Tag Archives: Cherbourg

The Almost Not Return

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This post contains images of van life in happier times…

So the cheeky quirks of fate were not yet done with us.

We’d booked a ferry crossing from Cherbourg back to Poole as foot passengers, since the van was still immobile and stuck in the car park of a garage [who did not wish to repair it] in the unlovely commercial zone of Lecousse, near Fougeres.

Now it was Wednesday and we were due to sail on an overnight boat. Initially it seemed there were no cabins, although we could get couchettes; then later a cabin became available, which was a rare piece of good luck in a whole chapter of misfortune. The ferry would leave at 9.30pm, meaning that we’d need to be there at the terminal by around 8.45pm. I had rung the assistance number and informed them we’d need a hire car to get to the port and been told that the French AA were working on it.

It was 9.00am. We packed and left our hotel room, taking our luggage down to the lobby to wait for a taxi to collect us and take us to the hire car depot,

We waited. And waited,

I got a text from the French AA to say they were ‘doing their best for us’. Really?

We waited.

We read. We got coffees.

By late morning we were anxious. The weather had become squally, deluges of rain lashing the hotel windows. I rang the AA, to be told they were looking for a car ‘equivalent to the car the client drives’. ‘We drive a campervan’ I told her. ‘We can’t get one of those’ was the reply! I said we’d take ANY car. We needed to get going.

We waited.

At about 2pm I received a text to say a taxi was coming at 3.00pm. We could still get to the ferry if we didn’t hang about too much.

At three, when we were almost climbing the walls of hotel lobby, a taxi came. We climbed in and set off on a ride that seemed ridiculously long, taking precious time off our Cherbourg drive and far from Fougeres, where we’d discovered the nearest ‘Europcar’ hire depot was.

The driver took us to the environs of Rennes, which was a mystery, and dropped us at a car hire office. We took our luggage and entered, giving our details to the woman at the counter. The taxi left. The woman searched her computer.

‘No,’ she said. ‘There is no booking under that name.’ My stomach, [which had churned far too much for an organ affected by IBD] lurched with nausea yet again. The woman searched neighbouring offices and yes, we were at the wrong car hire office. Did I have the number for the French AA? No. I rang the British number and she spoke to them. I looked at my watch. It seemed likely that we would, now, miss the ferry. Then…

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will get you a car.’

I feel that beatification is not good enough for this woman-

We did the paperwork, went out to the back, got into a car. Husband would drive. We set off. The car was without a SATNAV and we were in some unidentifiable area of Rennes. I got navigation on my phone and we got out of Rennes, on to the ring road and away.

We made good time, even managing a stop for a coffee and a snack- I’d been unable to eat anything all day. When we reached Cherbourg, we followed instructions from the car hire woman, dropping the car in the station car park. We were still a distance from the ferry terminal but a bus took us there.

Inside the foot passenger building there were 5 of us waiting, in hard, plastic chairs with nothing resembling a cafe, only a dysfunctional coffee machine. At last, we got into a shuttle bus which took us on to the ferry. I have never been so glad to get on to the Barfleur. We found our cabin, dumped bags and went to the bar, sinking into seats, exhausted.

We are home, of course, sans van. As of now, there is no sign of repair, no news that it can be collected. Not only does it have our bikes, locked on to the back, it also contains many of our clothes, shoes and belongings. So we wait…again…

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

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

Bimbling

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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.

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/

Strange and Familiar

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We are winging our way down a well-driven, well-known to us route towards south west France and some very familiar places as well as some yet unexplored. This return visit comes soon after our spring Brittany trip, so I’m back into the routine of packing the van [although I’m more efficient with a few days notice] and tackling van life.

The weather on this long, bank holiday and UK Jubilee weekend is what weatherpeople like to term ‘unsettled’, which usually means wet. I’m a little sad to miss our street’s Jubilee party- not because I harbour patriotic thoughts about our monarchy but because I’d have been delighted to mingle with all our lovely neighbours.

As timing would have it, it’s a double bank holiday for France, too, with Monday and Tuesday closing for just about everything- except perhaps the bakeries and restaurants.

On leaving Cherbourg Port we go on a wild goose chase on this last Saturday before the close down, to find an ‘Orange’ outlet and get a sim card, locating it after a time-wasting search and then having to wait 30 minutes for a member of staff who is able to deal with me, the awkward, old bat who wants a new data card for mobile wifi. But the guy is charming and well chosen, managing everything with a smile.

Then we adjust the night stop plan for a more manageable one, opting to pootle down the Cherbourg peninsula coast a bit and park up in an aire, of which there are a few. The aire at Gouville-sur-Mer is busy with French motorhomes but there is space for us and it’s a stunning view of the huge beach, a sky full of glowering storm clouds hovering above. The tide is out and horse-drawn trailer rides make the view more picturesque than ever.

