to ship and dirty devon (5)

THE RAIN IS DRIVING HARD against the hotel windows as the first chink of grey dawn turns up at Kyriad Vannes. It transpires that Adam's bed was not supplied with an adequate amount of bedding, which makes me a little vexed on his behalf, these things should not happen. We conclude that it is no reason to trash the room, nor rule this establishment out as a stop-over in the future. You see, it proves well situated for when we are forced to catch a daytime sailing from Roscoff to Plymouth, the situation that we are addressing this very day. And answering rather well we think.

So heavy is the downpour that I volunteer to go first and bring the motor as close to reception as possible so that the rest of the party can stay near enough dry. I am like that: selfless. The roads are mercifully almost empty so we make it up to the main northern road going west (Rennes to Morlaix etc) in about an hour and a half. Raining hard most of the way it is – although it isn't when we break for p'tit déj at Châtelaudren, a lively place for the time of day. Good and final croissants/pain au chocolade/pain aux raisins, what have you. 

Our arrival in Roscoff is well before the midday chimes ring out…  we cower under awnings as it continues to throw it down… Mme Melling secures a sack of onions as requested by landlord Robert at The Grove which we tuck away in the boot far from from the prying eyes of HM Customs and Excise.

We all have the best onion soup of the entire holiday (OK, the only onion soup of the entire holiday) followed by diverse dishes of perfectly cooked fish (I had the marmite). Le Surcouf is back on form (you will recall we failed to get our mains last time we patronised Le S).Then off to embarkation on our usual vessel, Armorique. The sun is out and it is lovely. Mme Melling and self are almost out of time with our 90 day 'visitors' limit and all that nonsense, but we are treated civilly by French customs, foreigners that we now are, our passports are stamped in the correct manner (I check). 

We sail into the choppy waters of La Manche; a stiff breeze is getting up so I have the flight deck to myself for quite a while… But an hour into the crossing all passengers are ordered below decks as it begins to rock and roll. The family retreat to their day cabin and as our american cousins often say, we hunker down. I am perfectly at ease with the ship's motions myself, but the offspring is not quite so. No one gets sick though. By the time we go top side to see Eddystone winking the rain is gathering it's forces once again.

Sure enough, it is raining fit to bust in Plymouth. After sitting expectantly on the car deck for an hour or so, (no explanation for this delay is forthcoming; I am beginning to think it is a seafaring tradition, along with the other tradition we seem to have been subjected to, of being amongst the last to be let off the boat… mutter mutter) la pluie is just another issue to put up with. Our passports are meticulously examined, as they damned well should be. No sign of anybody with the slightest interest in what we might be bringing into the motherland however. After all, it is Sunday night, not very nice, and a bit late to be out troubling any returning natives. It is pelting down.

Before we have reached Tavistock we are almost brought to a standstill by it. By the time we are through Tavistock we are in moonlight. Such are the vagaries of our British weather. When we arrive at Bullsmead Towers we do a quick unpack and sink that longed for mug of tea.

That's it. The saga is over, back safe, with the pleasure of travelling with the son-&-heir once more. We get to our beds, good beds, warmed with an introductory hot water bottle apiece.
If you have read the whole set, well done —but you do need to get out more y'know… I thank you for your interest. And I thank JBH for his rendition of our maritime starting and finishing post:

footnote: see below the planned route back. Some of it was compromised by navigational issues resulting in not getting to the coast before Séte, and some more of it was messed up by routes barrées as alluded to in the account above. 

 Don't bother going over it (as if you were going to) —I include it here for my own reference.

en route to stop- 4: les sables etc.

WHERE WAS I? Approaching Les Sables d'Olonne that's where. The newly acquired JBH volume is hidden away and we concentrate on getting into the town along the sea front as far as we can. Ayup! –there are lots of folk around… good grief, some are actually in the water. It is Saturday after all so I don't tut-tut much about France's perpetual half term regime, for once. We park on a meter and beetle back onto the sea front to take the air. It is actually really rather bracing but in a slightly more refined manner than Skeggy. Here is what we see from the shore:

Further round we can see La Tour d'Arundel which is where the Vendée (round the world single handed yacht jolly) officially starts and ends. Guess what? There is a rendition of the La Tour in Des Course et des Phares! Not JBH's best (not an elevation, sadly) but it gives you the idea . . . not sure why it looks a bit like a boat from a different era,  but artistic licence may have come into play here…

That is quite enough about the phares of fair Les Sables. However, you are invited to refresh on Les Sables d'Olonne (phares) by re-reading my seminal post on the subject in the legendary phares sighted blog…  I just know you want to, so click on this link!  

