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!

Erquy and the Elusive Oysters

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With just a couple of days left of our latest French trip, we head up to the coast to be in spitting distance of the return ferry. This time we’ve broken with tradition and opted to return from Cherbourg instaed of Caen.

A town called Erquy looks promising and a campsite overlooking the beach. We leave poor Machecoul and the hopeful ducks, who place themselves stolidly behind the van so that I have to make stern and noisy gestures before we can reverse out of the space.

On arrival to Erquy we become confused, as does the SATNAV, trying several lanes and being instructed be various trying-to-help passers-by. Erquy appears to be spread over a vast area. At last we locate the track down to the site- and it’s steep. We check in and are given a pitch number, 61, although when we find it on this huge site, it’s steeper than any chocks can deal with. As there seem to be plenty of empty spaces, we walk back to reception, where the two young women look mystified by the problem. It’s now I realise that the pitch number is not 61, but 19. Problem solved.

We park up and put chairs in the sun and there’s a view over the rocky shore and ‘Petit Saint Michel’- a tiny island that replicates Mont St Michel and has a miniature chapel perched on top.

But we are dismayed by the distance to Erquy port, where we’d assumed there’d be bars and restaurants, fertile hunting ground, perhaps, for the elusive oysters we’re after. A quick look online shows there’s ONE cafe/bar in striking distance, so we wander along the road outside the site to take a look and yes- past the end of the campsite and around the corner is a small bistro with an outside terrace and a conservatory. Phew! We sit in the sun with beers- there is a narrow view of the shore, then we book a table for later.

At last- there are oysters- and a big plate of crevettes for Husband.

Next day we set off on the coast path, which dips, climbs, crosses roads, goes through a strange housing estate where there’s nobody to be seen, through woods and to some stunning beaches with barely a soul on them.

Eventually we arrive on the outskirts of Erquy the town and port- although it’s still quite a hike- and a steep descent down to the port, although when we get there it’s pleasant but not stunning. We treat ourselves to an ice cream as a reward for trekking so far and to reinforce ourselves for the steep climb back out of town. But it feels like an achievement.

We leave Erquy and travel on to an aire overlooking the sea in striking distance of Cherbourg, where we’ve stayed before. It’s another achievement to have managed the entire trip without electric hook-up. Now- home to get it fixed!

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

A Place of no Interest

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Machecoul. This is the place we’ve selected to break our journey back northwards, towards home, We’re not in a rush, so can have two or three nights and see the town.

The weather is changing from heatwave into unsettled now, as it is at home, although to begin with it’s still sunny- just not so hot.

The first thing we notice as we approach Machecoul is the giant church. It’s often the case that French churches are huge buildings, dwarfing everthing around them. This one has two imposing twin spires. We turn off into the abrupt entrance to the site, which is municipal and lies on the edge of the town. It’s all perfectly laid out and tidy, next to the river and a canoe centre which is busy on this late Friday afternoon, rumbustious activities with groups of children.

We’ve barely checked in and parked up before a pair of mallards home in on us- quack! quick! New source of food arrived! They positively race towards us as we reverse into the space. Once I’ve unearthed the remai ns of a baguette and shredded it for them, they settle down on the grass next to us. The female- as usual- is much bolder than her partner and after some coaxing gobbles the bread from my hand. The male hangs back but gets cross and attacks her over stray crumbs.

Later, we walk across the bridge and into the small town, where it soon becomes clear that the church is the main/only item of interest. Otherwise there are a couple of streets of shops [and ex-shops], one or two bars and a covered marketplace. There’s also a tourist information office, although it’s mystifying what tourists should do here. There is supposed to be a chateau, but there’s no obvious sign of it- certainly no pointers to its whereabouts.

There’s a PMU bar- always to be relied on, although it doesn’t sell food. It’s busy. Next door is a restaurant, which seems to be the only one operating. It could also get very busy!

Later on we decide to give the restaurant a go. There’s a small table for two by the window. The food is very good- which is a relief!

In the morning, having got bread for lunch, I pop into the [now open] tourist information for a map of the local area, where a lone young woman has been tasked with holding the fort and discover that the chateau is actually opposite our camp site, behind some hefty, locked gates. Who knew? She plies me with a brochure. IT seems, however that the chateau is, in fact a ruin and also cannot be visited! This town seems determined not to attract tourists if it can help it!

