Mists of Rain and Mists of Time

21.5.2013  Veules les Roses 

Wet White Cliffs of Veules les Roses

Veules les Roses is a neat, quaint, pretty little village.  Its name says it all – Veules from the old English for a mill – and there were numerous mills all down its crystal clear, shallow river – the shortest river in France.  Roses?  Well, I am guessing that the riot of flowers, pouring over walls, nodding bright in window boxes, flourishing brilliantly everywhere in gardens and paths, have made the name appropriate. 

Although the sun had not yet consented to join us, at least it was not raining as we followed the village trail, down to a grey horizonless sea merged with a sky of misty grey.  Huge chalk cliffs clawed their way upwards on either side of the inlet in which the village huddled, serried ranks of white beach huts waiting in hope for the absent sun to usher in this year’s migration of tourists.  It’s not just Dover that has white cliffs – they are here too, miles and miles of them.  The Channel – La Manche – has sliced through a solid landmass, splitting the chalky plains into two lands.  But it’s not just the chalk that is reminiscent of parts of England – oak beamed, thatched houses, twisted with age, tell a story of Norman conquerors who took their culture – and their architecture – with them across the sea to those other white cliffs. 

Add caption

Nearby, fishermen worked at nets – white fluffs of the thinnest nylon threads, like clouds of lilac and green steam around their feet.  How on earth they stop them tangling is a mystery to all but other fishermen.  The heavy hemp ropes of bygone days must at least have given the fish a chance – undersea, these nets must be totally invisible.

River and waterwheel

Then up into the winding streets, cottages and houses peeping out from the dripping greenery all around.  It all seemed so peaceful, so gentle, so idyllic.  And yet here in 1940, houses were burning, bullets were ricocheting, men were dying as the last battle of the ‘Dunkirk’ evacuation was being fought.  And again, in 1944, the landing craft brought soldiers – Scottish soldiers in fact – to fight and die their way inland to liberate the village.  The town square was renamed ‘Place des Ecossais’ for this reason.  Hard to imagine these ancient flint cottages which hug the river’s bank, their gardens trailing blossom in its gentle flow – hard to imagine soldiers firing from behind each wall, hand grenades bursting into angry flowers of flame, engulfing the huge mill wheel which now again languidly plashes these serene waters.  But that’s the way it was.

 

Lunch was two immense pizzas, at least 15” in diameter – in a tiny cafe separated by the narrowest of streets from the ancient 13^th. Century church.  We went into this later – full of statues rescued after the revolution from a convent and another church which had not survived the new regime. 

The schoolgirl French continues to hold out – no disasters yet.  So far I have not had the experience of ordering two cups of coffee with cakes and ending up with turnip stew, but there is still time....

Soggy Camping – Phase 2

20.5.2013

In the tent, we had haggis and mashed tatties for tea tonight.  Seemed appropriate as the weather was decidedly Scottish – cold, constant rain and drizzle, fog so thick you could hardly see the oncoming cars and any view of the landscape was a thing of the imagination only.  But a text from home revealed that this is NOT in fact Scottish weather.  At home they have 20 degrees, blue skies and constant sunshine.  Hum. 

Arriving in Zeebrugge

We sailed over grey seas into a wet Belgium this morning, and drove to France.  Through the mist it’s still very pretty – tall houses, with high double windows, winding cobbled streets, little cafes tucked on street corners, unendingly flat green fields, names of towns that bring back history lessons of both World Wars – the Somme, Picardy, Dunkirk, Normandy.   

City walls and gate, Boulogne-sur-Mer

Needing a rest for Bill during his marathon drive from Zeebrugge to Dieppe, we actually stopped in Dunkirk.  It seemed to be largely closed – long streets of shuttered shops and no people.  Then La Tonique attracted attention as it had lights on, making it visible through the misty gloom.  It was small, clad with highly polished brown wood furnishings, bar, walls.  Vases of leggy pink flowers on every little table, a pleasant woman behind the shining bartop, chatting to a solitary customer.  Bravely, in my best schoolgirl French I requested deux cafe au lait, conversed regarding where we should sit, and was feeling very proud of myself. Then, I confidently asked ‘Combien?’ - and found I had completely forgotten my numbers and had to get her to sort out the money from the fistful of euros I offered.  However, quite soon I was even making jokes in French.  But then no doubt they thought my pitiful attempts at their language were a joke anyway.

Boulougne-sur-Mer

Boulogne-sur-mer surprised us by being a walled city - and a very solid and impregnable looking wall it was.  And within it a vast, towering church – Notre Dame – dominating the little restaurants crammed steamily with a mix of dripping tourists and damp Frenchmen.

At last, we made it to a soggy, foggy Veules les Roses and our campsite.  We pitched the tent in the rain.  This is actually something we have never had to do in Scotland – we are experts at pitching in howling gales and freezing cold, but never yet in the rain.  We succeeded with a minimum of mud and generally settled in cosily.  And we had a swim.  The swimming pool, housed in a sort of huge poly-tunnel, was warm and soothing after the long miles of motorway.  The only people there, we swam and drifted about, suddenly taken aback when bubbles burst to the surface, creating a Jacuzzi. 

All in all, it’s been a watery day.  Maybe it will dry up tomorrow.  Who knows