Tag Archives: travel

Marvellous Mechanical Beasts

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The first sight to greet us on crossing the bridge over half of the Loire to Ile de Nantes is the Palace of Justice- a vast, modern, glass building in elegant black. We turn right at the end of the bridge and walk by the river for a few minutes.

We’ve walked quite a bit since we left the tram, so when we happen upon a small cafe, we dive in- and it’s a little gem; a tiny, cosy cafe dedicated to all things…Anglais- There’s Union Jack bunting, the walls are adorned with pictures of the royal family and there are traditional British treats like scones and Victoria sponge on the counter. I’m aware that it might appear odd for us to be charmed by coming across a British-themed cafe, being British ourselves, and we do, of course, love all things French, but it’s a novelty we can’t resist.

So we order scones and tea and settle at a table, discovering, on a shelf next to me, a range of masks, supposedly iconic British persons- an eccentric selection consisting, among others, of Prince Harry and Liam Gallagher.

In addition to all of this, the toilet is wallpapered with a huge photo of the entire royal family and boasts various Brit-themed knickknacks.

Having spent an enjoyable time in the cafe, we’re reinforced to continue, and once we’ve turned the corner of the block and emerged into a large square, we can see what we’ve come for: The massive, working, walking, flying machine beasts of Nantes.

We’re in luck, because the elephant, which is the biggest and most impressive beast, is about to walk out of the entrance of the hangar, carrying a load of enthusiastic passengers and piloted by a man driving a ground level motor. It is a wonderful and thrilling sight as it places its giant, mechanical feet at each lengthy step and makes its slow, majestic way around to the back of the hangar.

We’re excited enough by the elephant to want to see the remaining beasts demonstrated inside so we buy tickets and wait, alongside the many other visitors while the previous ‘tour’ is concluded. The machines are fascinating- a huge bird [a phoenix?], a chameleon whose tongue shoots out to catch a bug, an enormous spider with luminous eyes. Some have paid to ride the creatures alongside the operators, pulling handles to create movement. We are, of course, flummoxed by much of the narration but this doesn’t seem to matter.

Before leaving, we visit the gift shop to see if there’s a little something for our naff shelf, although there really isn’t anything cheap or nasty enough. We settle for a tiny tin of sweets bearing a picture of the elephant, which feels like copping out.

That, then, was a fitting finale for the day in this amazing city and we retrace our steps back to the centre to find a tram that will take us back to our site. We’ll be off again in the morning- but not home quite yet.

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

Nantes at Last

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Arthur: the young man in reception’s name tag informs us. He steps around his desk towards us, all other staff being occupied. It’s clear from the outset that we’re not the standard of tourers he’d like to be welcoming to the site, as a curling sneer hovers around his lips.

I begin in my [not too shabby] French. Here I feel compelled to add that plenty of Frenchmen and women have complimented me on my delivery of the language. The exceptions have tended to be young men, like Arthur.

‘Would I prefer him to speak English?’

I capitulate. He casts me a pitying look and tells us that only the most expensive pitches are available. I look at him. Does he assume, then, that we don’t appear as if we can afford it? Husband steps up. We’ll have 2 nights!

In spite of little Arthur, we make our way to the posh pitch- although I’m at pains to see why they’re more expensive. It’s a small patch next to a tiny square of grass with a picnic table. The piece de resistance seems to be the shed type building, to which we have a key. No- this is not a personal bathroom- this is indeed a shed, containing a scruffy, cold water sink, a fridge [useful] and some loungers. I’m not sure whether these will be used given that the pitch is almost entirely shaded- still, we’re not here to lounge around.

Where are we? We’re at Nantes- in a site we’ve attempted to get into before with no success, it being stubbornly ‘complet’, hence the fact that we’re prepared to pay extra for the pitch. Otherwise the site is fine- if pricy and has a bar/cafe of sorts.

We’re on a tram route into the city. We need to work out how to buy tickets, then we’re set. It’s just a question of gauging when we’re at the centre. I have a slight moment of panic when our tram comes, Husband gets on and the door closes- leaving me on the outside, but when I press the door button it opens. All good; I’m not about to be stranded not knowing where to alight in Nantes.

Using the map on the wall, we take a guess at our stop and get off. First impressions are of a huge and imposing city with massive, elegant buildings and wide streets and pavements. Wow!