The local map suggests walking and cycling routes, so in the afternoon we decide to try the walking route, making our way to the start point and following along a nondescript street by a small ‘canal’- one waterway that would not accomodate anything resembling a barge.

The route is mystifying- sending us, basically, around a housing estate. After an hour or so of trekking along suburban streets past house after house we’ve seen nothing of interest and give up. On the way back we do pass the ‘chateau’, catching a glimpse of the ruins through the thick hedge of trees.

We’ve one final day here and need to run the van out to charge the batteries, so we revisit a coastal fishing hamlet we cycled to years ago. It’s wild and unspoilt, with long rows of fishing huts and just one canalside bar and restaurant. Further on we stop in a deserted car park and make tea. We’ll be off north again tomorrow…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

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Weekends Only

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In Port des Barques, the sun continues to shed blistering rays. In our pitch, staying in the shade, Husband returns to the task of repairing the punctures on my bike by inflating the brand new inner tubes we bought while staying at Saint Michel Chef Chef. A fellow French camper offers help [yet again!]. But the repair is not to be, due to the tubes being of the wrong sort [of course!]. In other words, they don’t fit.

In spite of the heat, we walk together up to the little village to research somewhere for an evening meal and to buy bread and [hopefully] pastries. We draw a blank on both counts, All likely-looking cafes inform us that they don’t do evening meals, except on Fridays and Saturdays. It seems that Port des Barques is simply a weekenders type of place. That’s that then. In addition to this, all the bakery signs lead to closures and the grocery shop has no bread and no pastries.

We venture further into the village and away from the sea, where we do find a co-op! We can get a baguette- but no croissants. Further still, we do actually stumble on a boulangerie! Eureka!

Returning back down the road, we make one last attempt to find an evening meal by looking in on a roadside hotel, where we are firmly told ‘Non!’

Later we pack up the van and set off to Rochefort, which is nearby, to visit the Orange telecoms store because the mobile wifi SIM has run out of data, also to visit Decathlon for yet more inner tubes and to bump up the van’s leisure batteries.

Rochefort is beautiful but we’ve done the sightseeing on a previous visit- when I’d erroneously thought it would be a magnet for cheese lovers until I realised that the iconic, blue cheese hails from Roquefort… Today is too hot to trek around the city so we locate the Orange shop, where the assistant takes some persuading to ‘recharge’ the SIM for us, reluctant to accept my poor French as a reason for my failings as a customer- but eventually he complies.

Decathlon is straightforward. This time we’ve brought the wheel and the inner tube is inserted for us [for a price].

Back on site, we wait until the relative cool of early evening to get a stroll up and along the seafront. Beyond the rocky section there’s a slipway and further round, a beach, busy at 7pm, and a cafe under the trees is doing a swift trade. Continuing on, there’s a couple of ancient canon on the clifftop overlooking the fishing huts but not much else. From here we can see the Isle d’Oleron, where we’ve stayed before. All of the islands off the west coast of France are lovely and all quite different in character.

It’s our last night at Port des Barques. In the morning I wake and notice that the laundry door is closed so I dash over and open it to allow the parent swallows to get in and feed the chicks. I glance up and see their tiny heads bobbing up and down- phew! They are still alive…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Parched in des Barques

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Husband has looked through our ACSI book and found us a site thatis new to us, although we know the area well. The weather has continued to warm up as we travel and is edging into hot, rather than warm.

We cross the Charente at La Roche sur Yon, turn on to smaller roads then head for a small peninsula, driving through some villages until we reach the seaside village of Port des Barques. There’s not a lot to the village, although clearly there’s a big focus on shellfish, judging by the stalls lining the seafront car park. Opposite there’s a row of buildings with maybe two or three bars- that’s about it!

We’ll investigate the bars and places to eat later or tomorrow, but we must go on down through the village and to the other side to get to the site.

