| For the past three years Nicola and I have taken ourselves off on our little camping trips around Europe, and every
year I've thought that it would be a good idea to keep some sort of journal or travelogue. Afterall, one of our reasons for shunning the modern package holiday
and opting for roughing it in our tent, was that if it wasn't the most comfortable method of holidaying, at least you always came back with a
story to tell. This year having chosen the ferry rather than the EuroTunnel and with the prospect of a 6 hour crossing in front of us, it seemed like
the perfect time to start
So, here I am in the rather bizarre surroundings of the P&O Pride of Portsmouth Club Class Lounge, surrounded by elderly couples reading The Times and drinking Earl Grey, armed with my recently purchased P&O Jotter and dreams of writing something in the style of my favourite travel writers, Bill Bryson, Tim Moore and Pete McCarthy. This year we are off to Normandy and Brittany in Northern France, but to truely start at the beginning I should at least mention how these camping adventures started and remember some of the places we've been to since 2001, although many of the finer details have now been forgotten. The Grand Tour... The idea for camping was born out of my bohemian ideal of wanting to travel around Europe, but realising I had neither the time or the money, and Nicola's fond memories of camping in France with her family as a child. It must have been sometime in late 2000 that we started planning our itinerary for our first great European Adventure. I seem to recall early versions of the plan taking in vast parts of Italy and venturing as far East as Austria, an idea which now seems completely laughable given that we only had two weeks. Finally, we agreed to travel down through central France, visit Paris, the wine regions and sample some real French food. Into Switzerland, over the Alps and into Northern Italy and the Italian lakes for some relaxation. Back over the Alps to Switzerland again (more lakes and mountains), on to Luxembourg (just because it seemed like a funny place to go) and finally to Bruges in Belgium. So in June 2001 we departed our flat in Coventry in the Peugeot 206 (which would in time become a very well travelled little car) with a certain amount of trepidation and excitement. Our first mistake was our hurry to get to Paris. An early start, a late afternoon channel crossing and driving through the night to our campsite. We'd timed it all wrong! Somehow we made it to the small town of Maisons Lafitte on the outskirts of Paris alive at 4am, having snoozed our way down the Autoroute from Calais. Of course, campsites don't let you pitch your tent at 4 in the morning, so sleeping in the car was the only option. The campsite opened at about the same time that the heavens did. We pitched our tent in what to this day, is the worst weather we have ever had to do so (apart from the Easter trip to the Lake District, but that was in England so doesn't count). The option of turning tail and heading back to Blighty was seriously considered, at least by me, but Nicola was having none of it. Later that morning we boarded the train to Paris from Maisons Lafitte, only to dis-embark a few stops later, having realised we were going not towards Paris, but in completely the opposite direction into French countryside. Finally, tired, dirty and still a little damp we emerged from the underground into quintessential Paris. It was exactly as I'd imagined, the people, the architecture, the culture and cafes. I instantly fell in love with the place. The next few days we spent taking in the sights of Paris and it is still to this day my favourite place in the world. 3 days later we were on the move again, although I would quite happily have spent the whole week, if not the fortnight in Paris, but again, Nicola was having none of it! And so, on to the town of Meursault in central France. Not much happened in Meursault, we took an incomprehensible tour of a 'cave' (a vineyard wine cellar) with some French scouts, bought some expensive wine (isn't it supposed to be cheaper over there?!) and had a close call in the 206 with an elderly English lady driving a Rover if my memory serves me. Now, Switzerland is a strange country, which is why we plan to go back there one day. The first thing you notice is how clean it is, apart from the grafiti that is, which is so abundant you can only assume it is some sort of national hobby. When we go back I intend to go in Grafiti season. I assume they have a month of festivals where the artists ply their trade as the admiring public look on and discuss the latest works over expensive imported wine from Meursault. At least this is the only way I can account for Switzerland's masses of grafiti along every perfectly tarmacced street and sweet-smelling underpass. We were in the city of Lausanne, home to the IOC and the Olympic Museum, which was our main reason for being there. As museums go, it was above average. They had the Olympic torches and examples of sporting apparatus through the ages. Actually, come to think of it, it wasn't that interesting after all! Later that night we had our first run-in with some Swiss locals. The Swiss have a bit of a reputation for being a sober race, so you can imagine our surprise when we were joined after dinner by a gang of young Swiss lads who had obviously spent the day getting lagered up (God knows how, have you any idea how much beer costs in Switzerland?) and using recreational drugs (I can't however comment on the cost of drugs in Switzerland!). They were apparently drawn to our 'crazy' English car, with the steering wheel on the wrong side and our bizarre number