Tarascon and Laon

As we’ve been to Provence pretty often, we’ve visited most of the tourist hot spots. But we’d never been to Tarascon. So we decided to go and investigate.

It’s about an hour’s drive from where we were staying, on the Rhone, which is a very substantial and very industrial river, with the castles of medieval robber barons perched on rocky hills all along it. Tarascon was the favourite residence of Rene of Anjou, who was something more than a robber baron – he had land all over the Mediterranean. He had various elaborate festivities here though, and the castle was really good. Loads to see - there were fascinating graffiti in the dungeons, some showing Mediterranean galleys.

Tarascon castle

The town has lots of old mansions and a very unusual Roman style arcaded street, but is quite down at heel. I don’t quite know why towns with apparently less going for them are slickly, smoothly touristy, and this one isn’t.

The Tarasque

They even have a legend, of the Tarasque, a monster which crept out of the river and ate people.  Like the Lambton Worm – but instead of being vanquished by “brave and bold Sir John”, who kept the bairns from harm by making halves of the famous Lambton worm, the monster was prayed over by St Marthe, which, you have to admit, is less satisfying as a story.

On the journey home, we stopped overnight at Laon, and spent the following morning looking round. (If we had anticipated the dreadfulness of the M1, we might have set off earlier, but that’s another story.)

We’ve seen Laon perched on its hill every time we go along the autoroute, and it really was worth stopping. There is a brilliant little cable car, a sort of funicular, but tiny, to take you up into the old town, which was fun in itself.

The "Poma" - the cable car

Laon was the Carolingian capital, and very important. The cathedral is large and bare, early Gothic – completed in 1230, with a spectacular nave and towers. It also has a lot of thirteenth century stained glass remaining. It was behind the German lines in the First World War, and was used by the Germans as a military hospital, so it wasn’t shelled.

The great west doors of Laon cathedral.

The thirteenth century glass

There’s also a twelfth century pilgrim’s hospital, a huge thirteenth century Bishop’s Palace, and many ancient houses for the churchmen associated with the important medieval university. Abelard studied here. And there’s a twelfth century octagonal chapel for the Knights Templar.

Ninth century font in the cathedral

Chapel of the Templars

Bishop's Palace

It’s all just a bit seedy, although we definitely felt it’s going up in the world. The Bishop’s Palace houses the law courts, and the old houses are mostly occupied by lawyers and such things as victim support and the probation service, so there were some pretty dodgy characters hanging around, but also some very tempting and smart restaurants. So a really very interesting place to break the journey, and a success.

Marseilles

Our appointment at the consulate was at 9.45 a.m., so we had to get up and creep out of the gite very early. The drive was fine until we got to the city, when it was rush hour and the traffic was dreadfully slow. We almost abandoned our plan of parking near the Vieux Port, but thought better of it, and did get into a underground car park with half an hour to go to the appointment. 

Vieux Port

We thought that using the metro for the first time under time stress was not a brilliant idea, so took a taxi and arrived just in time to swig a coffee before the appointment. The interview was very brief (we look thoroughly honest, I hope, and certainly British) and were given a flimsy, white passport each. So we are no longer sans papier, thank goodness. It only lasts until the day of our tunnel booking, so we have to apply for new passports, and of course I still have no bag, no purse, no cash, no credit cards, no Nottingham City card, no driving licence, and no phone, so there’s still a lot of hassle to be gone through.

The metro is very easy to work, and we returned to the Vieux Port only to find that there were no boats to Chateau D’If. The sea was allegedly too rough. All I can say is it looked OK to us, and I’m sure that in those conditions, no Northumberland sailor would have even considered cancelling a trip to the Farne Islands.  It’s only in the harbour, for goodness sake.  I’m almost more fed up about that than about having the passports nicked.

The Hotel de Ville. King Alexander of Yugoslavia was assassinated in front
of the building, in 1934

Anyway, we toured the old town. Marseilles was the European city of culture last year and there are some impressive looking new buildings which are museums and gallery spaces. But we chose to go round the older museum of the history of Marseilles, and it was very interesting. A number of ancient boats have been found, including Roman era dredgers, with winches to haul up buckets of mud through a hatch right through the middle of the deck.

