The Best Laid Plans

Posted on September 10, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

We’d planned to move from Symondsbury, Dorset, to Portland for a night or two. Our three nights were up and Husband’s idea was to stay at a pub stopover, where we’d be able to park up for a night for the price of a meal we’d get in the hostelry. We’ve done this before when travelling long distance and it worked well when we drove up to Shetland. On this occasion, however, we draw a blank. The pubs that had seemed to be offering overnight parking on Portland have been prevented- by what, we do not know- a by-law, perhaps?

Portland, of course has become famous- or infamous- for having to host the hostel barge, the ‘Bibby Stockholm’ where asylum seekers would be moved from their hotels. Opinions differ about the rights and wrongs of housing the refugees on the barge although those who’d moved in subsequently had to be moved again due to disease-ridden conditions.

We’re stuck with a conundrum. There’s just one night before we are due to move to a site nearer home and we’re out of time on Ernie’s Plot. After some research it becomes clear we’ll have to move into Somerset and to a pub with a campsite not far from Yoevil. It’s a pretty village and pub, although the rain confines us to van until we go to eat. Again, the pub provides a delicious meal and the site is fine for a night.

I’m impressed by the German family who were eating in the pub- a couple with two teenage sons. They emerge in the morning, after a rainy night, from two, tiny Quechua pop-up tents which [the parents] quickly fold away into the boot of their hire car before they all sit at a picnic table for breakfast; truly a minimalist trip!

It so happens that we’re close to Montacute House, a National Trust property with lovely grounds. We pack up and head off there, having coffee in the van then wandering the house and gardens which are formal and elegant. Built in 1598, the house belonged to an Elizabethan lawyer, Sir Edward Phelips. It’s popular today in spite of the intermittent rain, with children playing on the games lawn and the cafe courtyard busy with people lunching. We return to the car park and have lunch in the van before heading off to yet another National Trust property, Tintinhull Garden, a mere 7 minutes away.

We park and follow a path through an orchard meadow, through a gate, across a road to a lovely old manor house. The garden lies through an archway, a network of 7 garden ‘rooms’ in arts and crafts style. It’s far quieter than Montacute, a peaceful spot with a graceful pond and gazebo and wonderful large beds with rows of flowers and vegetables all mixed up together. Through a gate is a wilder area with fruit trees, including a mulberry tree groaning with fruit.

Our third site is to be much closer to home, back into Dorset to a village near Poole. It’s South Lychett Manor, an enormous, family friendly site with every convenience you can think of and quite a few you can’t. There is a grand entrance through wrought iron gates and a long driveway, an extensive shop, a pizza van and cafe. It’s a far cry from Ernie’s Plot but variety, as they say…

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/

Affronts on Several Fronts

Posted on September 3, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

The day after the bramble debacle at Symondsbury, Husband’s wounds are on the mend, however we select the road option, rather than the footpath, for a walk into the village and a look round. It is all very cute in an ‘olde English’ way, yellow stone cottages with roses round the door, a rustic church, apple trees laden with fruit. Many of the cottages, though are holiday lets.

A signpost points to Symondsbury Estate and while I imagine this to be an unglamorous, new development on the outskirts of the village it is, in fact an attractive collection of buildings clustered around a square of gardens with a cafe, gallery and craft shops.

The gallery is so new as to be still in the setting up process, but is clearly displaying the work of a single artist and he is there. He’s painted the same view, a forest, many times over in different seasons and weather conditions. ‘Like David Hockney’ I say, since I know that Hockney has himself done this at his Normandy home- painted the same woodland scene in different conditions. The artist snorts in contempt- ‘David Hockney!’ he splutters. But a nearby woman [his wife?] quietly tells him that Hockney has produced some paintings this way- and he becomes silent. I feel it’s time to leave and we continue to the next unit, which has a collection of lovely textiles and items made from them.

From here, we find a path that leads into Bridport. This time it’s not a lethal mud slope to tip us into the brambles, but a meander across grass fields and an ancient sunflower field then on across a river and up a lane. Then we’re on to the outskirts of Bridport. We’ve visited quite a few times, so we’re not exploring on this occasion but take a short stroll up the main street, searching for a bakery without success, before returning to the supermarket to pick up a couple of items before climbing on the bus for a convenient ride back to our site.