plate. Anyway, they offered me a beer (which I grabbed with both hands) and we chatted about the Queen, Princess Di and Atomic Kitten. Then they were gone, into the night, pointing and laughing again at our 'crazy' English car, before trying out their charm and wit on the 4 Swiss girls opposite. The impression I got was that the Swiss were as naive to British culture as say, the Americans, which is no great surprise I suppose. Moving on, we navigated the 206 over The Alps into Italy. Our Lonely Planet guide had advised us not to dismiss Genoa as a dirty, touristy seaside port. But as we drove through the crowded streets and found ourselves sat in unbearable heat on one of Genoa's plethora of overpasses, it was difficult to do otherwise. The cause of the delay, which we would only discover on our return was some riot or other at the G8 summit. Italy was not going well. Itlaian campsites are not like campsites in the rest of Europe. Sanitation is limited, they are patrolled by marauding gangs of Italian children and the shop (and any other amenity you can think of) is at the top of a mountain. Whilst pitching the tent that night (not an easy thing to do on the side of a small mountain) Nicola enquired "Is that you, Graham?". "Is what me?" I asked, interrupting a swearing and kicking session as I fumbled with some piece of camping equipment. "Is that you, moving the tent?" Nicola asked again as she erected the sleeping area inside the tent. Indeed it was not me, but an insect, I shit you not, about the size of my head, that was trying a bit of breaking and entering on our tent. We left at dawn the next day, which was a shame, if we'd gone into Genoa as planned we could have got involved in the riot. Things would get worse in Italy before they got better. Next stop was Lake Como. We were optimistic as we drove into Como. It was a cleaner and much more pleasant place than Genoa. We made our way along the pictueresque road overlooking the lake, safe in the knowledge that our campsite was just around the next corner, which it probably was. But after about an hour of twisting and turning, being overtaken by lunatics on scooters, we turned back to try our luck in Como itself. When Como failed to turn up a campsite and as we limped into the only open petrol station in Como (or possibly Italy) Nicola's spirit was for the first, and so far only time, broken. Tears flowed and we discussed making a run back to Switzerland that very night. As luck would have it we stumbled across a tiny little campsite not a mile outside Como. We gratefully pitched our tent and divied into Italy's smallest swimming pool! As it turned out, Como was lovely and we spent a very pleasant few days there, walking around the lake, going on boat trips on the lake and eating pasta, by the lake. There's a lake in Como, did I mention that?! A word of warning, don't try taking your car into Como on a Sunday. On any other day you can park with ease. However, with a strict observation of the Sabbath, all the car park attendants do not work. Rather than just leaving the car parks open and free of charge, they are all closed, as we discovered driving around Como for a few more hours on a Sunday morning. The only option was the mafia by the station who robbed us of a few million Lira (probably about a couple of quid) for an afternoons parking. I can't leave Como without mentioning the nightly entertainment at the campsite. At about 6pm each night the fun would begin as dozens of Dutch caravans queued up for access to the site, presumably the last cheap site before the expense of Switzerland. As the site reached bursting point the elderly Italian lady who owned the site gleefully guided yet more Dutch caravans into impossibly small spaces, until the place resembled some sort of middle-class Dutch refugee camp. Each night we looked on, bemused, and vowed never to come back to Italy. Italy had been the halfway mark of our first European trip and so we turned North, back towards the Alps and our second visit to Switzerland. If our first visit to Switzerland had been memorable for our run in with the uncouth side of the Swiss youth, our second would be memorable for an opposite reason. It would appear that camping in Interlaken is governed by strict Swiss laws. As we happily pitched our tent in an idylic spot, happy to be out of the car after another mammoth journey and looking forward to a dip in the 'Thunersee', we were approached by an angry looking young Swiss couple and a stern faced campsite 'Hitler'. Apparently we had broken some rule or other in finding an empty pitch and pitching our tent there. In Interlaken it would transpire, finding a pitch was a much more complicated and beuracratic affair, involving the presentation of various paperwork to reception and the reciting of some ancient camping oath (OK, I made the bit about the oath up). To cut a long story short, we had acquired our pitch in bad faith and the young angry Swiss couple wanted it. I considered taking squatters rights but ultimately we ended up moving our pitch. We spent a pleasant few days in Interlaken, basking in the luxury of the 5-Star campsite, swimming in the lake and being attacked by irate Swans. Our encounter with Swiss beurocracy would be the last notable point of our trip. We carried on to Luxembourg and a small town which had the air of something exciting having just happened and that something equally as exciting might be happening in a few days time, but made it quite clear that nothing exciting was going to happen while we were there. We decided to give Bruges a miss (for the time being) on the grounds that we were completely knackered and couldn't be arsed (no matter how good the chocolate might