The remains of the Greek dock

We also enjoyed Fort St Jean – so called because it was manned by the Order of St John of Jerusalem – and the poor house, which was vast.

The counterpart fort to Fort St Jean. There was a chain between them.

The Poorhouse (Vielle Charite)

Chapel of Vielle Charite

There were a lot of deportations and destruction during the war, and a number of monuments to those who died.

One thing we noticed is that the population is very mixed and seems, to the outsider, to be well integrated. We saw white grandparents with clearly mixed race grandchildren, and I’ve only ever seen that in Britain before now. It’s something that gives you hope for us all. 

I think we’d like to go back, as the coast is pretty dramatic, and we liked the atmosphere. I know Marseilles has a reputation, and the gendarmes to whom we reported the theft unanimously warned us to be careful there, but it’s not nearly as threatening as Naples or Barcelona. 

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. 

The Lakes again

We had an uneventful drive up, stopping at the Bowes Museum for a picnic lunch and to break the journey for the boys. It was better for this purpose than we remembered; there is an excellent, large playground and picnic tables, which were not there last time we visited, years ago. Have a look:

http://www.thebowesmuseum.org.uk/

The boys had a good time climbing and swinging, and then we went into the museum. Obviously, taking two young boys to a museum for fine and decorative arts means you have to be pretty responsive to what interests them, and also to help them engage with the exhibits. Luckily the museum has acquired two large Canalettos of Venetian festivals, and they really enjoyed the plethora of interesting details, and the explanation of the ceremony of the Doge wedding the sea. They were also fascinated,  without any prompting at all, by a thoroughly gloomy, grimly Spanish, altarpiece showing the crucifixion and the deposition from the cross, which led us into theological discussions  which I didn’t expect to be having with a five year old.

The best bit was the silver swan. If you haven’t been to the Bowes Museum, it is an automaton, believed to date from the eighteenth century, of a stunningly beautiful, life size, incredibly detailed silver swan, which “swims” along the “water” and catches and eats a small silver fish.

It is wound up only once a day, and the performance lasts only about thirty seconds, so every visitor to the museum takes their place around the swan well before. It was worth the wait, though. The boys loved it, looked at the films explaining the workings and went in search of a clockwork mouse, also lifesize, made in gold all set with small pearls. It has garnet eyes. It’s a lovely thing.

After this highly enjoyable break, we drove on, with the wind getting wilder and wilder, through flurries of rain. We had just unloaded the bags and got safely inside when the heavens opened.  The evening got chillier and chillier as the wind got wilder and wilder, and I must say our hearts sank rather. But we got up to a lovely day, sunshine and clouds, and dry.

So we decided to do open air things. First we went to Aira Force.

Aira Force

 We went there last year, but it is a lovely walk with lots of boy appeal, and it was very quiet in the morning. After the walk we had a picnic lunch and the car park was really filling up, so we’d had the best bit of the day.

The water - older grandson decided it was actually
beer, being mixed a la Willie Wonka

Then we drove down Ullswater and climbed Hallin Fell. Younger grandson was very keen to climb a mountain, preferably Helvellyn, since older brother has climbed it, but Phil isn’t up to it, and I feel it would be rash for me on my own to take both boys up a proper mountain. Hallin Fell is a mountain, but only just, and it’s possible to get a reasonable distance up from the lake by car. So we all four climbed the mountain, and younger grandson was very pleased with himself indeed. Actually, it was worth doing anyway as the views were spectacular. The Lake District really is beautiful.

The view from Hallin Fell

The next day, rain was forecast in the afternoon, so we decided to go to the Roman Army museum. The morning was fine, so we drove over to the Wall, and went  for a walk along the wall at Walltown Crags. 

It was a bit windy, but I don’t think I’ve ever known the Wall not to be windy. The museum was aimed at kids and was great value – fun, highly educational, and for the pedantic (Phil and I), completely backed up with archaeological evidence.