The site, ‘La Garenne’, [the warren], is vast. Besides being in the ACSI book it’s also a municipal camp site. These are often good value, ‘no frills’ type sites with good services. La Garenne has been kept tidy but not manicured or planted up. The pitches are huge, most with a combination of sun and shade, which suits us nicely as we need sun for solar power and shade for ourselves. We check in and choose a place on a corner near reception, with a big, dense tree on one side and open on the other. Perfect!

The sea is just across the road, although the beach is rocky rather than sandy. Once we’ve set up [which takes all of 5 minutes including pulling out the awning] we take to the shade. Opposite our pitch there is a mobile kiosk and a fenced off area furnished with tables and chairs- all in the shade of the trees. There is also a menu board. It all looks very promising. We chug down some cold beers. Husband asks, “Do we want to cook anything tonight?” It’s hot and we’ve travelled all day and I don’t need asking twice.

At this pop-up restaurant the menu is simple but perfect for a hot evening. There are also more cold beers! I’m in awe of the two women running it, since there’s a steady flow of diners requiring all sorts of things including ice creams and they are on the go constantly in the draining heat, one taking orders and serving and the other cooking. Cooking!

After eating we sit outside long after dark as it’s far too hot to go in. Up among the branches of the dense conifer on our pitch, huge buzzing insects lurch in and out. After much deliberation I decide they must be cicadas, their wings providing the loud buzz as they blunder around. There are also swallows nesting in the laundry, tiny chicks peering out waiting to be fed.

At around midnight we retire to the interior of the van, where in spite of opening all skylights and windows, blacking out the windscreen with our reflective sheet and using nothing but a sheet, the night passes in a restless, sticky drag of wakefulness. The morning dawns just as hot. We’ve just read that Dr Michael Mosely, media health guru, has died while hiking in the heat of a Greek afternoon. Nevertheless, someone has to trek up to the village for bread. Hmmm…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Friendly French!

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Once we’re en route again and heading south, the weather gets better and better. We’d been in a quandary over what we should do, since the electrics have failed again, as they did on our ill-fated Spanish jaunt earlier in the year. They’re supposed to have been repaired…this can only be resolved once we’ve returned home. But should we go north or south? The forecast decides for us- we’ll get more sun and hence more solar power from heading south, so we opt to press on.

It’s a longish haul down the coast and towards La Rochelle. We’ve been down this way countless times now, but we’re headed to an unfamiliar town and site. It’s at Tharron Plage, a satellite of the oddly named ‘St Michel Chef Chef’. The site is ‘Le Vieux Chateau’, although when we arrive it’s hard to see why. Across the road there’s a cylindrical, ochre coloured tower and a long wall; not overly chateau-like, but still…

The site is small and almost entirely occupied by French holiday makers. It becomes clear very soon after we arrive that this is one of the most friendly and welcoming places we’ve stayed- the usually reserved French greeting us and chatting each time they pass.

By now it has become very warm. We have a wander down the road to the seafront and along to the tiny seaside at Tharron Plage and it’s very basic and undeveloped- which is lovely. Along the shoreline, fishing huts on stilts are dotted. There’s a stretch of sand and a few streets with bars, ice cream parlours and cafes but little else, except that the ‘Velodysee’ cycle track runs right along the front. This means that we can get the bikes down off the van and have a go.

It’s a long time since I cycled and some unpleasant physical interventions have taken place since I was in the saddle- but I’m keen to have a go, especially as there’s a ready-made, tarmac, off-road cycle path to use! But sadly, when the bikes are lifted down, my lovely, trusty, Specialized has a major puncture, which Husband sets about mending the following morning, removing the inner tube and submerging it to find the hole. Somehow, though, it proves impossible, since when we think we’ve patched it, it still deflates. Husband spends a lot of time on it- to no avail. A friendly French neighbour tries to help out, too, but all to no avail.

We research and find a bike shop in St Michel Chef Chef. Although it’s Sunday and will be closed we decide to walk and find it- which we do- and yes- it’s closed along with everything else.

In a further twist- Husband’s bike, the Charge Cooker seizes up in an act of rebellion against the heat- which it has done before- so neither bike is rideable. Ho hum.