be) and so we headed for Calais and the nightmare of the M25 on a Friday night. Sitting in a horrendous traffic jam, sad that our trip was at an end, we agreed we'd do it all again next year. The Suntan Years... The 2002/2003 trips would offer up much fewer stories and involve much more sunbathing and lounging around by swimming pools. You would think the 206 would provide some stories of its own, but we covered the 800 miles or so to the Cote d'Azur in 2002 without incident in a little over 2 days. The 2002 trip was perhaps most memorable for the fact that it occured during the 2002 World Cup and the campsite was showing most of the games live. I don't think the campsite owners quite grasped the English fascination with football or the way that support of our national team brings the sexes, classes and generations together. Long before kick off in Englands first match the small campsite bar was filled to the rafters with English men, women and children, all with an unquenchable thirst for Kronenbourg (apart from the children of course). The other memory I have of the 2002 trip was that we got lost an awful lot. Much of our time was spent relaxing by the pool, but every time we did venture out say to the local resorts of St Maxime and St Tropez or to the supermarket we got hopelessly and scarily lost. We managed to find Nice without problem and very, err, nice it was too. However finding our way out again was a different matter. On the way in to Nice it had been all wide, palm tree lined boulevards and famous hotels. However it proved impossible to navigate a U-turn on the famous Promenade des Anglais and we ended up heading out of Nice in the wrong direction out into the slums. At one point it got so bad I was convinced we were in Italy! Although to do that we'd have had to go through Monaco and over the Alps and I think I'd remember that. In 2003 we headed again for the South of France, this time to Biarritz. Biarritz, for those that don't know is in the South Western corner of France on the Atlantic where France meets Spain. Our first stop was a ludicrously cheap hotel in Calais, one of a number that have sprung up around the Channel Tunnel. The Cite Europe shopping centre (the main port of call these days for the English on a 'booze cruise) would provide our choice of restaurant for the night. Now this is the great thing about France, I'm convinced it is actually impossible to have a bad meal there. We ate like kings at a very reasonable pasta restaurant in what I suppose is Calais' equivalent of the Trafford Centre. A further stop which would actually turn out to be 3 or 4 nights was spent at a lovely campsite near Poitier, smack bang in the middle of France. To regular campers such as ourselves the Thermos cooler box and twice daily trips to the campsite shop to freeze our ice packs are a neccesity if one is to enjoy chilled rose of an evening and avoid stinking the tent out with over ripe French cheese. On our travels we'd run the gauntlet of the ice-pack lottery on numerous occasions. On most sites we present ourselves at the shop, point to our ice-packs and then to the freezer and smile and are normally greeted with a 'oui, d'accord' and all is well. Only at the site in Poitier have we been met with a flat refusal to freeze our life preserving ice-packs. Thankfully an attractive Dutch girl who lived and worked on the site agreed to freeze them for us. When we enquired why the shop owners would not let us freeze our ice-packs, the Dutch girl just shrugged and in perfect English replied 'Because they are bloody French'. All is well in the European Union then. I've found that most French campsites have at least one attractive young Dutch girl working there, although I'm yet to find one at our current site. I should probably mention that as I write this we are currently spending our second night in Normandy, which is warm and sunny by day but bloody freezing by night. The site is nice enough, surrounded by high trees a large lake and an old Chateau. All that's missing is the attractive young Dutch girl, but I'll keep looking. Biarritz is a truely lovely place, as we'd discover over the next 10 days or so. However, as we made our way along one of the straightest, dullest roads I have ever had the displeasure to drive on (if you have a road atlas of France, take a look at the area between Bordeaux and Biarritz, theres nothing there! Just 250 miles or so of forest and the N10, that's the road I'm talking about) under leaden skies and through a fine drizzle, we were reminded that this was the Atlantic coast and not the Cote d'Azur. Things would not improve when we arrived at the campsite. We were directed to a pitch on the edge of the site, overlooking a rather uninspiring concrete lined 'lake'. The loud splintering sound from one of our tent poles as we tried to pitch our newly purchased 'SuperDuo' tent capped things off nicely. Things improved rapidly though, the sun came out and the temperatures soared. We spent most days at the beach in Biarritz or the nearby resort of St Jean de Luz. Biarritz is a beautiful place, dominated by the massive, arcing Grand Plage (Big Beach!) and overlooked from one side by the Rocher du Basta and from the other by the lighthouse on Pointe St-Martin.. Biarritz is apparently the surfing capital of Europe and it's easy to see why when you see the big Atlantic rollers barreling in to shore. However, our hopes of seeing cool dudes hanging ten or whatever they do were unfounded, as in two weeks of watching the shaggy haired morons we concluded that only crap surfers came to Biarritz. Photos from the 2002 trip to the French Riviera Photos from the 2003 trip to Biarritz Normandy and Brittany 2004 