We drove back to Penrith via the A686, which is the most spectacular road, especially heading towards the Lake District mountains. The A66 across the Pennines has fantastic views, too. It's just as good as the Beartooth Pass, even if it is lacking in snow, and the great advantage of sightseeing in England is that you are never far from a pot of tea and a scone. 

 When we came out of the museum, it hadn’t rained and so we had a go at kite flying, but, naturally, the wind had dropped and we weren’t very successful. The weather is completely different from the forecast. As it’s erring on the side of being much better, I don’t mean to complain.

On the Wednesday, we were booked in to see a puppet show. There is a puppet theatre near Penrith, which has an excellent vegetarian café attached, and the proprietors have recently acquired, with the help of a lottery grant, an entire puppet circus, dating from, I should think, the 1950s. There were clowns, dancers, an elephant, jugglers, tightrope walkers, a lion and tiger act (cages were erected round the big top, which made us laugh) a trapeze artiste which was a triumph of the art of the puppeteer, and the grand finale was Zippo, the human cannonball, which was frankly hilarious.

The wind was stronger, so we had another go with the kites, and this time were  highly successful, and some other children came out to join in. Thinking that they would get on better without me, I went in, only to hear shrieking. A little girl had been given a go on the delta kite, and had let go. We could see it, flying strongly at the very end of its line, which was caught in a tree, but it was completely out of reach. So we dealt with the very embarrassed father of the little girl, and promised the boys, that when the wind dropped, we would try to retrieve the kite.

The next day we went to the Lama Karma café, where they have lamas, naturally, but also lots of other animals, which you can handle – under supervision of course. The excellent guide tried to tell us that Madagascan Hissing Cockroaches make good pets.  Her commitment is commendable, but I much preferred the miniature donkey.

Madagascan Hissing Cockroaches

Lama, donkey and miniature donkey

Then we had to make good on our promise to try again for the kite. By now, it was caught in a silver birch. Phil hurled up a big lump of wood, over and over, and it did drop lower, but we still couldn't reach it. A boy of older grandson's age assured his dad would help, and the poor dad was forced to take down the awning of their caravan in order to obtain poles. It was all a bit embarrassing for us, but I have to say that all the kids had a whale of a time. Anyway we eventually did manage to grasp the kite. And, the very helpful dad even managed to reel in the string - all of it! I really didn't think we had a hope of getting it back.

On the way back we stopped at another museum, where a violin maker was working. He clearly loved his work, and we were there ages. He has a plane which is doll’s house size, and he showed us the raw wood and the templates and thickness gauges he uses, and it was truly interesting, but perhaps not so much for the boys, although they were actually very well behaved and attentive. I would have liked to ask about making the neck, but I didn’t dare.

So all in all, a highly successful week.

Brixham

Lattice stinkhorn, in the house's garden. Isn't it weird?
And it smells bad and is covered in bluebottles.

Brixham is quite a lively town with a good community spirit. Volunteers have kept the open air seawater swimming pool open when the council decided to close it. The fish harbour seems quite busy, and the marina is like all marinas all over the world – full of unused boats, but there are enough actually in action to give something to look at and decorate the sea views nicely.

The lighthouse at the end of the breakwater.

 There is a huge hard and slipway, which it turns out was built in 1943 for D Day preparations. Two boats from here were lost in the Slapton Sands debacle, and an American division embarked here for Utah beach.

Brixham

We visited Greenway, Agatha Christie’s house above the Dart; the gardens and the boathouse  are lovely, but the family seemed to collect all manner of objects to which I wouldn’t give house room. Meissen figures were probably the least objectionable, so that shows you. The original, demolished, house was built by Sir Humphrey Gilbert’s father. John Davis, of the Davis Strait, also came from Dartmouth.

Coleton Fishacre is gorgeous. It was built in 1928 by Rupert D’Oyley Carte, the Gilbert and Sullivan impresario, who owned the Savoy Theatre, Savoy Hotel and Simpson’s in the Strand,  in arts and crafts style, with art deco décor. It’s just wonderful. You long to live there. The gardens are full of exotic subtropical plants and have glorious views of the sea.

Coleton Fishacre

We also had an outing to Dartmouth, which is always nice.

