedicated to all things…Anglais- There’s Union Jack bunting, the walls are adorned with pictures of the royal family and there are traditional British treats like scones and Victoria sponge on the counter. I’m aware that it might appear odd for us to be charmed by coming across a British-themed cafe, being British ourselves, and we do, of course, love all things French, but it’s a novelty we can’t resist.

So we order scones and tea and settle at a table, discovering, on a shelf next to me, a range of masks, supposedly iconic British persons- an eccentric selection consisting, among others, of Prince Harry and Liam Gallagher.

In addition to all of this, the toilet is wallpapered with a huge photo of the entire royal family and boasts various Brit-themed knickknacks.

Having spent an enjoyable time in the cafe, we’re reinforced to continue, and once we’ve turned the corner of the block and emerged into a large square, we can see what we’ve come for: The massive, working, walking, flying machine beasts of Nantes.

We’re in luck, because the elephant, which is the biggest and most impressive beast, is about to walk out of the entrance of the hangar, carrying a load of enthusiastic passengers and piloted by a man driving a ground level motor. It is a wonderful and thrilling sight as it places its giant, mechanical feet at each lengthy step and makes its slow, majestic way around to the back of the hangar.

We’re excited enough by the elephant to want to see the remaining beasts demonstrated inside so we buy tickets and wait, alongside the many other visitors while the previous ‘tour’ is concluded. The machines are fascinating- a huge bird [a phoenix?], a chameleon whose tongue shoots out to catch a bug, an enormous spider with luminous eyes. Some have paid to ride the creatures alongside the operators, pulling handles to create movement. We are, of course, flummoxed by much of the narration but this doesn’t seem to matter.

Before leaving, we visit the gift shop to see if there’s a little something for our naff shelf, although there really isn’t anything cheap or nasty enough. We settle for a tiny tin of sweets bearing a picture of the elephant, which feels like copping out.

That, then, was a fitting finale for the day in this amazing city and we retrace our steps back to the centre to find a tram that will take us back to our site. We’ll be off again in the morning- but not home quite yet.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Nantes at Last

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Arthur: the young man in reception’s name tag informs us. He steps around his desk towards us, all other staff being occupied. It’s clear from the outset that we’re not the standard of tourers he’d like to be welcoming to the site, as a curling sneer hovers around his lips.

I begin in my [not too shabby] French. Here I feel compelled to add that plenty of Frenchmen and women have complimented me on my delivery of the language. The exceptions have tended to be young men, like Arthur.

‘Would I prefer him to speak English?’

I capitulate. He casts me a pitying look and tells us that only the most expensive pitches are available. I look at him. Does he assume, then, that we don’t appear as if we can afford it? Husband steps up. We’ll have 2 nights!

In spite of little Arthur, we make our way to the posh pitch- although I’m at pains to see why they’re more expensive. It’s a small patch next to a tiny square of grass with a picnic table. The piece de resistance seems to be the shed type building, to which we have a key. No- this is not a personal bathroom- this is indeed a shed, containing a scruffy, cold water sink, a fridge [useful] and some loungers. I’m not sure whether these will be used given that the pitch is almost entirely shaded- still, we’re not here to lounge around.

Where are we? We’re at Nantes- in a site we’ve attempted to get into before with no success, it being stubbornly ‘complet’, hence the fact that we’re prepared to pay extra for the pitch. Otherwise the site is fine- if pricy and has a bar/cafe of sorts.

We’re on a tram route into the city. We need to work out how to buy tickets, then we’re set. It’s just a question of gauging when we’re at the centre. I have a slight moment of panic when our tram comes, Husband gets on and the door closes- leaving me on the outside, but when I press the door button it opens. All good; I’m not about to be stranded not knowing where to alight in Nantes.

Using the map on the wall, we take a guess at our stop and get off. First impressions are of a huge and imposing city with massive, elegant buildings and wide streets and pavements. Wow!

We’re not so impressed by the portacabin toilets near the cathedral, though. They are in a thoroughly revolting state and unusable. The cathedral is, itself, disappointing, since while the exterior looks wonderful, it is encased in fencing due to needing repairs from a fire. Ho hum…

Nantes has a photogenic chateau with a big wow factor and great views from the top of the walls, which makes up for the cathedral’s parlous state. The chateau contains a museum, but there’s too much to see in Nantes for us to use up the time.

The majestic Loire travels through this city, dividing up for an island, the Ile de Nantes. There’s something thrilling to see on the island, so we head that way and across the footbridge…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Les Portes and the Marais

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Seasonova campsite at Les Portes en Re is very quiet and relaxing, with only a few neighbouring tourers and scarce occupants of the chalets. We can see that in high season there might be a bar, a re-purposed container near to the tiny pool, but so far there’s no sign of activity or opening. We’re close to the little town though, which has one or two bars and cafes.

The site does not have beach access but is close, meaning that we can walk and find a coast path, which we do. Les Portes has a wide, rocky bay and a sea wall. To begin with, the path leads down to the road and above us there’s a tiny chapel, apparently used as a weapons store during the war, destroyed by missiles and later rebuilt. I want to look inside, however it’s being swept and tidied by two women and there’s not really room for a third in the minute room, which has an altar and half a dozen chairs. I wonder if services are conducted here?

The road changes to a country lane, the verges bursting with wild flowers. We dive through a gap and get back towards the beach, where we’re almost entirely alone, walking along by the dunes, which are fiercely protected with fences and signs.

When the weather turns changeable, with some rain, we become tired of incarceration, put on rainwear and set off into the marshes. The marais has a character of its own, flat, windswept, dotted with reed beds and old salt production ponds- some still in use, as forlorn signs proclaim. It’s a paradise for bird life, of course. The rain becomes more serious, then we stumble upon a barn-like visitor centre with displays, videos and a wealth of information about the marshes, as well as a small gift shop. This occupies us until the rain subsides enough for us to return.

The main bar/restaurant in the town square has a good menu, ideal after an inclement day, so we take advantage. This time we go for crevettes instead of oysters and I’m not disappointed, but I’m hoping this isn’t the last chance for them before we go home! It’s too chilly and drizzly to sit outside and the small indoor area is busy with customers- one big group next to our table enjoying drinks.

Next day we’re off to the coast path again- this time in the opposite direction, which requires clambering up on to the wall and a careful step along it, then on to rocks before the path plunges into woodland. At last we emerge into a small car park sporting a cute, rustic composting toilet…On our way back past the supermarket we’re delighted to discover an oyster vending machine.

By now we’ve probably exhausted all Les Porte’s offerings and it’s time to leave the small town and leave Ile de Re. We’ll begin the gentle meander back north, but we’ve not finished with seeing places yet. We’re about to go and look at a city we’ve driven past and round many times but never stopped to explore-

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com