And so at this point with the realisation that our holidays are getting less and less interesting we move on to 2004. Late May, early June in Normandy and Brittany. As I've said, this year we would be taking the ferry from Portsmouth to Le Havre, a departure from our usual Dover to Calais Eurotunnel route. But no matter, an overnight stop in Portsmouth on Wednesday before our 7:30am crossing on Thursday would allow us to meet up with our friends Helen and Richard from university, who, having spent the last 6 months travelling around India were back living in Richards home town of Southampton. I'd never been to Portsmouth and I was feeling even less optimistic after a call to Richard on Tueday night to discuss our plans. Having explained that we were staying in the Ibis in the City Centre, Richard offered his condolences and pronounced Portsmouth to be 'a dump'. I am pleased to inform you that Richard could not be more wrong and that his opinions of Portsmouth have obviously been clouded by years as a Saints (Southampton FC) fan. We checked into the hotel and made our way towards the seafront at about 3 o'clock. The sun was shining and it became apparent that Portsmouth was by and large a very pleasant university town with the added bonus of being by the sea. A fact that was highlighted by the large numbers of young people involved in non-academic activities such as sunbathing, sitting outside pubs, riding bikes and playing highly dis-organised games of football. We bought an ice cream and changed a fiver for the arcades on the pier (although the pier in Portsmouth is a bit of a cheat, seeing as it runs along the seafront rather than out in to the sea). Following a trip earlier in our relationship to the arcades in New Brighton where I won Nicola a cuddly toy on one of those wretched crane games, we now have a tradition that whenever we visit an arcade I am obliged to pump handfuls of cash into these stupid machines in a vein attempt to re-enact my feat of all those years ago. A rather silly tradition seeing as since then I must have wasted tens of pounds and not won a thing. A decline in crane game profits (although I fail to see how that is possible!) had obviously prompted the industry to re-invent their product, as there I stood in front of a giant, 12 foot square crane game, complete with an enormous swinging crane, the prizes were equally and impressivley large. As I stood there I thought what a wonderful job they'd done re-inventing this most annoying of all arcade pasttimes. As far as I could see, the cost-per-go had increased while the chances of winning had been dramatically reduced. I was as surprised as anyone when I found myself fishing around in my pockets for 30p, eager to have a go. I was even more surprised a minute and 60p later to see a 3 foot high Piglet (of Winnie the Pooh fame) being lifted into the air and deposited into the chute and into the welcoming arms of Nicola. My delight was somewhat subdued when I realised that not only did we have to carry a 3 foot Piglet around Portsmouth for the rest of the afternoon but also all over Northern France for the next two weeks. Bored of the arcade, or just wanting to quit while we were ahead, we headed inland in search of some culture in 'Old Portsmouth'. Culture was sadly lacking in Portsmouth, limited to an attractive old Navy church (which was closed) and an unfeasibly clean and un-neccesarily large cathedral. Giving up on culture we made our way to the new Gunwharf Quays development in search of beer. According to the leaflet we had picked up back at the hotel, Gunwharf Quays was one of these 'mixed use' developments, offering over-priced housing, over-priced designer shopping and over-priced bars and restaurants. It was bound to be awful! Once again I was surprised by portsmouth. OK, I'm sure the box-like flats were silly money and I'm sure if we'd bothered to look the designer shops would have been ludicrously expensive, but a happy-hour 2-for-1 on San Miguel at a bar overlooking the port confirmed that at least one of my suspicions had been wrong. Plans of returning to the hotel before meeting up with Helen and Richard were quickly abandoned in favour of drinking cheap Spanish lager in the sunshine. It was really good to see Helen and Richard again, they'd been back from India a good 3 months, but being busy people, we'd not managed to meet up in that time. I've often thought that it would be fun to invite them both on our camping trips. Firstly they are both educated to degree level in French and German respectively and would be very handy when trying to converse with the locals (at least Helen would know how to ask if we could freeze our ice packs). They would probably also be able to provide some much needed amusing anecdote material as they appear to attract more than their fair share of trials and tribulations. It came as no great surprise then when Richard called me, already quarter of an hour late and informed me, nous avons un petit problem! The exhaust on Helen's 206 (not as reliable it would seem as our own now departed 206) had blown and they were now cruising around Portsmouth at 10mph and 110 decibels. Recognising that their was unlikely to be a Kwik-Fit open at 8pm on a Wednesday evening, they made their way to the restaurant and agreed to worry about the car later. It was with a certain amount of guilt theat we wished them good night, leaving them to drive the very noisy and slow 206 back to Southampton via the A roads whilst we stumbled our way back to the hotel. My guilt was relieved a little by the knowledge that they'd no doubt encountered much more trying situations whilst in India. Seeing as our ferry was due to sail at 7:30 the