Kingswear, from the ferry across the Dart

House in Dartmouth

 But the main occupation has been beach and swimming. The weather has been amazing, hot, sunny and settled. It’s all a bit unEnglish – we go out without making provisions for a change, so no raincoats in the car, or cardigans. We have all got  slightly burned spots where we missed the suncream – in my case it’s on my back, which burned through the sea water, because I’ve been in and out of the sea all day long. So have the others, and I am very proud of my older grandson swimming miles out of his depth to buoys – always with a grownup, of course. And younger grandson bravely tolerated waves splashing over his head, which is a huge leap forward.  In one  cove, we saw a seal, which swam up to Will and Leila and nibbled their toes gently. It seemed to want them to tickle its tummy, but they were a bit nervous of its teeth. It clearly wanted to play and held Leila with its flippers.

Friendly seal

Atlas's first experience of the sea. He envied labradors,
spaniels and retrievers, but fortunately realised
that he can't swim. 

On the way back, we stopped at another National Trust property, Killerton. The grounds are wonderful, with a mulberry tree where I pigged myself on ripe black mulberries; but the house isn’t up to much. There is a very interesting costume collection, with real clothes worn by ordinary people, not designer stuff. There are some fifties dresses, made at home from patterns, and an amazing knitted wedding dress, worn in, I think, 1972. It was a November wedding and the bride’s mother knitted this wonderful dress, with train and lacy knit sleeves. Also the story of the house was very interesting. The estate was owned by a political family, the Aclands. During the war the owner converted from liberalism to socialism, and felt private ownership of land was wrong. He decided to sell the estate, but his wife, who had been running it during the war, felt it would be wrong to break it up and possibly have owners who didn’t care for the land or the tenants. So they gave the lot – 17,000 acres – to the National Trust! Talk about putting your money where your mouth is. 

To Devon

On Saturdayday we set off for Brixham in Devon for a week’s holiday with the family. We decided to stop in Exeter for a night, to make the most of the holiday, and because neither of us have visited Exeter.

Well, I’m not sure what to say. As a city it doesn’t fit together very well at all. It was flattened by the Luftwaffe in one of the “Baedeker” raids, and although the cathedral survived, much of the old town was destroyed. Then in the sixties a ring road was built, which split the city up. However, there are lots of very interesting and beautiful buildings still standing. The city churches are very old and there’s quite a bit of the town wall left. The Roman street plan is discernible – It was Isca Dumnonium. Down by the old quays a lot of restoration has been carried out, of warehouses, the fish market and old water powered fulling mills. Work is still going on, and it’s charming. Of course, water always makes a place nicer.

The cathedral green is smashing. There was an excellent craft market going on, and various folk dancing groups were performing, and best of all, there was a proper, traditional Punch and Judy, complete with baby, policeman turned into sausages, crocodile and hangman.  The kids watching just loved it, which was very pleasing to see.

I did enjoy the cathedral. Simon Schama has been doing a history series on TV and he made the point that, thanks to the Pope putting a bounty on Elizabeth I’s life, Protestantism became synonymous with Englishness. I don’t think that’s wholly true, because the English must be about the world’s least religious people. But, after the Spanish cathedrals, walking into Exeter felt like coming home.

It’s a lovely light building with superb painted roof bosses and some wonderful monuments to unknown knights. There was one early fifteenth century tomb where the knight, with typical droopy moustache, had his feet on a lion, as usual, and his wife’s feet rested on a pair of swans with drooping crossed necks. I have never seen that before. It’s usually a lapdog. Also, the son of Flora MacDonald , of “Over The Sea to Skye”,  is buried there. Exciting, eh?

Mourning swans

Today we went to Princetown on Dartmoor, where a prison museum has recently opened. It was quite a fraught drive as there was a bike race going on, and we had to pass the bikes on the narrow Devon lanes. But the views were lovely; it’s been a very nice day. Even Princetown looked pretty attractive. The first time I saw it, I thought that Dartmoor prison was as much a punishment for the warders as for the convicts. 

