Northern France, Hardelot Plage and a BBQ Accident

There was much better weather the next morning so after breakfast we were in no particular rush to leave the cottage and stayed around the garden and entertained Molly before taking a slow walk along the village lanes to see the farm animals.

Camille spotted us and came outside to say bonjour and then insisted on a guided tour of his garden with its immaculate vegetable plot overflowing with plump ripe produce.  He couldn’t speak a word of English but he explained in great detail what everything was and how best to prepare, cook and eat it.  I could follow some of this by picking out the odd familiar schoolboy French word but to be honest most of it was just a rapid Gallic blur.

Molly had no interest in the vegetables but she liked it when he took us into an outhouse to introduce us to his pet rabbit (I like to think it was a pet and not just being fattened for the pot) and a scruffy white dove in a tiny cage and she was very reluctant to leave.  I had to bribe her out with a walk around the poultry pens and a quick lesson in bird identification.  I knew that having seen it she wasn’t going to forget that rabbit and sure enough we had to visit the thing every day after this until the end of the holiday.

Mid morning and Richard and I went to the nearest supermarket about fifteen kilometres away and took Molly so that the girls could get ready for a trip to the sea and with the sun shining we planned to return to the beach but this time to visit the nearby resort of Hardelot in between Le Touquet and Boulogne.  Richard and I had played golf there a couple of years ago but we had never visited the beach before.

To get there required a cross country journey through a succession of small towns and villages along narrow roads meandering through undulating countryside with golden fields of freshly cut hay contrasting with and harmonising perfectly against the rich green meadows with their herds of lazy grazing cattle.  We reached the larger town of Dannes next to a series of ugly clay quarries carved thoughtlessly out of the countryside and then picked up the approach road to Hardelot and the beach.

Like most of this coastline Hardelot is lined with a ribbon of attractive white sand dunes decorated with wispy tufts of grass and facing out to the sea but what makes this place especially attractive is a six hundred acre forest immediately behind the coast line.  In 1905, an Englishman, Sir John Whitley, who had already developed the resort of Le Touquet, bought huge amounts of this land and immediately set about developing Hardelot as a new and fashionable resort with an aspiration to create a world centre of excellence for sports.  A number of new villas were built on the seafront and in the pine forests by the famous architect Louis-Marie Cordonnier, a friend of John Whitley, who designed these vast and unique villas that today characterize the small town.

We parked the car in a side street next to the tall villas with their wooden verandas and brightly painted woodwork and walked to the beach through immaculate open spaces and well maintained streets and I was struck with something that makes Hardelot stand out from other places in France and that was the total absence of dog dirt and for once we didn’t need to be careful where we walked.  Mostly in France they don’t mind offensive canine poops spread all over the pavements for people to step in and slip on but here they keep this place really clean and I was pleased to see signs on the promenade that made it clear that dogs were definitely not welcome in Hardelot.

Before going to the beach we found a restaurant with pavement tables on the edge of the promenade and as Molly was fast asleep we decided not to disturb her and stop and have a drink.  Only one drink mind you because one thing that never ceases to amaze me is the bar and restaurant prices in France.  There seems no real logic to it – Richard and I had a 30cl bottle of beer and each one cost €3.5 but I can buy six bottles of the same beer in Carrefour for just a few cents more and these excessive charges must result in hundreds of lost customers.  I certainly won’t use the bars in France as much as I would, say, in Spain or Greece.

After Molly woke we spent an hour or so on the immaculately clean beach (surprisingly not Blue Flag) and Molly built some more sand castles and decorated them with shells in between paddling in the unexpectedly warm sea and running about on the firm hard sand.  But the weather began to change as clouds swooped in from the west and took the sun away and with a stiff breeze blowing it was turning chilly so we decided to call it a day and return inland where the sun was still shining.

Getting out of Hardelot proved a lot more difficult than getting in and two or three wrong turns meant that we ended up in an unfamiliar location and we had to fumble our way along the narrow lanes trying to find our way back to Longvilliers.  It wasn’t that bad of course and we did get to enjoy some more views of the countryside on the way.

Back in the cottage garden where we were sheltered from the wind and the sun was still shining we drank beer and wine and ate afternoon snacks, Sally crafted a wasp trap to distract and catch the little critters that were bothering us, Richard selected logs for this evening’s barbeque and Molly played in her pool and kept us entertained with her antics.  It was a lovely garden overlooking Camille’s well stocked vegetable plot and with plenty of space to run about and play in.  We were beginning to like this place more and more.