next morning and that this would involve getting up at about 5:30, it was very good of the Ibis to give us a room right next to the lifts so that we could be awoken by every fellow guest as they bundled out of the lift, seemingly at well planned thirty minute intervals and in varying states of inebriation. We were therefore still a little bleary eyed as we drove the new VW (a new car with a lot to live up to) onto the Pride of Portsmouth P&O ferry. A greasy fy-up on board and a trip up on deck would quickly blow away the cobwebs (actually it was more the extortionate price of breakfast than it's grease content that woke me up). As we made our way out to open sea we decided to seek out our aforementioned Club Class accomodation, safe in the knowledge that having only cost a tenner it was bound to be crap. Not for the first time on this holiday we were surprised to find we were wrong. The Club Class was pure luxury (or at least seemed like it with the knowledge we'd be spending the next two weeks under canvas). The Club Class lounge basically consist of big comfy armchairs, lots of shiny chrome and waiters in bow ties! We did feel a little out of place, being a good 40 years younger than any of the other occupants. We obviously looked out of place too, as we were the only people asked to provide documentary evidence of our Club Class status. No matter I thought as I unfolded my complimentary copy of the Guardian and ordered the first of many complimentary cups of Earl Grey! The 6 hour crossing flew by, thanks largely to writing the opening paragraphs of this little travelogue and the Guardian. I took great delight in reading all about the 'Great British Art Disaster' as coined by Tracy Emin and in completing all but 3 clues of the G2 crossword. We docked at about 2 and were at the campsite by 3. Upon our arrival at the site we were greeted enthusiastically by two old men staring intently at the engine of a VW Passat. One of the men was from Essex by the sounds of it, the other was Dutch. I had great difficulty understanding either of them. Our arrival had been greeted so enthusiastically due to the fact that we were driving a VW. Apparently the Dutch mans Passat would not start, the man from Essex was insisting it was the battery, the Dutch fellow having consulted his VW manual thought it was a brake problem. Apparently there was a bottle of wine riding on who was right and the man from Essex wanted to consult my English VW manual. My manual confirmed that the particular warning light in question did indicate some sort of brake problem, but this didn't explain why the car wouldn't start. I plumbed the depths of my automotive knowledge and declared that I thought it might be 'an electrical problem' and left them to it. We bumped into the Dutch man later that night who informed us, with some disgust, that it had indeed been the battery. Our first day-trip was to the twin seaside towns of Douville and Trouville, although they really felt like one big town to me. The weather was superb and we ate lunch outside at a seafood restaurant before going to the beach. Nic being a bit mad went for a dip in the Channel while I continued working on my little travelogue. The weather took a turn for the worse the following day, but not to worry our purpose for being in Normandy was to do a bit of sight-seeing, so off we went to Bayeaux to see the tapestry. My knowledge of history has always been somewhat sketchy so I was hoping the whole William the Conqueror thing would be spelt out to me, it was, and then some. The tour started with a giant 'pseudo' tapestry (complete with big signs saying 'this is not the real tapestry'!) that snaked on and on explaining 1066 and all that in minute detail. Then there was a short film which told you all about it and then the tapestry itself, complete with audio tour. It's safe to say I now know more about the Bayeaux Tapestry than I am ever likely to need. The weather got even worse and we ate our packed lunch in the car. We were joined by 4 French scallies as they drunkedly pushed their clapped out Fiesta into the space next to ours and then proceeded to prop themselves up against our car. They only realised the car was occupied when one of them fell over and used our wing mirror to drag himself back up off the floor. Still, rather than smashing the windows and demanding all our cash, they sheepishly apologised and we moved to another car park! In the afternoon we tried to have a look around Bayeaux itslef, but the weather was just awful and there wasn't much to see. Instead we opted for a drive around the D-Day beaches and military cemeteries. Our first stop was a small Commonwealth cemetery well off the beaten track. The rain stopped just long enough for us to have a look around. It was silent but for the singing of the birds. I thought I might have got a bit emotional, but I didn't, all I could think was 'what a waste' and reflect on the fact that many of the dead were younger than I am now. There were a number of graves simply marked 'A soldier of the second world war'. We were, completely by accident visiting Normady during the 60th anniversary of the D-Day landings. As we entered the town of Arromanches, the site of the temporary port built by Allied forces following the landings, it became clear there was some fairly big event going on. The place was packed and typically unorganised, we got hopelessly caught up in traffic. We turned around and quickly left Arromanches behind, annoyed that had we been visiting on any other day over the last 10 years since the 50th anniversary the place would no doubt have been deserted. The US military cemetery overlooking Utah Beach was also busy, but thankfully this meant it stayed open past it's 5pm closing time and gave us plenty of time to look around. They were in the process of building a huge raised platform which somewhat spoilt the effect but there was no escaping the thousands upon thousands of graves as they swept off into the distance. I could say that once again the number of people there spoilt the atmosphere and disturbed the peace that no doubt prevails there most of the time. It would have been nice to sit and contemplate in silence for a minute or two but at the end of the day all I was really after was some good photographs. In retrospect it would have been far sadder to find the place deserted, walking round we saw people tending graves, fresh tributes left at gravesides and a veteran talking to a young soldier, I caught the words 'what really helped me was...'