Tag Archives: Vendee

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/

The Horrors of Rentrer d’Ecole

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My school friend, Paula Booth and I were much taken with everything French. My parents took us camping in the Vendee-a long strip of beach-laden coast devoted almost entirely to camp sites and all things holiday. These days very little has altered there from those sixties summers. Paula and I were earnest students of the French language, revelling in all opportunities to practise the discipline. Opportunities came thick and fast due to my parents’ knowledge of the language being confined to what could be written on the back of un timbre sur un carte postale.

We loved the department stores, spending hours wandering around ‘Monoprix’ or ‘Au Printemps’ searching for small gifts to take home and lusting after the clothes. Back then French clothing was expensive.

But even then one element of the shopping experience was tantamount to torture for us; there would always be large banners plastered over every window bearing the words: ‘Rentrer d’Ecole’. Horrors! No sooner had we escaped into our own summer adventure than we’d be dragged back to reality by this sinister reminder.

Becoming a teacher did little to assuage the ‘back to school’ syndrome. You’d flog your way through the last, painful weeks of the summer term buoyed only by the prospect of the long break. You would manage the last days, despatch the little charges to their disgruntled mamas, pack up everything, recycle the ‘best teacher’ mugs and the scented candles then set off in a haze of exhaustion and euphoria-only to drive past a plethora of shop signs bearing the hated exhortation to purchase the Autumn term’s necessities.

[This is the point that elicits, from those in non-education related occupations a deluge of remarks about ‘easy life’ where the teaching community is concerned. ‘9-3’, ‘part-time job’, ‘nothing but holidays’-yes, yes. My one answer to all of those is ‘why aren’t you doing it, then?’]

And while the ‘taking them out of school’ debate rages on Husband and I are finally able to take advantage of the off-season benefits that others enjoy after careers of being stuck with peak season prices. I’m not launching into a diatribe this time about why children shouldn’t miss school, but it always seemed to me that it was the parents who wanted the Spanish beach or the Disney park. Frankly-most kids like nothing better than messing around in a rocky stream in wellie boots or riding round a camp site in a pack of bikes. Most parents of young children would agree that to be a success, adult and child holidays have to be centred on the children.

So if you want a holiday like you had pre-children your options are a] leave them behind with a doting relation or b] wait until they are grown up.

Since Husband and I are in our dotage we fall into the latter category. Not only can we holiday when we please but also where. Hooray! We are off to Europe!