Tag Archives: France

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

Mont So Different

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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…

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/

Returns and revisits

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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…

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 not so Super Super-U

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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…

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/

Cycling and Sardines

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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…

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/

West is Best

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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!

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/

Encounter with Vampires

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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…

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/

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/