. On the way home we stopped in what was blatantly not a tourist town to seek out dinner. As usual, choosing our restaurant based on the content of the menu rather than the look of the place, we were not disappointed. and my belief that it is impossible to have a bad meal in France remained intact. I had snails for the first time and followed it up with my favourites, duck and chocolate mousse for dessert. I have made it my mission to find the finest chocolate mousse in France, and therefore have to have it whenever it appears on the menu, which it does all the time. I make no secret of the fact that the underlying reason we keep returning to France is for the food. Yes, we love the scenery, the coastline, the unspoilt emptiness of the place and the pace of life, but what really keeps us coming back are our stomachs. Our waiter that night in the rather dingy restaurant un-nerved us slightly by deviating from the usual French restaurant script, "Have you chosen?", "Have you finished?", and "Would you like to see the dessert menu?" (Yes please!) and mumbling at us incoherently between courses. He may have been asking if we could taste the spit in our duck or did we spot the bogeys in the Tart Tatin, but I doubt it. He seemed like a nice lad and we left a large tip. It hadn't escaped my notice whilst we'd been eating that the weather had turned very nasty indeed, with the rain coming down in torrents. We drove home on roads that had turned into small rivers and I did wonder if the small country roads to the campsite would be passable. We spent the rest of the evening cowering in the tent as the rain thundered against the canvas and refused to stop. The following day, Sunday, was a much better day and we spent it doing absolutely nothing! It was one of those perfect, relaxing holiday days. Breakfast, reading, lunch, reading, sleep, barbecue, wine, sleep. Perfect! Monday, the weather was bit ropey again, not raining but overcast, we went to Rouen. It was quite a sad day really as I realised that after four years I was starting to get a bit bored of holidaying in France. I realiased I could have been in just about any French city. It had at least three enourmous churches (two of which were shrouded in scaffolding), a 'Hotel de Ville', some parks, an art gallery and loads of tramps! I cheered myslef up by going to the 'musee' (what is the difference between an art gallery and an art museum anyway?). I am still slightly in awe whenever I stand in front of a famous Monet or Picasso that I've seen hundreds of times in books and see it come to life, the paint literally jumping off the canvas. What is also quite incredible is that you find these famous works in museums all over France, not only in the larger cities but in many smaller towns too. Monday would also be a low point in the culinary department. All the restaurants were closed on account of it being the Whit Bank Holiday. For a country that prides itself on its secularism it doesn't half take its religious holidays seriously, at least in England we have the good sense to cash in on our Bank Holidays. The restaurant at the campsite was heaving and was fully booked, but they could do us a takeaway pizza and chips, an option which many others were having to settle for. We ate pizza and chips in the tent on account of it raining again and I burned my tongue. Tuesday was travelling day and we headed South West to the Brittany coast in search of better weather. I have to admit it didn't look good as we hit the fog and the VW ominously informed us that the outside temperature was a chilly 13°C. We'd been here before, last year driving South to Biarritz, convinced that at any moment the rain would stop, the clouds would part and the sun would come out. Just as in Biarritz, it didn't. We arrived at the site and quickly pitched the tent, sure that it would rain any minute. Travelling days are always a pain. An early start, pack away the tent (wet in this instance) and everything else, drive for hours on end then unpack and pitch the tent again. All you want at the end of the day is a bloody good feed and more importantly, you don't want to have to drive around looking for it. The nearest town, Nevez, had one restaurant, Le Dauphine. The menu looked OK but it looked a bit of a dump from outside. It wasn't, it was a lovely place. The food was generous and on par with what we've found anywhere in France. As I scraped the dregs of my Dame Blanche (a sort of vanilla and chocolate sundae) and drained my glass of the local cider, the sun came out. The following two days were spent relaxing by the pool and on the beach. I should perhaps mention that our campsite was only 300m from the wide, sandy Raguenez Plage beach and had a private path leading down to it. We even bagged ourself a pitch with a sea view (at no extra cost). Our first day at the pool was ruined somewhat by some over