The museum is interesting and atmospheric. The story of the French prisoners of war is told, and there are displays of things confiscated from the prisoners, sometimes cunning hidey-holes, but more often weapons, made from toothbrushes, bucket handles, soap set with razor blades, etc. But there are also art works made by the inmates. There’s an account of Frank Mitchell, the “mad axe” man, who was sprung from prison by the Krays and then murdered by them, which is quite upsetting, because Mitchell was clearly several sandwiches short of a picnic. For some reason, some people still seem to see the Krays as glamorous; there’s another film about them in the offing.

Dartmoor can’t be made secure enough for dangerous convicts any longer, because it’s Grade 2 listed, so the prison can concentrate on rehabilitation, and the museum is obviously part of the plan.

So then we drove to Brixham across the moor. There were lots of ponies, some heavily pregnant and lots with foals, and the sheep have been sheared and looked very skinny and strange.

The holiday house is really great, lots of room and super views, so we are highly satisfied.  Will (second son), Leila (daughter in law) and me went for a swim in the open air sea filled pool, while Dan (third son) cooked tea for us all.

It’s a beautiful evening, all very promising for tomorrow.

A less naughty dog. Good dog is going too far.

The naughtiest dog in Nottingham is making amazing progress in his training. It’s now possible to let him off the lead – with some trepidation, I admit, but it’s possible. You have to make sure that there are no other dogs in sight, because if he finds another dog you just can’t make him come back. He’s completely convinced that all other dogs are as desperate to be friends with him as he is with them, and he isn’t very good at taking the hint if they growl or otherwise appear unfriendly. Also, he hasn’t a tail. This has two disadvantages; first, strangers are likely to upbraid us, for having had it docked, and aren’t always convinced with the explanation that he never had one; and second, he doesn’t send quite the right signals to other dogs. With Atlas, it’s all in his ears, which go up, down, swivel, tremble – we understand him, but other dogs don’t.

It is actually a pleasure to see him run free – you would not believe that a short chunky little dog could run so fast. His greatest joy is chasing pigeons, crows, and squirrels, none of which he has the slightest hope of catching. The crows and squirrels seem to tease him, too, by going just a little way up a tree, or alighting just a few yards further on. So he gets much better exercise off the lead, and it isn’t worrying for me, because every few minutes he stops and looks round for me. I don’t think his eyesight is great, because when he looks around, it’s not sufficient to shout his name; I have to wave both arms wildly for him to locate me. When he’s reassured that he hasn’t lost me, off he goes again.

After a really good run, he comes back without any bother and flops down to be put back on the lead. If waving madly while shouting “Atlas!” is embarrassing, the next bit is really embarrassing. He lies on his back with his legs in the air and waits to be dragged along on the grass by his harness. This tends to bother other people almost as much as the lack of a tail. I suppose it does look cruel. After a bit he leaps up, grinning all over his face. One of the really charming things about bull terriers and their off shoots is their ability to grin, although they aren’t what anyone could call beautiful, or even handsome.

He also behaves like a small child, in that, if he sees a grassy bank, he joyfully rolls over and over down it, and this is even more embarrassing than the arm waving or dragging him by the harness. Other people inevitably assume it’s an accident and he has hurt himself.

So walking him is likely to be a bit embarrassing, but a lot of fun. I would prefer him not to try to eat anything on the pavement that doesn’t walk away from him.  Walks are likely to be punctuated with cries of “No! That’s disgusting!” and occasional pauses to force something horrible out of his mouth. He doesn’t cooperate, but he doesn’t resist too much either. He has managed to gulp down some revolting stuff, but I did find his attempts to eat a young horse chestnut seed quite funny. If he’s daft enough to try to eat something as spiky as that, I’m not going to interfere, and after giving himself a sore tongue, he gave up and has learned his lesson.

So last Saturday, I took Atlas along one of Nottingham’s green promenades, Waterloo Promenade, to the Forest, through the Arboretum, and back through the General Cemetery. I couldn’t let him off the lead, because it was a lovely day, and there were loads of dogs and people picnicking. Dogs, and food at ground level! I would never be able to recapture him. But there was no one around in the cemetery, so I let him off. All went well, until I spotted, through the tall grass, his four paws waving in the air. He was rolling on a dead rat.