While we on the Sables d'Olonne side of the harbour I continue my stroll along Le Remblai, aka the seafront (Adam and his mother are off to spot another war memorial… I just can't understand where he gets these obsessions from,  I really can't) away from the ubiquitous holiday flats that blight most popular resorts in France these days, and admire the more stimulating architecture surviving from when places like this seafront were the reserve of yer middle and upper classes, the only folk then who had the time and money to have seaside holidays and build villas to do so in. My montage herewith can only give a slight impression of what there is to find… Along this stretch of sea front are on display excellent pencil drawn elevations of these fine buildings including those that have been lost through mishap, and vandalism of both the entrepreneurial and municipal sort. That is one of them, above, envisioned by the architect called David Bizeul, but somewhat faded in the summer's sun I think. They may have been coloured originally.

We reconvene, then motor round to the Chaume side of the harbour (quieter this side of the river) so that Adam can get a quick look at the St Nicolas jetty, then ditto with Armandèche lighthouse (good lad!), before we get back on the road north, stopping only at St Brevin, by special request, to eat our crisps and odd bits and pieces we have, having failed to secure other victuals this time. Before crossing the Loire this is, where France sort of ends… well it doesn't but sometimes feels as though it does. I note that the view out to Phare de Charpentier is now compromised somewhat by the shadowy presences of France's recently installed floating turbines. You can just make them out… a sign of the times… 

But from this point today, no further snaps I am afraid. Hotel at Vannes found relatively easily but the rain is back. After nightfall we drive down into town returning to eat at a crêperie we've frequented before, down by the harbour. First into the place and then first out, good. Very dark in Vannes and it's raining again. Some madness trying to get out of the underground car park après, groping our way back out in variably lit streets; I am glad to get back to our billet (the widest bed I may have ever slept in). Shower, book, bed. The rain is lashing…

JBH turns up en route to stop- 4

WE ARE OUT OF LA ROCHELLE before most folk are awake. Our exit is fault-free and the weather, after what I imagine was a pretty wet night,  has developed a bit more brightly by the time we shut off steam and apply the brakes at the ever reliable breakfast stop-off of Luçon. It is Saturday morning so the pressure is generally off, it has been easy to park and straightforward to get here.

The café is as usual. It has never let us down, and never been shut when we have called upon its services. It is just across from the cathedral as you will know from a previous post concerning this regular breakfast stop; the very café I scored as breakfast stop numero one back in my post of summer this year. You'll remember it I am sure. Their grand-crémes are the best and there are croissants available over the counter, or from the quality boulangerie opposite, should they be open, which they are only after the cathedral bells have indicated the passing of the ninth hour… 

Suitably refreshed, and as it isn't raining, we wander off in the general direction of the war memorial Adam wants to examine, passing by the bookshop where we purchased back in 2016 the wonderful Jean Benoît Héron 2017 Agenda, which at the time was a find indeed. Mme Melling wants to visit the shop to try and buy something or other, so we potter about until at 0915, the lights go on, the door is unlocked. For the second time ever we enter therein.

Mme Melling is disappointed (she'll try Amazon next) but ever the eagle eye, she espies, wonder of wonders, Jean Benoît Héron's latest publication. Shrink wrapped, a single copy. Des Courses et Des Phares.  Just published. My cup overflows. I am prompt with my mastercard.  What an excellent day this is proving to be! And what a chance! What good fortune. Luçon turns up trumps again!

I don't remove the shrink-w. until we are in our final hotel. The promise of the paper-to-boards graphics are fulfilled within. True, there is some text in the book, for some unaccountable reason in French, but never mind that, there are a whole load of new lighthouse elevations in here, from around the world, and all produced by JBH, the master. Oh my! It is a masterpiece. Some old friends, one or two re-draws of lights that have been altered in some way, sketches, and even the odd boat. All about the classic yacht race routes y'see and the phares encountered. Fastnet, Wolf Rock, even Plymouth gets the JBH treatment and scores two, three if you count Eddystone!

