France

Last weekend we went to the wedding of our friends’ son, in Pornichet, which runs into La Baule. I don’t want to talk about the wedding;  although I’m sure the young couple will have posted picture comments and descriptions on Facebook and all sorts of other social media, I feel that it would be wrong. It’s their wedding and their choice.

 It’s very strange. Young people seem to have very different ideas about what is private and what isn’t. Parents post loads of pictures of their children, who haven’t given permission even if they were old enough to do so, and might be troubled by the posts in the future, and at the same time I know young people who won’t have supermarket loyalty cards because “they” will know what you’re buying.

Anyway, La Baule / Pornichet is smashing. Miles of beautiful golden sandy beaches, gently shelving for safe swimming, and warm(ish) seawater, even though it’s the Atlantic.  I had a couple of lovely swims. There seems to be plenty going on there, too. The only problem was that it’s a bit of a palaver getting there from Nottingham. We ended up flying to Paris and then taking a train, which was less of a TGV, more of a TSV, train sans vitesse. It took ages trundling round corners and through tens of stations, and going to La Baule, it was dark, so quite boring. The journey was cheered by the chef du train, who was probably bored too, and came to practice his English. He was quite an interesting bloke, a scrabble champion and member of a re-enactment society, so we enjoyed talking to him. On the way back we could watch the world go by, and decided we should go back to the Loire valley sometime.

The next week we set off to visit the bridegroom’s parents in Provence. It was simpler to return to England and start again. We had decided to drive, as whenever we fly, we keep hankering after wine which we can’t have. Phil had booked the tunnel, which I’m not at all keen on. The ferry is quite fun and gives the opportunity for a walk around and fresh air. On longer routes we used to have a meal, so we could drive straight on when we disembarked and the children used to look forward to the mini adventure.  Of course, we have had a few grim crossings when the weather was bad, when we have had to fix our eyes on the horizon and the crew spend their time hoovering up vomit. One time, Will came out of the gents after an extremely rash visit to announce that he thought someone was dead in there. Phil went to investigate and found a young man alive, but totally incapacitated by seasickness, to the extent of lying full length on the less than clean floor of the gents. My worst journey was not actually a rough one – it was a Scandinavian ferry which served an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord, with at least two dozen sorts of pickled herring. I felt obliged to taste them all, and then had to spend the rest of the journey on deck, breathing deeply and fighting to control my stomach, and with a raging thirst.

Maybe the tunnel has advantages in winter, but otherwise you don’t get a break. You can only get out to stand beside your car, there’s obviously nothing to see, and this time, they had over booked, or more likely, cancelled trains. We weren’t allowed on an earlier train, and then were bumped off the train we actually were booked on, and had another half hour’s wait. So next time it’s the ferry.

While we were hanging about, because of course we had set off allowing loads of time in case of traffic problems round London, we went to Hythe for a walk and some fresh air. It’s one of the Cinque Ports and has a lovely promenade along the sea. The weather was glorious, the sea a deep greeny turquoise, so it was very pleasant. We did feel young as almost everyone seemed to be well past retirement. The café served us a mug of instant coffee to the recorded strains of Mrs Mills on the piano. It was like going back to the sixties.

So we drove down to Troyes to spend the night, and then the next day on to past Lyons and into Provence. Unfortunately just before we reached our destination we stopped at a service station to use the loo and change drivers. When we returned to the car, I unlocked it and got into the driver’s seat, and before Phil could get into the passenger seat he was accosted by a young man who immediately began asking weird questions in a rather aggressive manner. Almost immediately, we were suspicious and Phil got into the car and I moved off – but only a couple of feet, because then Phil said, “Where’s your handbag?”  And of course it had gone. While we were looking at the bloke on the passenger side, someone on the driver’s side had opened the back door of the car and taken my bag. We were furious with ourselves, but the problem is that the thieves are practised and we are not. So then we had to go to the gendarmerie. The gendarmes were as helpful as possible, and it emerged that the same thing had just happened to some Germans.

 Now, I am sans papier. Phil at least has his driving licence but his passport was in my bag too. The gendarmes provided us with the address and phone number of the British consulate in Marseilles (the nearest), and we have an appointment there on Wednesday. I can’t say we are thoroughly thrilled to have to drive to Marseilles, but I would like to go to the Chateau D’If.  Also we don’t want a row at the tunnel, and I most definitely don’t want to end up camping out at Sangatte and trying to climb into a lorry.

The Gite - a beautifully restored Provencal mas.

Grounds of the gite - there are about 170 olive trees.

The good thing is that our friends have arrived safely and the gite and the weather are both lovely. We’ve had a day out in Vaison-la-Romain, where an excellent market was going on. It covers everything – fruits and veg, sausages and hams, cheeses, olive oil and all its derivatives, lavender, herbs, honey, tablecloths, and for the locals, hi vis underwear. French markets all seem to stock bras in fluorescent colours. Goodness knows who buys them, but a lot of people must do so. I bought a lovely pair of sandals, prompting my friend to remark “No passport, no credit cards and she still buys shoes.” I have never thought of myself as frivolous before.