THE FOLLOWING MORNING WE HOVERED POLITELY outside the hotel until Dr G’s light went out and she joined us to entrain for St Georges de Didonne at 0730 sharp and whilst still dark.
We found our way through the gargantuan appartment blocks and seaside frontages of La Baule, very quiet at this time of day… until we reached the skinny bit of countryside that demarcates one's arrival at St Marc when coming west to east. By now the rain was setting in whilst the light remained subdued, but no matter: here we were in modest St Marc, a place I have a fondness for, this time thankfully almost deserted. Hulot was there of course. Seemed to be troubled by a bad back… I feel his pain…A pleasure to introduce Dr G to the site of Les Vacances de Mr Hulot. It looked particularly good in the damp conditions IMHO. Grand Charpentier was out there in the murk, I am always happy to be reacquainted with its noble profile, aussi.
The last time Dr G traversed this structure with us it was hidden in fog. This time it was almost obscured by rain. We assured her as best we could that the longest bridge in France was a worthy structure and that breakfast would be secured without fail on the southern bank thereof. And so it came to pass (the view below is looking at the bridge south to north: we were of course coming at it the other way, i.e. southbound.
I suggested St Michel Chef-Chef might provide the requisite refreshment and so we left the main road to fulfil, at the very least, an ambition of Mme M's to acquaint herself of this famous home of her favourite factory made biscuit. The manufactory had a shop so would run to a petit dej we were sure.
True, I missed a red light – the only one in St M, distracted as I was by counter-instructions being issued as to where we might break our fast, where I should have parked so to do and where I should now go and park instead. No collison took place and the fact that my oversight of said traffic light took place in front of a following gendarmerie vehicle suggests and confirms the error was not intended or malicious.
I proceeded to park up, and the aforementioned police vehicle (it was a Dacia if memory serves) drew up close by, flashing blue lights etc, you know the sort of thing. A quick flick through the car docs and a sight of my driving licence was all the officers required to satisfy themselves that nothing really serious had occured on their patch, we were not wanted for other misdemeanours, consequently we were free to proceed to our breakfast without further complications or impediment. Which we did… in a café rather than the St Michel-Chef-Chef retail oulet. More to our taste. We did however visit said emporium to purchase the inevitable packages of gift wrapped biscuits, T-towels etc etc, before motoring on to Porte du Pavé where we ate the splendid filled baguettes that Mary had secured back in St Michel.
It would be quite nice for this party to be spared any further revelation and dessimination of this occurence to all and sundry, or the occasions where cross referencing of the saga to other far more egregious breaches of motoring law are suggested. It is History. I wasn’t ‘done’ and no harm came from it. My licence is clean. I paid no fine. It irks to be repeatedly reminded of the incident especially when it is brought up as evidence of some sort of flaw in my character/judgement. I know I am not perfect. Not far off, but not entirely. I concede the point.
I am of course grateful for Mme Melling’s fluent handling of the twelve year olds who must have been itching to try their flashing blue lights on someone, anyone, in sleepy St Michel. I am not even sure that for some moments these dear local gendarmes (they were of both sexes and barely out of gendarme lycee) had failed to figure out that Mme M was not in fact the driver, as she sprang so readily to meet them from what is after all the normal driving position in continental motoring. They barely spoke to me, and what they did say was courteous if incomprehensible (I blame my school) and what I said to them was, well, sorry, my mistake, must try harder sort of stuff.
The arm of the law cancelled ‘the bust’ by using their phones to show us where we could get breakfast (just behind them, across the road in fact – but one has to use the technology you know, the pointing finger is so yesterday). It was thankfully, that sort of policing: smiles and waves concluded the encounter. For a moment I thought Mme M might have invited them to take refreshment with us but no, they went their way and we went ours. So can we hear less of it – from now on? Thank You.
As I have already alluded, we ate our lunchtime baguettes rather belatedly at the Port du Pavé in bright sunshine and in the vicinity of a variety of wading birds such as curlews, avocets, red and green shanks and a stout woman with a shrimping net. It was hard to tear ourselves away!
Thereafter we detoured to a rather sultry Brouages (it was chucking it down last time we graced its portals: today it was stewing at 27° and overburdened with tourist types, wedding guests etc) before embarking on the closing phase of our route to arrive outside our rather well placed hotel only a short (if painful) walk to the defunct phare of St Georges.
As I have already alluded, we ate our lunchtime baguettes rather belatedly at the Port du Pavé in bright sunshine and in the vicinity of a variety of wading birds such as curlews, avocets, red and green shanks and a stout woman with a shrimping net. It was hard to tear ourselves away!
I declined the chance to climb this faded but still majestic lighthouse. It was still open – to the last visitors of the day. I could have wept! I have never not taken the opportunity before but the bally hip or is it the leg would not have worked on the ninety plus steps required to be ascended to reach the lantern. I could only just about hobble back to the hotel. My comrades cried off the ascent aussi. If they’d gone up, it would have been simply too too much.