protective parents. With their kids safely enclosed in what I can only assume were lifejackets stolen from the ferry, they then proceeded to shout "DON'T RUN!" at them every 5 seconds and jump up like scalded cats whenever they got too close to the 'big pool'. No wonder the kids were petrified of the water, the way their paranoid parents were carrying on the poor kids obviously thought that one wrong move would result in certain death. With shouts of "DON'T RUN" still ringing in our ears we sought out the beach. Probably over a kilometre long, perfect sand, a clear sea of blues and greens and practically deserted, it was a superb beach and we'd spend many hours there over the next week or so. As a final word about the campsite itself, the ice-pack lottery! I'm sorry to bring up such a dull subject again, but as I've said, if we can't freeze our ice-packs it's warm rose and sweaty cheese for the rest of the holiday. The shop at the site were happy to freeze them for us, however, when we went to collect them the following morning we were told (I think) that they wouldn't be ready until 6 o'clock that night. A trip to the shop at 6 o'clock and they still weren't ready. We finally got them back the following morning, in a state which can only be described as, err, not frozen! Thankfully, they did manage to get their act together (around about the same time as they started charging us) and you'll be pleased to hear there'll be no more anecdotes about ice-packs. Wednesday night we headed for the nearby town of Pont Aven for dinner and remided ourselves just why we love France so much. Picking a restaurant with a reasonably priced and varied menu we were surprised to be ushered into a rather posh dining room. Relieved that I'd decided at the last minute to change out of my 3/4 length beach pants and put on some long trousers, we took our table between a very well to do old English couple and upper-middle class English family (you know the sort, where the kids read quietly between courses while Mum and Dad sup the most expensive wine on the menu) still feeling a little out of place. The food was superb, Nicola had Oysters and I had a mozzarela and basil mixed salad, for mains Nic had yet more fish while I had a perfectly cooked steak complete with 'petit oignons', potato arranged into a fancy square and green beans wrapped in bacon so they taste of bacon rather than green beans! To finish Nic had some rather smelly french cheese while I had a 'Far Breton', a pastry base, custardy type stuff topped with caramelised apples. All this was washed down with a pichet of cheap but adeqaute rose. The bill was a ridiculously cheap 42 Euros. On the way out I had to fight the urge to apologise for making the place look so untidy and for robbing them blind! By Friday, we had itchy feet, the sun had come out on Tuesday night and Wednesday and Thursday had been glorious, we were in danger of vegetating by the pool. We decided to visit the nearby port of Concarneau. The main part of the town was largely uninspiring and the bars and restaurants by the port were overpriced and crowded. However, the old town, enclosed by granite ramparts was much better. It offered four types of shops as far as I could see. Souvenier shops selling tins of bisuits, ceramic bowls with French names on them and those tacky back-lit waterfall picture things, that sort of thing. There were 'patisseries' selling all manner of sweet things, 'creperies', every other shop was a creperie and finally a plethora of bars, restaurants and cafes. In short it had everything you could ever need to while away an afternoon on holiday. Friday night I was unbelievably and violently sick! Having gorged oursleves back at Le Dauphine in Nevez I was happily washing it all down with a few lagers back at the tent when I started to feel a little queasy. Five minutes later I was redecorating the toilet block with vomit. I think it was the mussels, they had been particularly large and succulent at Le Dauphine that night and I had perhaps eaten a few which, having only opened slightly I perhaps should have discarded. I'm sorry to have to bring up the subject of vomit, but as I said, our holidays are becoming less and less eventful and I thought I'd liven things up a little by describing what came out of my mouth rather than what I'd been putting in it? On Saturday, Nicola announced we were going for a walk. I was somewhat dubious. Those that know me may say my demeanour tends towards being a little 'laid back', perhaps to the extent of being a lazy bastard, so you can understand my trepidation when Nic decided we would go for a walk along the cliffs and try to reach the next town along, maybe 3 or 4 miles away. This was definitely not part of my sleeping, reading, eating holiday plan. However, she was right, the sun shone, the views were amazing and the walking was easy. We didn't quite reach the next town but made it at least to another beach further down the coast and if nothing else worked up an appetite. Undeterred by the previous nights spectacular vomitting session we returned to Concarnea for dinner and had another excellent meal. After dinner I took some photographs around the port and took the coast road home. The only problem with the beach at the campsite was that it was South facing and therefore lacked a spectacular ocean sunset. On the drive back from Concarneau we discovered the small town of Trevignon and its West facing beach. It was still a good hour or so until sunset (ridiculously the sun doesn't set here until gone 10pm, we are probably further West than many parts of the UK, but still an hour ahead) so we decided we'd leave it until tomorrow. Upon our return to the campsite we