We’re not so impressed by the portacabin toilets near the cathedral, though. They are in a thoroughly revolting state and unusable. The cathedral is, itself, disappointing, since while the exterior looks wonderful, it is encased in fencing due to needing repairs from a fire. Ho hum…

Nantes has a photogenic chateau with a big wow factor and great views from the top of the walls, which makes up for the cathedral’s parlous state. The chateau contains a museum, but there’s too much to see in Nantes for us to use up the time.

The majestic Loire travels through this city, dividing up for an island, the Ile de Nantes. There’s something thrilling to see on the island, so we head that way and across the footbridge…

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

Les Portes and the Marais

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Seasonova campsite at Les Portes en Re is very quiet and relaxing, with only a few neighbouring tourers and scarce occupants of the chalets. We can see that in high season there might be a bar, a re-purposed container near to the tiny pool, but so far there’s no sign of activity or opening. We’re close to the little town though, which has one or two bars and cafes.

The site does not have beach access but is close, meaning that we can walk and find a coast path, which we do. Les Portes has a wide, rocky bay and a sea wall. To begin with, the path leads down to the road and above us there’s a tiny chapel, apparently used as a weapons store during the war, destroyed by missiles and later rebuilt. I want to look inside, however it’s being swept and tidied by two women and there’s not really room for a third in the minute room, which has an altar and half a dozen chairs. I wonder if services are conducted here?

The road changes to a country lane, the verges bursting with wild flowers. We dive through a gap and get back towards the beach, where we’re almost entirely alone, walking along by the dunes, which are fiercely protected with fences and signs.

When the weather turns changeable, with some rain, we become tired of incarceration, put on rainwear and set off into the marshes. The marais has a character of its own, flat, windswept, dotted with reed beds and old salt production ponds- some still in use, as forlorn signs proclaim. It’s a paradise for bird life, of course. The rain becomes more serious, then we stumble upon a barn-like visitor centre with displays, videos and a wealth of information about the marshes, as well as a small gift shop. This occupies us until the rain subsides enough for us to return.

The main bar/restaurant in the town square has a good menu, ideal after an inclement day, so we take advantage. This time we go for crevettes instead of oysters and I’m not disappointed, but I’m hoping this isn’t the last chance for them before we go home! It’s too chilly and drizzly to sit outside and the small indoor area is busy with customers- one big group next to our table enjoying drinks.

Next day we’re off to the coast path again- this time in the opposite direction, which requires clambering up on to the wall and a careful step along it, then on to rocks before the path plunges into woodland. At last we emerge into a small car park sporting a cute, rustic composting toilet…On our way back past the supermarket we’re delighted to discover an oyster vending machine.

By now we’ve probably exhausted all Les Porte’s offerings and it’s time to leave the small town and leave Ile de Re. We’ll begin the gentle meander back north, but we’ve not finished with seeing places yet. We’re about to go and look at a city we’ve driven past and round many times but never stopped to explore-

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

The End of the Ile

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We’ve done Bois de la Plage but we’re keen to stay somewhere different on Ile de Re, this time to the very end of the island. But first we make a stop at tiny Sainte Marie de Re, a very beautiful and cute village we’d driven around on arrival. Now we know that negotiating the narrow, twisty lanes of Sainte Marie is a very tricky business, so we park just outside and walk in.

When we’d driven round a few days ago, we’d been looking for a particular site, one which the SATNAV had decided was here [in fact it most certainly was not]. We’d eventually found our way to this first, chosen site then, after a quick look round, determined that it would not suit us at all- being very shady and a long way from everywhere].

It doesn’t take long to see Sainte Marie, which has little besides a quaint village shop, a cafe in a large, open square and a lot of pretty lanes.

Before we head off to the next option for a site, we need to shop. The major supermarkets [Intermarche, Leclerc and Lidl] are based at Ile de Re’s capital, Saint Martin. It’s a beautiful town but we’ve seen [and photographed] it before. This visit is purely for supplies. Leclerc is in the SATNAV, which is certain that we have arrived- but can we see it? No. It takes some time, driving backwards and forwards, into mysterious car parks and out again, before the supermarket is revealed- cleverly disguised as a barn in black timber cladding- with nothing to advertise its existence.