On Monday it’s still hot, but Husband nobly sets off on foot to get some bread for lunch as there’s none available on site today, meanwhile the friendly Frenchman tells me that everywhere, including the boulangeries, is shut. Husband returns empty handed but with news of a tiny Pizzeria that is open and serving lunches. In the evening we go to a cheerful corner cafe where I get moules and frites and watch as a tiny girl outside at a table tucks into the same thing with gusto!

Then we’re off once more- a little further south as the weather turns ever hotter…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Unholy Trinite

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A British woman in the pitch next door to ours drones on and on, a constant monologue, a commentary to her husband about her activities: ‘I’m putting this in here’, ‘I’m going to take these in’, the pegs are under there’, ‘you’ll need to wash that’. Later, once they’ve cooked their evening meal on a grill- accompanied by the commentary- she launches into a new monologue about rose wine- how the deeper the colour, the sweeter it is, or something. She intersperses each comment with ‘but I don’t know anything about wine’ or ‘I know bugger all about wine’.

When I meet her at our shared water tap she treats me to a story about her new, grey top and how the wind blew their washing rack on to their teapot, which in turn tipped over on to it and she doesn’t know how she’ll get it dry.

Next morning they’re engaged in the commentary-laden project of moving their caravan into a new position- a task that seems to require emptying it entirely and using their car to manoevre it round. This is apparently [or so I can’t help hearing] due to their lack of shade. So when a member of staff comes along to tell us we must either leave or move because we only booked three nights it’s not too much of a catastrophe- except that I feel incensed that there’s no acknowledgement that we did, in fact, reserve for four nights.

We’ve been here, at La Trinite sur Mer, for a couple of days. For our first day, which was a little overcast and breezy, we walked around the town then, on a whim, took the ‘Noddy’ train trip out to the Standing Stones at next door Carnac- which are an amazing, vast, neolithic site, although we’ve been before. The little train is relaxing and there’s information on the headphones, of course. Back in town we get a coffee, served by [yet another, for those following this blog] ill-tempered woman. Not all the bars and cafes along the prom are open.

Yesterday we took the van out [partly in the interests of battery charging] and looked at a few places- some beautiful wild dunes by a deserted beach where we lunched, Port Louis, which hadn’t yielded a coffee shop. The weahter was hot, sultry and sticky, making walking and sightseeing hard work. Then thunderstorms moved in, the rain so heavy we needed to pull in and stop to wait it out.

When I wake on the third morning there’s sune pouring in and a fresher feel. We can sit outside, have coffee in the sunshine, read a book. In the afternoon we walk down a cute footpath outside the entrance to the site and up around the headland, the coast rock-strewn and rugged, then it turns along the beside small beaches and back towards the town.

We’re off again next day, heading south towards an area we’ve visited several times- around Pornic. To get there we must cross the stunning bridge at Saint Nazaire which crosses the Loire at its estuary- then we’re over and heading on in blue skies and sunshine…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

It Never Rains but it Pours

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When we arrive to Villedieu les Poeles, a little old Normandy town where we’ll spend a couple of nights, the road to our chosen campsite is barricaded off and a large expanse of the town square car park is occupied by teams of Petanque players- it’s a Sunday afternoon. It seems the only way round it is to drive the wrong way along a one-way street, which we do, having watched others. the street up to the site is narrow and blocked by a Belgian car and caravan, but we make it in and get a pitch.

Regular readers of Anecdotage will have learned of our issues earlier this year on a jinxed trip to Spain. when we were without internet and devoid of plug-in electricity…and surprise! The same things happen again.

We are lucky in having excellent batteries, which can keep us going as long as we move every couple of days, but when we move on we’ll attempt to get it fixed. We can also go to the ‘Orange’ shop and get a SIM for our mobile wifi device- so that will be sorted.

In the evening we drift into town, find a restaurant and have a compensatory meal.

Next day we’re in need of a walk, so after lunch we set off to explore Villedieu les Poeles, which rewards our efforts with loads of interesting and historical information. Iy used to be a town of copper foundries, in particular the making of bells, and the copper workers lived in small courtyards accessed by passageways, which are still there. The courtyards consist of small stone houses with external staircases and many connecting alleys and passages.

Down at the end of the main street and around a corner is the great bell foundry- still working, but we’re unable to see it on a Sunday. All in all it’s a delightful town and well worth a visit.