In the evening we did almost the same as the previous night with another fine meal outside under the stars, played some card games and the chit-chatted our way through a few bottles of French lager and proceeded to the gin and tonic.  Sometime just before midnight the alcohol took control and losing the power of coherent speech and the loss of essential muscle control which nearly led to a nasty accident while poking the logs on the fire I decided that enough was enough and retired to bed leaving Richard to attend to the burn on his leg and to straighten up the garden behind me.

Northern France, The Beach at Berck sur Mer

The sun was shining so it was time for the beach so we left Montreuil and took the road the short distance to nearby Berck sur Mer which was once a working class seaside resort that hosted mining families from northern France and the Low Countries while the well-to-do went to Le Touquet just up the coast.  We followed signs to the beach but these it has to be said weren’t terribly helpful and after a couple of wrong turns we found it almost by chance and gratefully parked the cars.

At mid afternoon the tide was all the way out and after we had climbed over the undulating dunes with their energy sapping sand that sucked at our feet we found a flat expansive beach of hard sand and lagoons of water cut off from the retreating sea full of crustaceans and tiny fish now at the mercy of people picking over the aquatic debris left behind by the waves.  There was plenty of beach for everyone and there were huge views one way to Le Touquet and in the other direction the town of Berck that were interrupted only by the sentinel rows of steadfast and sturdy gnarled wooden groins that lined the beach.

We found a perfect spot and spread our towels and then spent a couple of hours in the sunshine walking continuously back and forth to the shore line with Molly as she enjoyed herself in the shallow water of the lagoons but being unsure of the waves not really prepared to go into the sea with any real confidence.  We built sand castles and collected shells and this was a perfect afternoon which reminded me of my own childhood holidays.  I never went to France of course when I was young, our annual holidays alternated between Cornwall, Wales and Norfolk and I wondered if she had any idea just how lucky she was to be here.

After an afternoon relaxing on the beach, we took a scenic route back to the cottage through unremarkable but non-the-less quite beautiful countryside.  I have grown to really appreciate this part of France and think it sad that that most people roar past it as quickly as they can on the autoroute from Calais heading to the south. Here there were soaring wind turbines, quaint villages, sun-dappled fields, tranquil streams gliding at their own gentle pace, and fields full of immaculate dairy cows all plump and sleek and so obviously completely contented.

We were becoming contented as well and beginning to feel at home now and the early disappointment had completely evaporated as we sat in the garden in the warm sunshine drinking beer and experimenting with unfamiliar cheeses as Molly played in her plastic paddling pool and Richard began to prepare for this evening’s food cooked on an impressive barbeque.

As the day tipped over from afternoon to early evening we walked through the village and went to see Camille’s poultry and after we had successfully worn Molly out and she had gone to bed Richard fired up the coals and he cooked a fine meal of kebabs, local sausage and Mick Dawson’s gammon steaks that we had brought with us all the way from England.

After the food Richard found some logs in the cottage wood pile and we put the barbeque to an alternative use as a log fire as we sat out under a clear velvet sky full of twinkling stars as Richard kept the fire going long enough to enjoy a trio of gins before finally calling it a day full of optimism about the weather for tomorrow as we abandoned the glowing red embers and reflected on an excellent first day.

Northern France, Montreuil Sur Mer

On Sunday morning the weather was rather mixed and it was difficult to predict with any real degree of confidence just how it might turn out later on.  Sally was up early with Molly and complained about the television channels all being in French (I’m not sure what she was expecting) and the others stayed in bed a while longer waiting for improvement.  Eventually Richard joined me and while we sat and had a cup of tea I thought how good it was to be on holiday again with the world early morning farting champion.

After breakfast we peered into the sky and out towards the horizon looking for clues and not being at all certain we set off for nearby Montreuil sur Mer.

Montreuil sur Mer is a delightful town which despite its misleading name is nowhere near the sea at all but is an inland market town with spectacular walls, traditional architecture and a pretty market square with a statue of Lord Haig who lived nearby during the First-World-War.

We have visited Montreuil before of course but it is difficult not go back because it is a “ville fleurie”, which means it is colourful and vibrant and does not show any self restraint on the planting up of window-boxes.  Flowers cascade over the walls lining the approach to the town, rambling climbers cling to the old stone balconies and every roundabout is a floral work of art. Inside the Market Place colourful petunias ran riot in front of the town hall and scarlet geraniums drizzle over the surrounding buildings with their tiny garret windows and haphazardly sloping roofs.