Stocked up, we make our way along to ‘Seasonova’, a site at Les Portes en Re, a quiet part of the island, passing the picturesque lighthouse [which we’ve visited previously]. Seasonova’s reception is closed for lunch, which is commonplace for French sites. Nobody is going to deprive the French from their leisurely lunches! The site is on the outskirts of the little town, by a large car park where the buses stop and turn, which is useful for us as we can also have lunch while we wait.

But we can also wander into the site to look round. It’s very quiet, with only three of four tourers parked up; even the chalets at the end are sparsely occupied.

Reception opens and I go to check in, although the young woman behind the counter is pleasant but disorganised, answering the phone whilst attempting to get my details. But we’re in and on to a sunny, open pitch strewn with a carpet of yellow flowers- lovely.

Les Portes is clearly less visited than the towns and villages at the other end of Ile de Re. It’s bordered by the sea and the marshlands, a flat, wild landscape.

It’s an easy walk into the town, which has a few shops and a couple of bar/restaurants as well as a pretty church. The centre is bustling, with bikes, dog trailers and child trailers parked up by a tiny roundabout. We get a beer- and establish that yes- of course we can get oysters here!

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

Wine and Oysters

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The islands off the west coast, the Atlantic coast of France are all beautiful and all worth visiting for their individual attributes, but Ile de Re has a special place in the hearts of many, for a plethora of reasons. We haven’t visited for years, so this is the destination for this jaunt to France.

To get to this small island you only need to cross a bridge from La Rochelle- first paying a toll, of course, which pays for your trip there and back.

Once across, we only have a couple of miles to our first, chosen site, at Bois de la Plage. And it’s much as its name describes, a wood at the beach, the site nestling in the dunes, which makes it undulating but with a good choice of pitches. We select from the options- an elevated pitch, although the beach and sea are not visible over the next line of dunes.

There are more tourers here, even a few British, the first we’ve seen on this trip. however there’s a brisk, cool wind, so lolling around in the sunshine is less likely than at Vannes.

The island is a cyclists heaven and you could be forgiven for thinking it was The Netherlands, since the off-road cycle tracks are everywhere and busy with whole families or individuals in the saddle, enjoying the easy, flat terrain. Besides beaches and oyster beds there are acres of vineyards between the communities.

Nowhere here is large or sprawling, the biggest town being the island’s capital, Saint-Martin-de-Re. We’ve visited before [and photographed] so we’ll by-pass it this time. But we’ll take a look at Bois de la Plage while we’re here. It’s just a 15 minute walk from our site, along residential lanes, the homes white-painted, single storey with shutters and neat gardens- some clearly holiday homes.

Bois de la Plage is not a throbbing metropolis and has a few small shops- a salt seller, shoe shop, florist, tobacconist. There’s an indoor market, closed today, a picturesque church and a few cafes. We’re on the lookout for somewhere to eat, and while a restaurant near the beach looks lovely, the menu is offering too much ‘tartare’ for our liking. One on a corner in the little town centre, though, Le Moulin a Cafe, offers a good looking menu and, crucially, oysters.

At the entrance to our site there is a bar/cafe, which is fine for a drink- and even has a selection of cocktails, although the food offerings are of the burger and pizza variety. It’s noticeable that French diners appear to be going for more fast food options these days. We wander down in the early evening but there’s a chilly wind and it’s not cosy inside the canvas dining and drinking area, as the breeze blows in.

The beach here is typical of this French Atlantic coast, vast, sandy and with lively rolling waves, the kind of beach that surfers love, and one afternoon we return to our site along the sand, turning into the site beach access.

We go to eat at the Moulin. It’s a little quiet, which is unnerving, and we’re led into the back, but as usual we’re out to eat much earlier than the French so as the evening progresses more diners arrive. We have oysters. I didn’t try an oyster until I was in my fifties and immediately became a fan, which was a surprise!

It’s time to move on- but we’re not done with Ile de Re yet…

La Fuite

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Vannes is a very pretty, medieval town in Brittany. We’re here for a few days’ second visit, enjoying beautiful warm sunshine for a walk along the footpath from our site, which begins in woods and emerges to boatyards, then a quayside thoroughfare into the centre of town. As we near the town it becomes landscaped with seating areas and planting. there’s a large concourse in front of the tourist information office, where the weather has brought out a lot of visitors, keeping the neighbouring cafes and ice cream vendors busy.