Sorry about this, I seem to have lost my thread. Ah yes. We were going to show young Adam Les Sables d'Olonne in this post. I think I'd better start again. I'll call that simply en route to stop-4.

route barrée to stop- 3

WE SLIP AWAY FROM SARLAT, AT, OR JUST BEFORE THE BREAK OF DAY under lowering skies and sudden sluicings from the troubled heavens. There are the usual frantic overtakings of jobsworths – feed salesmen and the like, dashing from their habitations to their various far flung offices, but we just potter along within the speed limits (for tourists) and already in quiet expectation of our petit déj. We know from recent experiences that it is a fool's errand to seek such a thing as an early morning refreshment stop en route from Sarlat-le-Canéda to Bergerac because there aren't any before Lalinde. Honestly.

So we waste no time in such fruitless enquiry and should have arrived in Lalinde well before the shops open.  Half way or more towards that interim stopping point, travelling there by the official route, we come up against the first of a whole series of Route Barrée notices, this one complete with diversions. The thing is, where are we being diverted to? This alternative is pretty enough albeit on rather lumpy narrow roads but it doesn't take Mme Melling long to realise that we are being given the very essence of a long way round indeed. It is noticeable that the locals are almost entirely absent from the deviation. I can't recall whether the RB had a set of further RBs associated with it, as was to be the case later on in the day, but when we eventually dock in the market square of Lalinde we certainly feel as though we'd been taken for a ride round the woods (which we have) and it has lasted hours and added on many kilometres to our passage from hotel to sustenance. It eats up our essence somewhat as well. Tsch!

It is raining. Hard. The shops are still shut. Boulangie aussi. MM stoops to buying Casino croissants, a situation considerably beyond and below our usual exacting requirements. They are alright I suppose. The rugby café's coffee is pretty good though: Adam and self have an encore. Couldn't tell you what the early morning topic is herein, (I blame my school) but they all get their coffee without asking as the group swells from three (upon our entry) to twelve (as we depart). And the dog, I think it is a dog.

Mme Melling is clearly a little ruffled by the Route Barrée inconvenience and insists we cross the Dordogne by the substantial structure at Lalinde. I know this to be the wrong direction, but comply to keep things sweet. So it is that we do the first of many about-turns most of the rest of which being as a result of false deviations, routes barrées and misdirections that hamper our journey this day.

I'm not going to trouble you with an account of it except to say that our carefully devised itinerary was obstructed at least five times, possibly more, we lost count, and on two or more occasions no deviations were offered – or they just petered out, so we had to improvise. Furthermore we encountered yet more routes barrées on these deviations. It is scandulous. 

Finding the fuselage of a Caravelle in a field next to a barn does little to sooth our seething route resentment rages although it gives the son-and-heir something to divert his attention from the increasingly colourful language being used on the Škoda's flight deck. The weather has at least improved. MM obtains giant stuffed baguettes at Lussac after the latest deviation (they make splendid wine in this village but we care not, give us your sandwiches tout-de-suite) and we subsequently eat them in someone's vineyard.  Our spirits are lifted and shortly thereafter we slide down to the Gironde estuary on very familiar roads. This is better!

Leaving Royan, the Highways authorities make another attempt to bugger up our travel plans by first an horrific deviation through a conurbation of chalets on the outskirts of town, then a complete closure of the main road to Rochefort, re routing us (or attempting to) to Saintes FGS! Mary snaps. Sod that for a lark she says… We set off into the marshes by by-ways various and to come at the problem from a different angle…. It works!  The Michelin Atlas is tattered but still giving it out. Suddenly we are back on the dual carriageway Rochefort bound, we zoom up and over the Charente bridge, get onto the race strip north, and finally make it to Les Minimes, La Rochelle, and the promise of our Kyriad Hotel. 

Phew. A great room has been allocated to us, with spiffing views of the roundabout below, I could watch it for hours. We eat well just up the road at Del Arte (our usual table isn't available but I don't make a fuss) and then we get a very good and much needed kip in comfy beds, ready for the cut and thrust of the morrow. Thank goodness Adam doesn't expect us to tramp into La Rochelle on this occasion, we are bushed. Tomorrow we are showing the boy Les Sables d'Olonne – he's not had the pleasure. We are going to put right this state of affairs once and for all, and before we get to our fourth stopover … read on, read on ( you know you want to…)

fast forward to stop-2

 

SO WE COLLECTED TOGETHER OUR EFFECTS, in the sulky grey light of the deluge in Mèze, dropped the door key off at the vacant reception and scuttled up the side road where Octavia had sat out the night. In twenty minutes or so we were in the elected breakfast town, namely Marseillan, hopefully to secure our  petit dej in the familiar café near the market. Couldn't park though and ended up further out but within a short sprint of another café. 