We needed a few extra provisions and with supermarkets being inconveniently closed on Sunday in France the girls went looking for somewhere to get provisions and although Montreuil is not a big place, just a few charming squares linked by ribbons of uneven cobbled streets, this managed to take longer than it really should have so Richard and I took responsibility for finding a bar with a vacant table and ordered a beer.  Eventually everyone returned and sat for a while at the pavement bar and we all watched nervously as a few spots of rain began to fall and umbrellas started to go up all around but we needn’t have worried too much because the solitary rain cloud soon passed over to be replaced with a promising blue sky.

Montreuil was once an important strategic town on the English Channel but by the nineteenth century after the sea had retreated over fifteen kilometres away it had become a sleepy medieval town on the coaching road from Calais to Paris.  The famous writer Victor Hugo spent a brief stay here and during that time was inspired to use it as the setting for his famous novel, Les Miserables, about the turbulent years of the Napoleonic Empire and the 1830 revolution.

It was lunchtime and the bar was filling up with diners so not proposing to order food and feeling in the way we left the bar and walked through the square and out onto the walls that surround the quiet town.  From the top of the ramparts, which circle the town, there are splendid views across the surrounding countryside.  A river meandered through the valley and fresh bales of golden hay shimmered in the distance as swallows swooped theatrically close to the vertical stone walls.  An old man behind the wall attended his abundant allotment, stooped to pick a marrow the size of a rugby ball and families ambled at an appropriate pace along the top of the walls.  The scene had a timeless grace that I remembered and I actually never tire of going back.

Eventually we turned away from the old defensive walls and walked back into the town through the twisting uneven streets past elegant shops and chocolatiers, more flower displays that wouldn’t survive a weekend in an average English town and estate agents with properties that had prices way beyond my budget.

Northern France, SeaFrance and Carrefour

In the previous year we travelled to Northern France and stayed in a farm cottage just outside of Boulogne and we had such a good time that we agreed to repeat the adventure in 2010.  It was perfect really because we had little Molly, my granddaughter, with us and with Sally, my daughter, being such a notoriously untidy packer it was convenient just to take the car and fill it up with overflowing bags of clothes (many of which would never be worn) carrier bags full of last minute thoughts and all of the other items of necessity when travelling with a two year old.

Not quite all of the items that we were going to need however because Sally forgot the pushchair and a bag of essentials including all of Molly’s socks and shoes.  Before we could leave therefore the first thing we had to do was go shopping for a cheap replacement stroller and some new footwear.

Mindful of the delays and road works that we had run into the previous year we set off early on Saturday morning giving ourselves plenty of time to get to the south coast.  Everything went without a hitch and we sailed down the A1, the A14 and the M11 and even the M25 was flowing freely when we joined it.  We crossed the Queen Elizabeth Bridge and passed through the toll booths and I breathed a sigh of relief and confident of being in Dover well ahead of schedule we made contact with Richard, who was travelling independently, to organise a rendezvous.  I was relaxed now and easily distracted and somehow at just about this time I missed the turn for Dover and carried on obliviously around the M25.

It took about fifteen minutes to realise something was wrong because there were no signs for Dover any more and we were clearly travelling in a westerly direction when we should have been going east.  And I didn’t have a road map either so decided the best thing was to stick on the M25 until the next junction and then turn around.  At the first opportunity I was so annoyed with myself that although I got off I became confused by the size of the roundabout (Lincolnshire roundabouts are so much smaller) and got straight back on again still travelling west!  I didn’t realise that there were so few junctions on the south east section of the motorway and we travelled for thirty miles or so, well past the sign for Gatwick, until we were able to turn around and park the car in the right direction.

This inevitably put the carefully scheduled itinerary into free fall and having lost almost fifty minutes as a result of the detour the planned rendezvous and spot of leisurely lunch had to be abandoned.  The Sea France crossing was scheduled for half past twelve and we arrived with forty minutes to spare and joined the lines of cars, coaches and lorries all waiting for the ferry.  Everything was much busier than last year with far more traffic.  We had booked our return crossing for only £65 in January but when we checked later it was over £200 and by the week before our journey there was no more availability.  Perhaps more people were using their cars this year as a result of the ash cloud problems earlier in the year but there didn’t seem to be any real explanation.