Vannes has a lovely network of ancient, half-timbered buildings lining its streets and a huge castle with attractive gardens. Near the top of the town lies the gothic cathedral. Everywhere is thronged with tourists, in and out of the gift shops or sitting outside cafes in the sun.

When we’ve had enough we spend some time searching for a bus stop with the correct number to take us back to site, but it’s easier said than done. We accost a driver, who tells us we’re in the wrong place for our bus and then, remarkably, offers to ferry us up to the bus station, saving our sore feet.

The site’s bar and cafe is open for cheap and cheerful meals. It’s not an extensive menu but the ‘faux-filet’ is very acceptable. We have a lazy last day in the sun with an evening stroll down to the shore for an ice cream.

We’re on the move again- southwards to make another stop at Bretignolles-sur-Mer, which is also known to us, although the site Husband has selected is also known to us and we know it’s a long way from Bretignolles’ tiny centre or seaside and opt to try another, which, as it turns out, is cheaper and more convenient,

We’ve pulled off the track and on to our pitch when some neighbours make us aware of a trail we’ve left along the lane. ‘It’s fine,’ I tell them, ‘it’s water.’

‘Non, non, non! they reply. ‘C’est gazole!’

Yikes! Diesel is leaking from our van! And it’s Saturday!

Husband crawls around on the grass underneath. His verdict: it looks to be the fuel pipe. The mood turns gloomy. I search online for garages, finding a local one with a 5* review from a British motorhome owner, which looks promising. But we can do nothing until Monday except find out exactly where the place is.

We set off on foot to follow the route on my phone, stopping to ask a man busily tidying his garden if he knows it- a man who retreats to find his wife [the English speaker], who immediately offers to take us in her car! ‘C’est normal!’ she cries when we say it’s too much. It’s just as well she did take us- it’s a fair way on foot.

In the meantime, while we wait for Monday, we set off to look at Bretignolles, which Husband claims we’ve never seen- and discover that of course- we have been here and it’s clear as soon as we get to the centre; the square with the uninspiring church, the market hall, the cafes, the little street with a few clothing shops. I even remember where the supermarket is. Not being an extensive metropolis, it’s soon looked at [and recalled]. I don’t feel like photographing it a second time.

On Monday we pack up early and make for the garage. I’ve prepared the French: ‘Une fuite dans le traduite de carburrant’ or thereabouts. We pull up outside. I slept badly and have that cold, stretched feeling of anxiety/exhaustion as we push open the door to reception. I launch into my speech- just as well I prepared as Monsieur speaks no English. He frowns irritably and sighs- not auspicious- and comes out to look.

Then he beckons the van up and towards the workshop and summons a mechanic from the depths. He delves under the bonnet, unscrews things, takes bits away, returns, screws things, bids Husband to start up, stop, start up, stop. He has a few words of English.

It gets done. ‘Phew!’ says Monsieur, laughing.

Then we’re off south.

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

Van to Vannes

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We’ve not been back long from Malta- but feel it’s time to get off somewhere in the van. There have been unfortunate circumstances punctuating our van travel in the last few years but we’re hopeful, now, that things have been resolved.

We won’t be doing anything exceptional, rather visiting familiar territory in easy, comfortable France, where vans and motorhomes are catered for better than anywhere.

Packing the van is never my favourite part of van travel but it gets done and we manage the early morning scramble [when I have to wrestle with the fridge contents] and short drive to our local port of Poole, arriving to a quiet check-in with only a few vehicles and even fewer campervans.

Then we’re on board and the sun is streaming through the windows as we exit Poole Harbour- a very beautiful area, for those who don’t know it- and enjoy Brittany Ferries’ coffee and pastries, which are very welcome. Then I do my usual descent down to the couchettes for a snooze and a read, which is really the only way to pass the four hour crossing. We’ve long since given up looking round the shop or wandering the decks. Other than one or two families with very young children or babies, the boat is quiet.