It was dark and very damp under the trees, the café bright and peopled. Mme Melling was sent off to fetch croissants etc, well she has the language to navigate such transactions, and what is more she secured filled baguettes for lunch as well. Star!  What's a few drops of rain?  Upon her return, we enjoyed the coming and going of the locals, the greetings and nods, the dog too phased to go out to the lav so crapping at its owners feet, that sort of thing.  I like wet mornings once safe ensconced in the café, me. We'll remember this one!

We went down to the port, of course. Had it to ourselves, it was streaming. Noted: yet more character loss on the old industrial Noilly Prat side, yet more glossy holiday flats and apartments, yet more developments announced… Somehow the place holds on to some of its charm for us but I wonder for how much longer. La Pacheline (oft frequented resto) was closed of course, at this time of day. As was Noilly Prat. Marseillan has been a favourite of ours for years and years, we almost bought here even, but Sablet prevailed…

Enough already. We headed for the A75 and the long climb up into the central massif. 

Any vague hope of going off the A75, cross country to Rodez was scotched by the inclemency so we stuck out the thankfully very quiet and impressive autoroute until the Rodez northern junction 40. I enjoyed it, especially as it wasn't raining up here. In fact we didn't stop off until Decazeville was achieved. We agreed to go into the centre of the town so that Adam could tick off a particularly singular war memorial, complete with giant miner's lamp motif. I've got no pictures, mon fils, to include here – but perchance mon fils has loaned this image: it was a singular sculptural piece I have to say… Adam seeks these things out and we do our best to slot in the odd monument, and I must say he comes up with some corkers.

A variation I insisted on this time took us past this place: Rocamadour. As it is one of the top honey pots of France I thought 3rd November might be quieter, and as the Tour de France zipped through the place this year I thought it was time to at least to take a route via it. Lovely countryside, limestone crags here and there. Baguettes in the motor (yet more rain) then round and down by the honey pot. Hmmmm. Didn't stop although two of the party walked down the hill. Can live without this national gem. 

We get on to Sarlat. After all, Adam needs to have time to take a look at this other pot de miel. Daylight is now in short supply you see. We arrive at 1500 and establish ourselves in our generous and comfortable hotel. A word about the hotels this time: we have done with those cramped 3-up budget bedrooms, now we are into larger three bed accomm. The hotel at Sarlat gets it just about right for us and Škoda gets a room too (well, an underground car park, gratis). Mme Melling's directive: I simply support her instructions which are, of course, on the nail.

Unwisely, we waddle off into the town sans waterproofs as it hasn't rained for an hour or two but that soon reverts to type,  and we cower under awnings slurping tea (other beverages may have also been consumed, I don't care to remember) trying to get the time to pass before the restaurant of our dreams opens its doors. MM decides to select somewhere else other than the pizza joint we patronised last time, good though it was. 

We've had a bit of a potter, even got into the cathedral so I can take a pew. I am a bit crocked back-wise, and leg-wise… Adam has by now zipped off to score two more monuments he wanted to see…… In fact it is not until 1845 that we get into the eatery Mary has selected. Thank God! Good! Very good, popular, and thankfully the hotel walk back is all slightly downhill, and we get back without further attention from the clouds…… I apologise to family members for the infirmity (or at least I think I did). And I think the son-and-heir got at least some idea of Sarlat which, though quiet, was far from deserted. Pot de miel, after all. We'll be back no doubt… goodnight!

four stops back: stop- 1

IT SEEMS IN RETROSPECT A LITTLE EXTRAVAGANT, an outing to our Sablet estates, incorporating not two hotels each way, or three; but no less than four, both ways, a total of eight in all. Come on! We know folk who do it in just one,  each way!

Well, they are welcome to their dash. We take our time. Money no object (not sure about this last assertion but let it pass). 

I was all set for a three stage return to the Blighted Isle, route worked out etc. etc… when Mme Melling announces that she has unilaterally inserted an additional, new first stage hotel, of her own volition, so that we can spend a whole lot more pastis-tokens on meals, roadside baguettes, grand-crèmes, accommodation,  petroleum distillate, occasional spontaneous roadside impulses, whatever— on the basis that the young master is travelling back with us for the first time since pre-pandemic years (2019) after this, his first Sablet inspection in three years. Extravagances are called for!