The port was busy and the ferry was half an hour late so we didn’t get on board until after one o’clock and made our way to the passenger decks.  It was naturally busier on board as well and we struggled to find a seat and it took over twenty minutes to queue up and buy a couple of beers.  Luckily our cars were at the front of the ship so after we docked following a swift crossing on a calm sea the ferry doors opened and we were amongst the first away as we by-passed the town of Calais and under a chalky sky started to head south-west following signs towards Boulogne.

We couldn’t go directly there of course because we had an important stop to make at the Cité d’Europe and a visit to Carrefour to stock up on essential items like beer and wine and a bit of food as well of course.  Rachel had been looking forward to this part of the holiday for some time and was almost beside herself when I suggested missing it out and going to a smaller supermarket along the way instead but she cheered up when I was overruled by the rest of the team.  Rachel especially wanted to go to Cité d’Europe because she wanted to visit all of the exclusive clothes shops that you just don’t find in the United Kingdom, places like New Look, H&M and Top Shop and she went off with Sally for girly shopping while the rest of us were left with responsibility for alcohol and bread.

Carrefour was unusually busy as well and to be honest I found the whole visit a bit of a chore so I was glad when it was over and we were back on the road for the final forty kilometres of the journey towards our destination of the small village of Longvilliers just outside the posh resort town of Le Touquet Paris Plage.

Unusually for me we found the place quite easily and even though the final turn into the accommodation involved quite a lot of guesswork we had got it right and we had arrived at our holiday cottage late in the afternoon.

The weather was rather mixed and although it had been raining and the ground was wet the clouds were now starting to clear and a bit of weak sunshine was beginning to shyly show its face.  From the outside the cottage looked fine but when we were shown inside I sensed a collective disappointment.  It seemed dark and grubby with an odd assortment of furniture and I think we went through that moment that occurs when something doesn’t meet our expectations.

No one said anything but I know we were all feeling the same way so the first important thing to do after we had unpacked the cars was to make ourselves feel at home and crack open a couple of beers and after only a few minutes things didn’t seem nearly as bad.  The cottage was full of antiques and artefacts and although I was sure none of them were valuable I did wonder how much of my deposit I would actually get back because there was a lot of potential for breakages here with a little one running around and curiously poking into things.

The weather continued to improve and the large back garden began to dry up and very quickly we all agreed that we were satisfied with our remote location on the edge of the small village surrounded by green fields and farm animals, next to a babbling brook and the perfect place for relaxation.

It was late afternoon/early evening but not warm enough to dine al fresco so after we had explored the immediate surroundings and met our friendly neighbour Camille who introduced Molly to his ducks, geese and hens we prepared ourselves our first evening meal in France, got tucked into the first of the beers and after Molly had finally tired and gone to bed opened the gin and tonic and had a couple of large ones before calling it a day and going off to bed.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Curves

Portugal – January Beaches

After leaving the town we drove to the sea front and were delighted to find an empty golden beach and a big Atlantic Ocean with huge waves crashing in over the rocks that fringed the edge of the water like steadfast guards on eternal sentry duty.

It must have been a very cold night because the damp sand was still frozen and it broke with the snap of a dime bar as we walked across the long roaming silver lines which marked the tide line right down to the rocks and the salty spray.

 

Weekly Photo Challenge: Curves

Schauinsland, Black Forest, Germany

Schauinsland literally translates as ‘look into the country’ and we now set off on a twelve kilometre climb to the top through a series of sharp twists and turns through hair pin bends and narrow gorges and as we climbed the temperature dropped to minus six, it started to snow and the road turned into a treacherous river of slush.

At one thousand, two hundred and ninety-five metres we reached the top and living in Lincolnshire that is about one thousand, three hundred metres higher than we are normally used to.  The top of the mountain was a place of winter pastimes and people were skiing down the slopes, children were sledging and families were walking together through the thick snow.  There were good views but the weather was getting worse and the snow even heavier and we were apprehensive about the drive back down so we didn’t stay too long.

Read the full story…

Spain, Las Ramblas, last day crisis

This was our last day in Spain and with a mid afternoon flight and all morning to get to Alicante we had planned for a relaxing morning and a leisurely drive back to the airport.