Once arrived, we go first to the ‘Orange’ shop at Cherbourg [known to us now] to get a SIM for our little mobile internet device- then we’re set. And we belt down our well known route, past Avranches, Mont Saint Michel etc until we arrive at Saint Brice en Cogles, a small town with a wonderful aire that we know very well having used it for years. There is always a new addition, an extension or an improvement to this free parking area with all services, in front of a cemetery and next to the police station! And we’ve a handful of French motorhomes for company.

The weather is too lovely to start cooking so we wander into the little town to find a bar- not easy this evening when most places seem closed. But the trusty PMU is open- although it’s not obvious- and busy with locals, so we can find a table and enjoy a beer- or two. Then it’s back to the van for dinner.

In the morning there are the usual chores- emptying, filling with water, ditching trash [taking great care over the recycling- the French are very particular in providing a range of bins] and we’re off again, heading south. And on to Vannes, Brittany, on the Gulf of Morbihan, to a site we’ve stayed at before- one of a chain of sites. Site chains are becoming increasingly common now. They can be more expensive than smaller, independent sites, but this one- part of the daftly named ‘Flower Campings’ conglomerate, is not too pricey, is convenient and offers all we need.

The skies over Vannes are blue, the temperature heating up and we’re here for a few days. We’ll take another look at the city of Vannes, which we can walk to along a very pleasant footpath and we can also relax in some much needed sun.

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

Many Harbours

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It’s our penultimate day on Malta and time do use our ticket for the harbour tour, which was part of a bundle of tickets for sightseeing. We’ve been unable to use the ticket due to choppy seas and high winds, but finally, on Friday the winds calm a little and the boat can go. This does not, however, signify hot- or warm weather, so we choose to sit inside, which is very comfortable and pleasant.

Valletta’s harbour is an amalgam of many harbours, the coast of Malta here serrated like a pancake edge and dotted with tiny islands. Almost every part has a fortification looming high above the water with watchtowers. One huge area is for cruise ships, a couple in today getting refurbished as a jaunty crane embellished to look like a giraffe swings its neck back and forth.

Another part of the harbour houses cargo shipping and ferries- one massive catamaran the ferry to Sicily, Malta’s nearest neighbour. Then there’s a section for private yachts, of which there are a few large and luxurious specimens, of course. Here, also we spot the other side of the science centre we’d passed on the bus, the water side boasting a huge globe.

In the afternoon we wander to the back of Sliema, which has a pleasant enough seafront though nothing outstanding- no promising restaurants either. And it’s windy and a little chilly.

The next day is our last. Another look at the old town seems essential and there’s still much we haven’t seen, so we get a bus this time, round to ‘bus station’ which is next to some gardens. They aren’t spectacular, but the upper level has some colourful flower beds. There is a beautiful arched wall giving views over the harbour and the canon, which are fired each day at 4pm.

We walk back to the city centre and to the main square, where some kind of event is being set up, then get tickets for a peek at the Archbishop’s Palace. By far the most astonishing sight here is the collection of armoury- housed in a vast, long hall- cases and cases full of ancient weapons, from bows and arrows to rifles and pistols, canon, full suits of armour, chain mail, helmets, breast plates- every ancient weapon and item of warfare is here.

We cross an elegant courtyard to view the state rooms, although they are less impressive. The eagle-eyed staff that police each room are fierce guards, one nudging me away from a model table I inadvertently touch!

We leave the palace and stroll down to the ferry terminal, getting a beer in a waterside restaurant while we wait. There’s a long queue for the ferry but we are board ok and return to Sliema and our last evening on Malta.

It’s an island I’d return to, and there were plenty of sights and experiences we neglected. Another time, however I’d go a little later in the year, waiting for warmer temperatures and less of a breeze!

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

…And then the South…

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Thursday of our week in Malta and time to take out second bus tour- this time to see the south of the island. Whilst in the ‘Queen Elizabeth’ pub I’d become absorbed by a tourist video of a fishing village. I thought I’d love to go there. It turns out the village is on the bus tour of the south. Hooray! We can stop off and have a quick look. The village is called Marsaxlokk and it’s anybody’s guess how it’s pronounced.

The day is just a little less breezy and slightly warmer than the previous day, when we’d had to sit inside to avoid getting blown to smithereens, so when the open-top comes we clamber upstairs and sit as near to the front, undercover part as we can, which is not under, but nearly!