We spend another night here then we’re off, first to a motorhome service place we’ve found. It’s not far, however we arrive to the forecourt and a notice to say it’s closed today. Then we pop over to Saint Lo and the ‘Orange’ shop, where it’s easy enough to arm ourselves with internet, at last!

We opt to stay in the area for one more night and try the motorhome place tomorrow, but we’ll go and visit Vire to make the most of the day. It’s not a charming, historic town like Villedieu, although it does have the remnants of old Norman walls and a towering archway, decked out with D-Day flags. We wander some more streets then decide there’s not a lot else of interest. The next site is at Torigni-sur Vire but it’s a tortuous trip on country lanes to get there.

By now the weather has closed in and rain has started, nevertheless we decide to take a walk into town and to a creperie that’s been recommended to us. Taking a detour by the lake adjoining the site we find the restaurant- and it’s closed, so we continue into the village where a sign for ‘pub’ beckons us and when we get there it’s very quaint amd olde worlde inside, so we get beers, then I ask if we can eat there- there are boards outside touting various meals. The publican, who is busy peeling potatoes on the bar- answers with a stream of incomprehensible French, too fast for me- and looks very disgruntled, at which we finish the beers and repair to our campsite’s snack bar for pork and chips- and very welcome it is, too!

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Chancing it-

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As I write, we are gearing up to be away,. It’s never simple. Besides the prepping of the van, which takes longer than it used to and especially after longer intervals- there’s the house and garden to consider, which has all to be left in a reasonable state ready for return. I always experience a frisson of anxiety over the garden, in particular.

This year, our part of the UK has received an unprecedented amount of rainfall. During the eight years we’ve lived in this house, which overlooks a river called The Avon [yes I know- Avon means river, too!] and a watermeadow, the field has never been inundated for such a long time in the winter- six months. Six months and we didn’t see a single blade of grass from November until the end of April.

Flooding is very bad news for many and the world needs to wake up to the fact that the climate is wreaking havoc.

In our garden, however, the early deluges have been beneficial. The steep bank under the trees that was a tangle of ivy and brambles when we came has never looked better, with all the ferns, geraniums, grasses etc thriving. The new flowerbed we installed after a visit to wonderful Hidcote Garden in the Cotswolds has become lush and colourful, with my 70th birthday rose having pride of place and throwing out deliciously scented blooms.

It hasn’t been an easy garden. Options on planting are limited with so much dry shade. A dry shade bank must be one of the trickiest places to plant. Perseverance and trial and error have yielded so-so results until this year- this wettest of years.

Opposite the dry shade bank is a fence- still shady, still dry. A vigorous jasmine likes it. Some clematis like it and some don’t. This year I’m trying a rambling rose.

At the top of the bank, accessed by a cute path that Husband installed is a wildish space. Here he also put in a pond which has remained stubbornly devoid of life since its arrival [so much for ponds being a magnet, and all that…]. The pond is flanked by more ferns and a lot of weeds. Opposite, on the other end of the decking is a small house that we placed here for small people, although visiting grandchildren have, thus far, studiously ignored it. This may be due to the spider population which enjoys the accommodation.

The few sunny parts of the garden are occupied by pots of annuals and by tomato plants, which I had to buy this year, as my seedlings succumbed to the cold.

All this, then, must look after itself while we take a wander off to foreign parts. Fingers crossed!

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Festive or Frustrating?

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I’d guess most would consider that living in a tourist town is extremely lucky, since the attractions are there on our doorstep all year round- and it’s true, there is much to feel fortunate about- although not smug [I hope!]. But it can be variously annoying, frustrating and tedious too.

The small market town where I live is in an enviable position- between the Uk’s best known national park and the sea- and also boasts many historic features, making it a magnet for visitors, no less for holding regular events like festivals during the summer months.

During such shindigs, streams of traffic pour in, choking up the town and filling the car parks by early in the day- then having to stream back out again, having failed to find spaces. On the other hand, we’re lucky in that we can stroll up the road and be in the midst of whatever is on in a matter of minutes. Sometimes it’s noisy, often it’s messy- with clearing litter an almost full time occupation for those involved in the running.