So on the day of retreat, instead of heading west by north, we set out southwards, and a day earlier than originally intended – to match up with that immovable objective, the last ship out of Roscoff before the Channel pack ice closes in and makes shipping from Finistere to South Devon an impossibility (romantic twoddle— there was another sailing after the one we ultimately took ship upon and the ice in La Manche is far from threatening so early in November-ed).

Our aspiration for our first day back on the road was somewhat vague. We headed to Nîmes on the A9 and the idea was we would leave the autoroute there and go down to the coast around Le Grau du Roi, and then by the various coastal routes normally clogged by tourist lowlife, proceed to Frontignan and Sète. We breakfasted in a town (St Laurent) with a bull ring right in its centre, and I do mean a bull ring. I didn't care much for the place or the breakfast we consumed there (the croissants were stodgy and the indifferent coffee pricey) but we were, at this point still en route.

 It was after that it all went wrong. Missed turnings y'see are an issue hereabouts. Dual carriageways amongst flamingo ponds, etc. We are loathe to do lengthy about turns if they are even possible. After a particularly wounding attack on the driver, triggered by his inability to divine the correct lane/direction/ the next place, — resulting in our passing underneath the aforementioned A9 autoroute, into the ever expanding suburbs of Montpellier…… well the driver manages to turn the motor around, and declares an executive decision: to regain the A9 by the next available slip and then not deviate from the sure-fire direction of said route until the Sète junction is reached. Tolls notwithstanding.

And that is what we did. Sorry son-and-heir, no Frontignan this time, but then you didn't miss all that much (I gather he wasn't fussed anyway…). Family harmony, or what passes for it was quickly restored.

Sting in the tail of course was in Sète. It is usually market day in some part of S; this time it was across our proposed route to Mont St Clair. Busy? My dear, you have not an inkling. Our hopes for any form of lunch were thus dashed (parking? you jest!) and we went hungry, but did at least get amongst the graves of Le Cimetière Marin, and snatched a parking place at the Paul Valerie Gallery that overlooks the cemetery, all overlooked by the St Clair lighthouse, of course, see above. 

But as I have remarked before: what need hath a man, of provender, when he can be satiated mentally by what he doth espy? The view from the panoramique for example? The temperatures are balmy, and as is usual in France in most weeks of the year: it's half term! Trouble is, many of the other folk availing themselves of this superb viewpoint have sandwiches. Not to mention school age children, hordes of the things, I mean to say… They are eating them, (the sandwiches) without any conscience or consideration at all. Foreigners… Thank God for Brexit. 

To be fair, this time I was not held responsible for missing the narrow lunchtime window of opportunity. I was waiting for the rebuke, but it did not materialise. I usually get blamed, but I dodged the bullet this time. 

After sucking up as much as we could of the ambience of the Saint Clair quarter and views overall we return to the family tumbril to continue round the étang to that favoured étang-side spot: Bouzigues. Long family history associated with Bouzigues… But here is not the time and the place, and anyway, do you care? I thought not. 

Bouzigues is characterful and one of the last places Mme Melling and self took ourselves a week's holiday before Sablet got a grip. I lost a watch in an hotel there once but my family won't let me enquire if it has been found.  The place hasn't changed much but there were rather a lot of folk around today, compared to our last visit that is. Some were swimming no less. We have been known to… We gulped down fruit juices in a clothes shop: the village still has only one rather uninviting café/bar and that is in a back street. The rest (waterfront) are oyster bars y'see. Alright for lunches if I recall.  But we are too late, naturally and anyway the OBs. were full and none of the contingent excepting yours truly seems to like a Bouzigues Oyster these days. Too salty I gather. Not for me they aren't. 

At last we tootle on down the road to Méze and our first overnight stop of the four projected. We find parking and report in at the Hotel de Thau. Our room with balcony and Al fresco table and chairs looks up the street towards the former residence of the Davies partnership. Méze feels a little strange without them being here anymore. 

Our room moreover is the one that Wendy and late lamented Dicky frequented when they were visiting the Davies Dynasty, back then. Our suspicions that we are the only guests in the hotel are confirmed when we stagger back from supper on the quayside… there are now no staff on the premises, and not a sound from inside the Est. Access is by code. Corridor and stair lights are on timers. No matter; the beds are quite good, the curtains less than adequate but the street lights go out about 2300 hours, and who cares if we only have just one toilet roll to support all our sanitary needs?  Plenty of hot water if and when it chooses to arrive at the faucet although as is customary in private hotels, the shower attachment is in fact detached. Showering is hit and miss. Mostly the latter. 