Our first stop is in Valletta, which is familiar territory by now, then there’s a lot of twisty turns and narrow streets to negotiate before we’re out in the countryside. The outskirts of the city are densely built, blocks of flats piled in, pastel coloured and higgledy-piggledy, a forest of aerials flying above.

Driving out of Valletta this way is a complicated business of circling around each harbour as well as a lot of ups and downs, but at last we’re in the open.

We arrive to Marsaxlokk, stopping at the end of a curving quayside where a string of restaurants are serving luscious looking seafood- and all look busy. We’ve an hour to wander before the next bus comes but first we make for a bakery selling coffee and a range of delicious things. We opt for spherical apple pies and sit in the sunshine. The far end of the quay hosts a tourist market, stalls selling all manner of edibles, ceramics, flags, lace etc

It’s all very beautiful here- and by far the most spectacular sight is the fishing boats, which are painted in bright, primary colours and have a protruding eye of Horus either side of the prow. Most are bobbing about in the little bay but some are drawn up on the slipway or in the process of getting refurbished.

the hour passes quickly and we walk to the bus stop. Soon we’re underway again. We’ve no interest in the ‘Popeye’ village- an ageing film set for the Popeye film, which, I have to admit passed me by when it came out in the early eighties. I’d no idea there was such a film, which apparently starred Robin Williams.

Back in Sliema, we attempt a read by the hotel’s pool, which is across the road, or can be accessed by a tunnel underneath, past the spa and beauty salon. We manage an hour before the cool wind drives us back into the building.

In the evening we decide to try another pub, further down the street. It’s tiny, but looks promising, initially. We order a pizza [Husband] and pasta [me]. There is a loyal gathering of Brits who clearly love this place and return- not only to Malta, but to this pub, year in and out.

The meals come, remarkable only in that they are two of the worst meals out we’ve ever had. We won’t be joining the loyal clientele here…

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

Breezy Bus to the North

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We’ve to fit two bus tours and a harbour tour into our week in Malta and it’s Wednesday already. But high winds and choppy seas have anchored the harbour boat, so a bus trip it is, to enable us to see as much of the island as possible. The tour of the north includes a visit to Mdina, Malta’s old capital, which is perfect. We can have an hour looking at this ancient city and get on to the next bus, which allegedly comes round in an hour’s time.

We head into the inside of the bus, since it’s neither warm nor calm enough to sit upstairs in the open, although a few hardy souls are attempting it. Once we get underway, some of them decamp down inside, looking battered!

I like getting a chance to see some of the interior of the island. I always like to see what grows and how the people live. The rural areas are criss-crossed with dry stone walls, much like our Dorset, UK countryside, except that it’s divided up into much smaller areas like allotments.

The roads around Mdina are very busy and once we get to the approach road, on a hillside, we’re down to inching upwards towards the top. We’d seen the walled city as we approached as it’s set up high in the landscape.

We’re dropped outside the walls by a kind of park, where patient horses are waiting for sightseers to take up an offer of a carriage ride. There’s a public toilet here, but judging by the queues- [especially for the women’s, as usual] it may be the one and only opportunity, so we have to use some of our precious hour to queue up.

There’s a short bridge over a moat then we’re in through the gate and it would be like stepping back to medieval times were it not for the throngs of tourists everywhere. There’s more shelter from the stiff breeze here inside the walls and it’s pleasantly warm. Horses and carriages clatter around the streets, looming up alarmingly from unexpected corners. We stroll. It isn’t a large city but the buildings are magnificent- in particular a church with a most beautiful, painted ceiling. Further up the street we emerge into a small square and a portion of wall that can be walked upon. There is a smattering of gift shops, although it isn’t too commercialised.

An hour is long enough to get a flavour of Mdina, so we wander back and across the bridge to the park, where the loo queue is as long as ever. Husband, of course, reappears in no time and goes over towards the area of bus stops, little knowing that my queue extends inside the toilet block. When I emerge he is shouting for me to hurry as the bus is about to leave and he’s prevented the driver from leaving- phew!

We stop at a few more places pass by some of the large resorts that dot the north coast, like St Paul’s bay. Looking at these, I’m glad we’re based at Sliema as the weather isn’t lending itself to lolling around on a sun lounger.

Later, we walk down the road to ‘Giorgio’s’, where we get a very delicious meal. We still have a bus trip and a harbour tour to fit into our week.

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