Ancient Towns and Crepes

 27.5.2013 – Dinan

Dinan

Narrow streets of ancient stone - reminds me of Kirkwall, and brings back my old skills at sharing the street at close quarters with cars.  Grey buildings twisting uphill – reminds me of Stirling.  Oak-framed houses, tottering over the cobbles – reminds me of York. 

Bell Tower

 

Put it all together – Dinan.  A place where quaintness is an art form.  Cobbles, city walls, an ancient clock tower we climbed, stone stairs giving way to wooden ladders and then to a trap door leading to a balcony high above the city.  It warned you all the way up to hold on tight if the huge bell rang as it did every 15 minutes.  Nerve-wracking.  12^th. Century church, sunlight through stained glass rainbowing the floor.  Carved columns, gold edged altars.

Down the road is Port de Dinan.  This is on the upper reaches of the River Rance, but still navigable, as the numerous craft tied alongside the river’s edge demonstrate.  A beautiful viaduct takes the road to Rennes high above the water; a much older, curved stone bridge takes strollers from one side to the other, so that they can choose from the myriad of cafes, restaurants and bistros lining the river banks.  We stop at one for our now familiar meal of crepe-with-everything. 

Port de Dinan

The road stretches homewards; the evening sun touches the ripening fields on either side, brightens the little villages, here and there a thatched cottage. 

 We took our tent down this afternoon, all but the bedroom section.  Folded and packed it in the heat of the sun.  All neat, tidy and clean for its next outing, who knows where or when, but hopefully soon. 

Tonight the clouds came in again – high clouds, soft and silver grey.  Tomorrow we sail in the evening to Portsmouth, beginning the route homewards.

Yes, well....

Flowers and Sunshine

26.5.2013 – Saint Malo, St. Johan de Geurets, Dinard

Hawthorns frothy with blossom, rich golden buttercups knee high, daisies, bird’s foot trefoil, tiny

brilliant lilac and pink flowers I have no name for, scarlet poppies on slender stems.  The path was dry, whitish stones protruding from grey earth.  To one side, the ground fell away revealing vistas of turquoise water, framed by branches thick with greenery.  Two butterflies flapped speckled brown wings in an airborne dance before us, birds swooped in lazy curves up into the dome of blue above.  At last sunshine and warmth, at last a chance to meander through French lanes, past farmhouses and gites of warm brown stone, a thatcher’s workshop, roof showing his meticulous skills.  An elderly gent passed us on the road. ‘C’est magnifique, n’est ce pas?’  ‘C’est vrai’ we replied. 

Picnic on a little beach.  Baguette torn into lumps, cheese to chew with it, peach iced tea.  Across the water, petrol blue and glittering, little islands of deep green trees and grey rock, sailing boats, moored or under sail, leaning into the wind, speeding along.  A magical morning.

It’s so hot today, we have both walls of the tent down.  Sitting reading outside, listening to the bird song.  The pool calls – Bill braves the outside pool, but I am a coward, and settle for the heated pool, Jacuzzi and steam room. 

The evening cools gently, as we sit by the beach in Dinard, eating crepe, chocolate gateau, tart tatin, and drinking cafe-au-lait.  Dinard is like Scarborough or Rothesay – seaside grandeur of a by-gone era, elegance and style.  Little beach huts in long lines march along the promenade.  Hotels, pink, cream, white, with elegant filigree balconies look out to sea, remembering the girls with parasols, sun hats tied with broad ribbons, long soft summer dresses blowing gently in the wind.  Across the bay, little islands, some with fierce faced fortifications, stare back at us.  A slim girl in a minute bikini, goes in swimming, watched by her fully clad boyfriend, plainly not in love enough to take the plunge with her into what must have been pretty chilly waters.

Dinard

And so home, to read books and look at emails in our cosy tent.  A good day, and nice to be in shorts and a T-shirt at last!

Singing among the Oyster Beds

25.5.2013 – Cancale

The sun is shining!  White, soft, coasting slowly past us - clouds against a deep blue sky.  At last the air has a soft warmth, the grass shines, the wind has gone, the trees green and still.  Long golden French bread, yellow honey, white butter. 

Cancale is a seaside resort – restaurants line the seafront, sunshades out – red, green, dark blue.  Even black, outside the contradictorily called ‘La Maison Blanc’.  Postcards on twirlies on the pavement, buckets and spades, beachballs nodding by shop doorways – just as our little shop in Millport used to do (and does now under its excellent new management).  There’s a long shallow beach, from which the water drains with scary rapidity, and a long pier with a little grey lighthouse. 

To one side, little stalls with blue and white awnings shade people selling oysters and mussels, fresh from the beds one the beach.  People are buying them and eating on the spot, squeezing lemons and swallowing with a delight that I simply cannot identify with - I have never liked seafood.  Discarded oyster shells lie in piles on the beach, pure white interiors reflecting the sun, rough rumpled exteriors, purple, tan and grey.  I collect some to put in the garden.  As the tide continues to drag the sea towards the horizon - balanced on which I can just see Mont Saint Michel – tractors begin towing strange craft down the muddy sand to the water’s edge.  These are boats with wheels as well as propellers.  Soon they are cruising about among the rapidly appearing nets and poles, harvesting yet more mussels and oysters.

 

And then ice cream – the first of the holiday!  It must surely be summer now!

A wander along the promenade locates an unexpected concert.  On blue plastic chairs, we sit in the sun, sea shining to our right, barbecue sizzling to our left, while in front, first an Irish band, then a Country and Western, lastly a traditional Bretonic group sing and play to an ever growing crowd.

Back at the campsite, it’s now warm enough to take the side walls of the tent off, and dine alfresco on Provencale Rattatouille and saur kraut – yes, we know, and odd composition but enjoyable all the same.  Tonight, the sun sets leaving a lilac gloaming and the promise of more and better to come tomorrow.

Walls, Castles and Cathedrals

24.5.2013 – Saint Malo

By golly, it’s cold.  Dry, but with a bitter wind.  According to headlines in a French newspaper which I managed to translate, this is the coldest spring since 1887 – 126 years. 

Gate of St. Vincent, St. Malo

St. Malo, May 24.  Brrrr.

We shivered our way into Saint Malo – another walled city, tight packed with houses, bright shops and narrow streets.  Cathedral bells tolling loud, vibrating against the grey stone walls.  All destroyed in 1944 but rebuilt so that you would hardly know the difference, they say.   

We bought chocolate with chilli from a chocolatier, curly pastries from a shop that swore these were authentic Brittany cakes, were tempted by huge meringues, all different colours.  A little cafe selling crepes won our custom – three legged stools and small round tables with tiles tops showing Jolly Breton farm girls in traditional dress.  It was cosy, the crepes were superb – mine with cheese, Bill’s with ham and egg. 

Castle Solidor

Model ship in castle museum

The area is a series of isthmuses, townships on the end of each.  The next was seafaring in all its aspects.  There we found Castle Solidor, which, as befits it name, was thick walled and impregnable.  A beautiful weather vane, carved as a wheeling albatross, swung to and fro in the freezing gusts outside.  Albatrosses are common in the southern seas, and seamen from here apparently made regular trips round Cape Horn. 

I could not get warm until at last we made it back to the campsites luxurious swimming pool and oh so glorious steam room.  The wind began to force its presence upon us.  Gusts grabbed and pulled at our tent walls, rattling the spoons hanging up and even pushing the groundsheet into puffy humps.  But it’s all in a camping holiday.  We can cope!!