Husband and I used to be part of a team that ran a music festival in our town, an event now taken over by others, so we know what’s involved in staging one; risk assessments, fire fighting training, stallholder booking, ticket selling, first aid- the list of chores is endless.

Our town has just hosted the annual food festival, a massive undertaking that results in a sea of stalls down through the High Street and on the ‘Quomps’- a green area next to the river and quayside. The event was, as always, hugely popular, with some obvious features like cookery displays and others less so, like sheep shows and a cross-channel row-boat. Like many such festivals this one has been taken over by a huge company, which results in fewer small, independent businesses and much of the food [too much!] is ‘fast food’ orientated.

We wander along for a couple of hours to see if anything’s new and to investigate lunch possibilities- it’s tricky for those like me, whose choice is a bit limited by health issues, since I can’t consume dairy or spicy foods these days and the range of stalls is overwhelmingly dominated by spice and cheese. Another festival a couple of weeks ago in the environs of the town was a ‘cheese and chilli’ one- not a great magnet for me!

We walk past the waiting stream of traffic and to the High Street, which is thronged with visitors, then on down to the Quomps, where most of the action is; a double decker bus remodelled into a bar, curry stall, burgers, the sheep show- no sheep on show- [presumably they’re on lunch break, too], ‘loaded’ fries [loaded with- you’ve guessed it- cheese], belly dancers- belly dancers?.

I manage to find a roasted duck wrap, which is pleasant enough- if expensive, then think I might like an ice cream. A tour of the entire food festival. however, cannot yield one single ice cream stall [and there are quite a few] offering a non-dairy ice cream, which strikes me as extraordinary, given that every supermarket is now able to offer them!

We walk back to the town and home. That’s it until the next festival- and mostly the same stalls again!

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Village on a Chocolate Box

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Years ago, when I was a child [the 50s, mainly], boxes of chocolates were a favourite gift and were almost always adorned with pictures- most often totally unrelated to their contents. A common theme was cosy, thatched cottages with roses around the door. My mother was very fond of boxes of chocolates, so this made buying her a birthday or a Christmas gift very simple.

So all these twee designs on chocolate boxes led to a well-known catch-phrase [at the time] of comparing country cottages to chocolate boxes. If you said a home was like a chocolate box, everyone would know what you meant.

Nowadays though, I doubt very many people would understand the phrase at all. Boxes of chocolates have largely fallen out of fashion and favour and those that do still exist are unlikely to have photos of thatched cottages on the front and a huge red ribbon around them.

The village of Lacock in Wiltshire, though, boasts enough chocolate box cottages to stock large numbers of sweet shops and is the kind of village I imagine overseas tourists dream of visiting, should they want to see traditional British life.

Here, the two main streets host terraces of ancient buildings- half-timbered, thatched, tiny or rambling- all tended and primped for visitors. Among the homes is a village store, a post office, bakery, cafes, pub and gift shops. Outside some of the houses, shelves of home-grown garden plants are on offer- even offering ‘honesty boxes’ for payment!

In addition to all of this historic twee-ness there is the beautiful attraction that is Lacock Abbey [National Trust of course], a huge, majestic pile sitting in vast and beautiful grounds, all as meticulously tended as you would expect from a NT property.

One stunning aspect of the abbey grounds is a buttercup meadow, a sea of yellow cris-crossed with mown paths, the flowers almost tall enough to conceal a person [at least- a short person like myself!]. In the centre is an old tree, wound with something at the top [possibly willow twigs?] looking like a woody planet, and hung with beautiful bracket fungus.

The wooded area is another sea- white this time, of wild garlic, which seems to be having a good year, perhaps due to March’s incessant rain? There is an unmistakeable aroma of garlic as we wind our way nearer to the abbey.

We stop for a quick look at the courtyard- presumably accomodation for the abbey inmates, then pop inside the abbey itself, which is beautiful, hung with paintings and dressed with age appropriate furniture. We finish in the enormous hall which is decked with statues around the walls and an enormous fireplace.

Back outside, we take a moment to visit the large pond, before leaving and going to the cafe, always an obligatory deviation. The sun is out and a cheeky robin visits our table to beg for cake crumbs…now as afternoons go it’s pretty good…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com