discovered we had some new neighbours. We had been joined by a young German couple who were travelling and sleeping in a giant, red, white and blue Citroen. Anyway, for the remainder of the holiday they proceeded to slam the doors of their giant Citroen late into the night and make life very unpleasant for everyone. Sunday, needing a rest after the previous days walking and lack of sleep due to the noisy Germans, was spent relaxing by the pool. You see, this is why I have fewer stories to tell each year. A campsite swimming pool is not the ideal place for picking up anecdotes and even if something interesting did happen, chances are I'd be asleep and miss it! In the evening we headed back to Trevignon for the sunset and we weren't disappointed. I'm not going to go on about it, I'll let the photos do the talking. Monday was our last full day and thankfully, the sun was shining again, allowing us to swap the pool for the beach and cram in as much relaxation as possible before the dreaded return home. For our final evening we returned to Pont Aven hoping to seek out another ridiculously cheap gourmet restaurant. Opting for a reasonably expensive place by the river I was slightly disappointed by my smoked salmon starter and lamb cutlets main course. Hoping that dessert would make up for the average meal I was somewhat perturbed by the lack of choice on the dessert menu. However, this is where Nicola stepped in and saved the day by directing me to the crepe (pancake) menu. Crepes are very popular in Northern France but I'd somehow managed not to try one. The choice of fillings and toppings was endless, apple, pear, strawberry, caramel, chocolate and so on... After much deliberation, I opted for a Crepe Dame Blanche. A Dame Blanche is basically an ice cream sundae, and that's what I got, on a pancake! The crepe was filled with melted chocolate and topped with three very unhealthy dollops of fresh cream and a generous scoop of real vanilla ice cream. If you haven't already guessed, I have a bit of a sweet tooth, and the dessert is always the highlight of any meal for me. Up until now the best dessert I had ever had was a simple chocolate mousse in a restaurant in St Michel, Paris, well, today it was beaten by a Crepe Dame Blanche. After another brief walk around Pont Aven we returned for possibly our last night ever in the tent, as tomorrow we were going home. For the first time in a week the sun was not shining when we emerged from the tent, it made the sad task of packing up even more depressing. I think if the sun had been shining we may have spent the morning at the pool or the beach as our ferry didn't sail until 11:30 that night. As it turned out we were in Le Havre for about 3 o'clock, even with an extended stop at the Mont St Michel services. We had nearly 8 hours to kill in Le Havre. If we'd been in Calais this wouldn't have been a problem, we could quite easily spend 8 hours shopping and eating at Cite Europe. Unfortunately, Le Havre lacks a large modern shopping complex, infact the port at Le Havre consists of a ticket office and a cafe (which was closed). Reluctantly leaving our car parked at the port with all our camping gear on show, we made our way into Le Havre in baking heat and choking traffic fumes. Sadly, Le Havre lacks the charm of say Rouen or Nice, in fact, I think it's fair to say that it's a bit of a dump. There were a few interesting bridges and buildings, one large, white, slopey building had me wondering if it would be possible to run up the side of it or if the local kids ever tried skateboarding down it (a feat which I concluded would probably result in certain death). Apart from that it was completely uninspiring. We eventually found a fairly modern shopping centre and window shopped for a while, my hopes that La Coste polo shirts could be bought for a fraction of the price of that in England were also sadly ruined. The ferry was late, it was gone midnight by the time we'd boarded behind what seemed to be endless army of lorries. After a quick drink in the bar we retired to our airless cabin for a fitful nights sleep, awaking 6 or so hours later to see a grey and dreary Portsmouth on the horizon. Out on deck, glad of the fresh air, we spotted HMS Ark Royal in port (the photos show it had been there on the way out we just hadn't noticed it) but it's fair to say that Portsmouth looked very different to how we remembered it in the sunshine before we set off. In my opinion there's nothing more depressing than coming back from holiday. It was made especially worse this year, as with the European football championships just around the corner the country had broken out into a hysteria of national pride. On that horrible drive back to Coventry every other car was flying a cross of St George that almost seemed to be mocking us, saying 'That's your holiday over, mate. Back to work tomorrow!'. During one of a number of coffee stops at McDonalds on the way home we witnessed perhaps the most poignant reminder that our holiday was over for another year. There was a large minibus parked in the car park and various people milling around it, as we approached it we noticed that they were all standing around swigging from cans of Carling. It couldn't be further from the cafe's, food or culture we'd left behind in France. I'd been convinced that this years holiday would be ruined by the weather, Northern France in late May, early June just didn't sound like a good idea. I was sure this would be the year we decided to grow up, acknowledge that we no longer needed to rough it and decide not to go camping ever again. Well, the weather was superb, I still love all things French, and besides, what's so great about growing up? |