It comes on to rain after dark, with some vigour. It is still at it the following morning. I like Mèze though. It is a bit scruffy but has stylish spaces, quaint streets and a chirpy waterside frontage. It's flamboyant fountain and stylish town hall  are subjects that grace the Bullsmead Grand Salon, the singular rendition of same, painted by the master of the Art of Mèze, friend Peter.  Nice little port too, generous parking for both autos and yachts. There's a passenger boat service to Sète aussi.  We secure a good supper for a rather eye-watering outlay (IMO) but we choose it from a rather reduced listing: many restaurants are closed for staff holidays etc. Mèze at least seems to have concluded that the summer season is at an end… We see no other living soul within our hotel and let ourselves out, into the deluge of the following morning…

drôme deux

 

IT IS NOT THAT UNUSUAL IN THIS FAMILY for some sort of civil engineering to be visited on a day out, and not unusual at all for such a construction to be the principle reason for the trip. OK, the target for the subject of this post is Crest but I receive no dissention when I suggest we take in the impressive viaduct below en route to the aforementioned town that I have already established in the previous post is situated on the Drôme. After all, we'd been around and under it in the year that the bridge opened and while the powers that be were still tidying up the area after the construction work. 

So, after we've witnessed a number of TGVs and OuiGos pass over the viaduct, at speed, north and south, we motor on under it and through some quite singular country to the target town of Crest. Yes, river-bridge is open and there is easy parking. Two of our number take it into their heads to climb up to the church and then on up to the keep, when what they should have been doing is seeking out the optimum venue for a plat-du-jour. 

By the time they get back down, the limited and preferred eateries of Crest are all full and/or fully booked, so we end up in a rather oddly decorated riverside bistrot, filling up with clientele as we decide to patronise it ourselves, aussi. The walls exhibit serveral painterly renditions of naked and provocatively posed lovelies… I'm broad minded heaven knows but…… Two of our party seem well pleased with the provender however, whereas one of us, me, is less than impressed. It is adequate… but not to my taste I regret to report. Nor is the decoration opposite my seat on the far wall… but I don't comment about it, until now that is! These young entrepeneurs, what are they like. I realise now why many of the customers headed up to the top floor …… 

We now motor through to Saou, retracing the route from the road to Gap, through Le Pertuis. Which is where we stop for a walk. I take a few pictures as does the son-and-heir but with the foliage still on the trees the views are a little obscured (see left) which is why I include below pictures taken in spring 2019 around Pertuis, and which I thought were lost for ever, believing that I had taken them in 2015. It's a long story……

And so to Saou where we don't get a coffee or a tea or a pression or any other form of refreshment for some reason or other. Mme Melling retrospectively claims that I was against the idea. I do get a picture without a van right in the foreground, under the village belfry (see Drôme Day Out, q.v). But there is a treat coming and it's in Dieulefit…

Yes, we motor on to Dieulefit, but by another route from that taken on the previous outing (to ring the changes and keep us fresh you understand). We park almost in the middle of the conurbation, then foot it down the mostly pedestrianised main street, two of our party wondering why the third, Mme Melling,  passes by at least two inviting cafés without so much as a glance… 

Truth is, Mme Melling has a nose for these things. At her direction, we enter an establishment dedicated largely to cocoa and coffee based products and with an excellent and extensive saloon complete with a forest of easy chairs in which to take our comfort while we await what will prove to be the best hot chocolates known to man. Honestly! For me at least, it is the climax of a champion day, this second voyage to the hillier parts of southern Drôme. Re this chocolate: one has to spoon the beverage out of the beakers it is served in, it is so thick, although occasional indelicate slurps are in evidence also, resulting in chocolate moustaches for those that succumb to the more usual way of drinking. The accompanying ice-creams/sorbets are artisanale as well. Oh my. Oh my. How would one, could one, resist being an almost daily patroniser of this establishment if one lived in this town, or anywhere within a reasonable radius? 

Sympathies here are belatedly expressed to the s-&-h who is still being afflicted at this juncture with insect bites sustained of an evening in our (his) guest bedroom. He manfully bears up, uses our stocks of fly spray liberally before retiring to his couch each night, as well as ensuring windows and shutters are barred and, well, shuttered. 

We extend our concern to him (which does no good) and apologise for the discomfort caused and for the inflammed bite-marks left by the biters, which can be seen on his arm, below left. Sorry. 

Note the coffee roaster in the background. We wonder if they roast their own cocoa-beans as well?