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-

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/

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…

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…

The not so Super Super-U

Posted on July 23, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vous ne pouvez pas tous les gagner…

Cycling and Sardines

Posted on July 16, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

West is Best

Posted on July 9, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Encounter with Vampires

Posted on July 2, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

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

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

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

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

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

No, we don’t.

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

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

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

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

Bimbling

Posted on June 25, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted on May 7, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

For our first foray by van this year I know I’m bound to forget something and of course, I do. In spite of copious list-making, notes to myself and references to our inventory we get as far as the supermarket before realising I’ve neglected to pack a bottom sheet for the bed. I’d been congratulating myself on even remembering the bedding itself- having once forgotten all of it- when it dawned on me, half way down the first aisle of Saunsbury’s. But all was not lost and I picked up a perfectly serviceable cotton sheet in the bedding aisle for £6 [a spare, white cotton, fitted sheet is always useful].

The weather is kind and it feels good to be off in the van- even if only for a couple of days and not very far. We’re going to Oxford, a mere two of hours away, to a site we’ve stayed in before which is conveniently next to the ‘park and ride’. Oxford is notorious for its lack of parking, snarled up streets and throngs of sightseers, making bus travel into city essential.

For non UK readers, Oxford is well known for its historic, 900 year old university and has been called ‘city of dreaming spires’, a description coined by the poet Matthew Arnold. The beautiful college buildings are spread over a wide area, some open to visitors to wander inside the gate and gawp at the splendid quadrangles in honey-coloured stone. Oxford has been a popular film location for many years, providing the set for Harry Potter films and much of Philip Pullman’s Northern Lights trilogy, among other productions.

First we settle into our pre-booked pitch and have a gentle wander around our immediate locale, where there’s a weir and canal boats moored. The site is almost always busy but we’re here mid-week. A weekend stay would be impossible in this popular spot. In the evening we stroll along the main road to the nearest pub, which is perfectly adequate for an evening meal next day.

The next day we wake to a gloomy start, with grey clouds and an ominous sky. This does not bother the ducks on the grass outside the van, who wait for the staff member to unlock the office and head inside to pester him for breakfast- a well-rehearsed morning ritual.

But we’re not too downhearted, as for the time being we’re not going to walk much and had already planned to use the open-top bus. It’s a strategy we sometimes employ for looking at cities, giving us a chance to choose what we’ll come back to and providing us with an interesting [hopefully] and informative narrative.

We get to use our [oldies’] bus passes for the journey into town then, having located the bus tour office we clamber on and up. We’re fortunate. The covered area at the front of the bus has only two occupied seats. Catherine, our guide follows us upstairs. We’ve earphones but they’re not necessary as she’s sitting behind us!

Regular readers will have learned about Elton, our reluctant guide on Cape Verde [https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/118951799/posts/4623291456] but Catherine is everything that Elton was not; well-informed, enthusiastic, engaging and fun. Our top deck just has ourselves, an Australian couple and herself so we can sit back and enjoy the ride, the stories and the views through the rain-streaked windows…

Ready and Waiting

Posted on April 9, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

Home is never a bad place to be. In fact, we should feel lucky to have one, when so many do not. And now that the cold of winter has finally lost its grip there are pockets of sunshine between bursts of rain. The garden is waking and those first, bright, lime green shoots are appearing as well as hoards of weeds.

We are, however in house arrest at the moment due to circumstances [ill health] and inevtably we’re wishing we could be off on a travel adventure, as so many others are, according to social media.

Our last big trip was last autumn, to Corsica and Sardinia. On our return, knowing the van would be used much less throughout the winter I did my thorough, interior clean. I have a routine for this. I use a bucket of hot, soapy water. First, I deal with the fridge, taking out the shelves and grills and washing it all. Next I tackle the cooker, sink and worktop before turning my attention to the shelves and drawers inside our larder cupboard.

All cutlery, pans, plates, cups etc are brought indoors to be stacked into the dishwasher before being returned to their [clean] spots. Then it’s the ledges, windows and cab. The front cab is always covered in dust and grime after a lengthy trip. After this I turn my attention to the miniscule shower and toilet.

Lastly there’s the floor, which gets vaccuumed then scrubbed. I take the mats outside, hang them on our garden wall and give them a good bashing to eliminate dust. Of course there are times when rugs etc need replacing.

The exterior is Husband’s responsibility, as are the changes [he likes to call them ‘modifications’] he is always trialling. I have yet to find a good system for storing mugs and glasses that eradicates clinking noises as we travel. I did try florist’s ‘oasis’ foam but it crumbles, leaving a dusty deposit on everything. At the moment the mugs on the shelf travel with tea towels wrapped around them.

Though the van is getting elderly [aren’t we all…] it scrubs up well, is reliable [so far] and won’t be swapped any time soon, although at the moment it is languishing outside our home while we wait for health issues to be resolved…

Anecdotage

Views from the Descent

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