We’ve booked a table at the village pub for our evening meal, [open tonight, unlike last night]. The Ilchester Arms has a modest menu but everything is delicious and I’m glad I chose the smaller portion of chicken for my main meal. Neither of us can cope with desert.

For our second day we’re off to Lyme Regis, again by bus, although when it arrives to our camp site stop it’s already almost full. Lyme is a very popular destination for summer visitors and when we arrive in the centre, the driver having negotiated the narrow, twisty street, the pavements, promenade, street and shops are all teeming with tourists.

Husband has suggested pasties on the beach for lunch today- an idea I’m not about to dismiss, so we head to the nearest pasty shop- one of about 5 pasty outlets along the main street- and take our still-warm pasties to the pebbly beach. We perch on the sea wall and keep a close eye on the marauding gulls which swoop and stalk around us in a menacing way. I’ve read that you should stare them out, which does seem to be successful in keeping them at bay.

We have a quick stroll then we’re getting the bus again, this time on to Axminster, which we’ve driven through many times but not stopped to examine.

It doesn’t take long to realise there’s a reason we’ve not stopped here before. Poor Axminster, whilst not unpleasant, has little to offer. A swift walk around the tiny centre, with its nice enough church, an attempt to get a coffee in a courtyard cafe where the woman serving is too busy chatting to akcnowledge our presence and a visit to the community hub-that’s about it; except for one outstanding feature. Down on the path to the station there is a patch of the most delicious blackberries we’ve tasted for years…

Then it’s back to Symondsbury-

The Plunge, the Path and the Prickles

Posted on August 27, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

Ernie’s Plot is a tiny, 8 pitch site for motorhomes, campervan and caravans. just outside Bridport in the south west of my county, Dorset. On a farm in the outrageously gorgeous village of Symondsbury, the pitches all face ‘Colmers Hill’, a hill rising up in the distance with a pathway leading up and a fringe of trees at the top. It becomes clear that it is also a local landmark, featuring everywhere on paintings, photos and much more.

On arrival to Ernie’s plot we are invited [by a notice on the gate] to enter and pitch up. Our pitch number is chalked up on a board and inside a tiny shed there are slices of Dorset Apple Cake in a basket for us to take as a welcome gift. Wonderful!

The 8 pitches are almost all occupied and ours is the end one. We all face a field of brown and white sheep, with hens in the background- a restful and bucolic scene, which, as it happens, is exactly what we need!

Once established, we opt to amble to the village pub, just down the lane and have an early evening beer. We make what transpires to be a wrong decision in choosing the footpath across the field instead of the lane. It’s fine at first- a narrow path along to a field with more sheep, across to the far corner, over a stile and upwards on a somewhat muddy and sloping track flanked by trees on one side and banks of brambles below. It’s tricky walking on a muddy, sloping path. As usual I have my camera in hand and I’m following Husband when he disappears from view, accompanied by a crashing sound and faint cries of ‘help, help!’.

Oh…I catch up. To my right, and below me, Husband is lying across the bramble patch, caught in multiple places and with blood running down his hands, arms, legs and head, much as if he’s been leapt upon by a hungry tiger. Horrors! He is unable to move, since bramble thorns have secured him firmly to the bushes. He is also below me, where I stand on the sloping, slippery pathway. It’s like the scene in ‘Alien’ where crew members are caught up in the creature’s web ready for consumption.

This is a conundrum. We are also alone. I’m aware I must not slip, as he has, as two of us caught on the brambles would not improve the situation. I move as far towards him as I dare and extend a hand, wondering if I’ve the strength to pull him out, then I can at least hold him and prevent further incarceration. Small movements cause him to yell as the thorns dig deeper but whilst holding him I can just about use my right foot to stamp one aggressive briar out of the way.

I exert all my strength and he manages to grasp a branch then prise himself forward in a gradual freeing from the brambles, until he is out, standing, bloodied but released. Phew! I delve into my bag, where I keep all my contingency items, one of which is a pack of wet wipes. Between us, we mop him up, which takes some time and at last he’s presentable enough to go to the pub [outside, at least]. it’s only a few yards to the lane and a few more to the pub…which is closed today…

Later, relaxing in the van, my principal regret is that I did not photograph Husband in the brambles, for which. dear reader, I am extremely sorry…

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!]…

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!

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