I couldn’t lie in of course because when I wake up it’s a bit like switching a light on – I simply cannot doze and think about it and I just have to be up and away and out in the sun.  Tea on the terrace as usual and when Richard had joined me we finished off the last of the food and had a continental breakfast consisting of fruit, ham, cheese and yoghurt and after breakfast Richard set about cleaning the apartment from top to bottom in his usual thorough style.

I do confess to feeling a bit guilty as I sat on the patio but I did make the occasional helpful contribution but Richard was in full Mrs Mop mode and was cleaning furiously and I couldn’t match his impressive productivity.  I packed my bags and tidied my bedroom as best I could in the certain knowledge that there would be a full-scale military style inspection any time soon.  When the place had reached the required standard of cleanliness Richard made a last trip to the rubbish bins and the recycling centre and I went back to my seat on the terrace and breathed a sigh of relief.  The challenge now of course was not too make any more mess in the last two hours at the apartment.

There was some activity in the garden and some important looking people seemed to be assembling.  Ah yes, the Annual General Meeting of the Neighbourhood Association.  Pete from next door was there looking all self important and the man from across the way who had challenged us on the first day and two other people who obviously represented the Las Ramblas estate management company.

I couldn’t imagine that they could possibly have had a very big agenda but the meeting went on for nearly an hour with a full inspection of the garden and furious note scribbling to record their conversation.  I wonder what momentous decisions they made?  We were unlikely to find out because they kept well away from our side of the garden and nodded and gestured as they whispered in a conspiratorial style well out of earshot of a couple of non-owners!   After a while the two visitors left and the two owners lingered in deep discussion, probably comparing the size of their patios and bragging off about property values and then they went their separate ways and both marched off in a self important manner.

The morning passed quickly after that and after Richard made a final inspection to see if he had missed anything and after satisfying himself that there was no further cleaning to be done we loaded the car, locked up and set off for the airport.

We had judged our timing to absolute perfection so there was plenty of time to stop off in San Miguel and find a supermarket for some duty free purchases and we drove into the town and found a couple of promising looking shops.   And it was then that I had that awful sinking feeling when you just know that you have forgotten something.  Where was my mobile phone?  I ransacked my pockets and my bag but I knew that it was useless of course because it was a certainty that I had left it behind in the apartment.  Oh bugger!  I gave Richard the bad news and then there was nothing for it but to go all the way back to retrieve it, a round trip journey of forty minutes that was likely to destroy our meticulous planning.  Back at the apartment, sure enough, there it was, on the dining room table where I had put it in full view so that I could be sure that I wouldn’t forget it.

This unscheduled interruption to our itinerary transformed our planned gentle drive into a frantic dash.  It was all my fault of course but Richard has enormous amounts of patience and although he was probably thinking ‘what a complete pillock!’ he was nothing less than thoroughly supportive as I drove with frazzled nerves back through San Miguel (and I didn’t think that I would be doing that again today) and then on to the motorway system and off to Alicanté hopefully before the check-in desk closed.

There were miles of road works of course and a lot of midday traffic and we had to stop for fuel but despite all this we arrived at the airport with time to spare just as Richard had confidently predicted throughout the entire journey.

The first part of check-in was relatively easy except that I nearly forgot about returning the car keys and Richard had to remind me as we stood in the queue. This involved two trips to the Hertz desk because on the first one I forgot the documentation and was sent back.  Annoying therefore that when I returned the second time and after waiting for an ice age for someone to complete what looked like a very simple clerical operation was informed that I didn’t really need it after all!

Then we were sent off to a separate office to pay the excess daylight robbery charge for our golf clubs.  There were two men in the queue making flight availability enquiries and the clerk was dealing with it at the speed of a forming stalactite and Richard could sense that this was taking my patience levels back into the red zone so with the skill of a master magician he produced two plastic beakers and a bottle of beer and this was enough to take me back down to only yellow alert status.  The two men finished their enquiry and faced with a choice of options had a bit of a debate and decided not to bother, what the….? Richard poured me some more beer.  Whilst waiting for eternity I almost made the need for the mad dash back for the mobile phone irrelevant because I decided to drop it onto the tiled floor where it fell apart in two spectacular pieces.

Panic over we went through to the departure gate and after a short wait at the departure gate we were on the plane, a bit of a delay to begin with, the safety lecture, take off, two-for-one gin and tonics for me and a snooze for Richard and very soon we were back in a very wet and windy Birmingham which compared most unfavourably with the weather we had left behind in Spain.  Never mind, there is always another year….!