Then it’s on southwards, planning to stop at Nantes for a night but it’s fully booked on this Bank Holiday so we press on and to a town called Parthenay and a site in out ACSI book. It’s nice enough, by a park and a river, for a couple of nights, althought he weather is unsettled and we wake to rain. When it clears up we walk by the river to the centre of the town, which has some medieval parts and a 13th century citadel. We can see the citadel in the distance on our way in, looking impressive, perched on the top of this hilltop town, although finding the entrance is more difficult than Alice finding her way into the garden [in ‘Looking Glass’].

The streets leading into the centre are lined with closed down and dilapidated shops as well as poor condition homes, even the historic, half-timbered ones falling to pieces. But the town’s central square is filled with loud music, stalls and revellers for the Fete of the Pentecote, so it’s not all bad! We have a wander round the stalls and into an enormous marquee which houses, amongst other sellers, a furniture outlet, a stairlift supplier and a purveyor of nougat…

The stalls continue along the streets- churros, gallettes, ice creams, rifle ranges and burgers all in abundance. The road surfaces are deep in confetti- presumably part of the previous day’s [Sunday] religious parades.

A choice of a random street leads us at last to the citadel gate, with no indication of its presence whatsoever; but it’s impressive, if casually presented, squeezed between buildings , the interior a car park.

There are, however great views over the terracotta roofs and down the valley, the gardens lush with flowers and vegetables. We walk back down to our site, past wonderful old medieval walls dotted with wildflowers. Parthenay, like so many places, is in urgent need of an economic leg up and some investment into its historic features.

Next morning we’re off again, heading south- and the weather is hotting up…

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsend is now out and available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishing and many more sites. Visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook: (1) Jane Deans, Novellist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook

How we Roll-

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These days we cross the English Channel [our most trodden travel path] by taking the line of least resistance-and since we live a few miles from Poole that line is Brittany Ferries to Cherbourg, a four-hour crossing leaving at 8.30am.
Despite the proximity we know better than to hang about and we are sure to leave home by 7.00am. Once, inspired by Husband’s ‘It’s only half an hour away-we’ve got oodles of time-we don’t need to be there until five minutes before’, we arrived at the barrier just as the ferry was about to leave and winged it up the ramp with minutes to spare.
The ferry, the ‘Barfleur’ [named after a Normandy coastal town] is comfortable and familiar by now. We know that once on board there will be good coffee and fresh, buttery croissants as well as comfortable reclining couchettes in a quiet salon in the bowels of the ship. We know that we can mooch around the small boutique and peruse the eclectic array of merchandise both useful and otherwise. There will be WiFi and television news.
Mostly, these days the ship is peopled with retirees or young couples with pre-school children because since retirement we have the choice of avoiding school holidays. This time, however by setting off a little earlier we are beset by knots of excited, shrieking children who still have time for a quick taste of France before knuckling down to learning their tables. They gallop about the ship, throng around the games room, chase each other from the bar to the restaurant, use loud devices and shout to each other. I surprise myself by enjoying their excitement, which reminds me how I felt on early trips abroad when every experience was new.
A sulky boy wearing a onesie in a bear design makes several circuits past our table with his lecturing mother, prompting me to wonder what he has done and if his excitement got the better of him. A tiny, table-height toddler staggers about, chased by his doting father and shielded from protruding table corners by the various diners he is entertaining.
In the quiet zone I open my Kindle and continue reading Alan Bennett’s ‘Keep On Keeping On’, which is part diary/part memoir/part lecture in itself and a treasury of informative and amusing anecdotes. A couple of rows behind us two men slumber whilst between them a young boy plays on and with a mobile phone, the sound of which is just a little distracting-loud enough to hear but not enough to decipher. Husband, whose own hearing has been compromised during the last few years is immune to such irritations and dozes off easily.
We arrive to Cherbourg, disembark and set off-not tearing southwards as usual but this time meandering across the Cherbourg peninsula to the coastal town of Barfleur itself, where we have lunch and a wander around the curving harbour followed by drinking coffee. Then we continue a few miles on to St Vaast, another harbour town with a convenient aire for us to park up in.

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St Vaast is a delectable place; full of seafood cafes, narrow alleys lined with pretty seaside homes and beautiful gardens, boulangeries packed with luscious pastries, breads and tarts, a crowded marina and a working fishing harbour where sturdy mussel boats are tied up.

There are many, many West coast ports like this, with harbourside brasseries serving the freshest shellfish you can get. We take advantage and I am able to enjoy my favourite treat-a plate of fat oysters nestling on a bed of ice and tasting of the sea.

We stay 2 days despite the drizzly intervals and walk the coastal sea wall to see ‘La Hougue’, part of some anti-British defences of 1664. Then it’s time to move on.