soleil • sturnus vulgaris • déluge • brouillard

AUTUMN 2024 AND WE CAME BACK A WEEK EARLIER THAN ORIGINALLY ANTICIPATED… and by a significantly altered route, as you will immediately notice when you compare the proposed return agenda in the previous blog (the autumnal plan) with what we actually did, as displayed here, it stands out a mile! Check it out in your A4 wiro bound Michelin Road Atlas of France, to be fully up-to-speed with this development, of course…

Just in case you are half asleep with the fatigue of keeping pace with Mme Melling and self, I'll briefly point out that our anticipated fourth night was cancelled (in Roscoff); our route was adapted on the road on our first day of return travel as reflected below [we skipped Sète as it was a) as usual: half term, and b) nearly always: market day – both these things calculated to obstruct our through passage].  Weather and distance considerations encountered en route also caused us to refine our plans further between Mont de Marsan and La Rochelle. 

The return visit to Contis, the phare there, the wondrous shoreline before that wonderful tower, that was forfeit. 

Amended, what we achieved was this:

By judicious use of the A9 (and a moderately early departure from 1rueFB) we were able to avail ourselves of a timely petit dej in Marseillan, the home of Noilly Prat and still going even further up in the world. We generally scorn autoroute use, but when we come this way, it does make sense to employ the toll. 

After the statutory visit to the port entrance (see the masthead image) we motored on. I was rather taken aback by the hinterlands of both Agde and Béziers. I couldn't recall them being quite so decrepit and untidy. So quick, off to Barges, Peyriac de Mer and the étangs south of Narbonne. But at Peyriac we found hordes. Half term of course, should have known. Time was when this area was practically undiscovered. Not so now my dears. Oh well. It is the way of things. Nevertheless we took the air (which was still and warm) and fondly remembered the holiday in not-so-far-away Bizanet, when Narbonne and its coastal zone provided us with so much to see and do. This area scored top marks then and still is wonderful (for birds, plants, views, ships, wine and fresh sea air, swimming even). Trouble is, others think so aussi.

From Peyriac then, we resumed our progress through the Corbières (see the route above if you want detail) all the way to the Carcassonne ring road and then to Castelnaudary where we easily located our hotel, parked up outside it, more or less, and discovered it was closed until 17.30, at least. No matter, we are familiar with the centre of the town,  so made confit purchases (tins), took liquid refreshment, noted the awful noise emanating from the fun fair set up where we had expected to park the motor (the town square and adjacent to our overnight stop) – tired of it – so strolled down to the canal bassin, found comfy municipal seating and simply basked in the sun and watched the world go by. The Canal du Midi. Largest canal basin on the endeavour's entire length. Dug by hand. No boats came through. 

As this hotel had, many years back, provided self and the son-and-heir with arguably the best lunchtime cassoulet we have ever tasted, it was perhaps only natural that now as guests we should eat there again. Thankfully the fun fair shut up shop at dusk but neither Mme M or your author felt up to cassoulet any how. We ate well nevertheless, if not particularly exceptionally, save perhaps for the eye watering costings associated with the menu suggestions. A bottle of Pic St Loup for example was offered at a mere €50: we passed on it. The dishes followed suit, rather. We sucked it up. To add a bit of additional style to our table I ordered an Armagnac……

The noise of the fun fair, now abated, was replaced by a cacophony of starlings settling down to roost in the plane trees lining the street outside our window. We adjourned to our suite: they did not disturb us overmuch…… 

Sturnus Vulgaris. Hmm. They certainly know how to put on a shit show. Come the morning we discovered the motor to be utterly polluted with starling excrement, a sight to behold. Thankfully we did not have to leave the Castelnaudary boundaries before we found a car wash and restored the Škoda to something like respectability. We were not the only ones caught out, be assured. Bloody fun fairs. Why couldn't they have set up under the trees? 

After this issue had been addressed at the Lulu Car Wash and I had run round the bodywork to complete the job with the motor's towel (a bit half hearted they were, at Lulu's), we took horse to Mont-de-Marsan, through some of our most favourite rolling countryside, namely Gers, with long views of the freshly snow dusted Pyrenees, blue grey silhouettes, always pleasing to see. Dropping round the southern flanks of Toulouse you see. Sorry, no snaps taken to confirm the majesty of that distant range of mountains, you'll just have to take my word. Samatan for refreshment (we have done similar before), Auch passed through and before we knew it we were approaching Monty. 

The notion of making an excursion at this point, to reinstate our original aspirations to visit Contis, was briefly considered but we concluded it would add a further sixty miles to our day, there and back compounded, and as we had then got rather entangled with Marsan's central road network, and felt that when we could park we should seize that chance, Well, we did that, and took a shufty at the town instead. 

Nice river (Le Douze); one or two good buildings, rather a lot of naked women (in bronze), pink fountains (breast cancer awareness month). Not exceptional as a town but pleasant enough. The administrative capital of hereabouts. 

The selected hotel wasn't in the town. My heart sank. A long time since we last put up with a facility situated in a peripheral industrial zone. And again, not staffed until about 17.00. But it was fine. Brand new, squeaky clean, and here's the thing, just 150 metres from a new Japanese restaurant. We went there. It was very good, a new experience, even if we didn't quite get value for money, our fault I guess, novices, don't ask.

And so to the third day on the road. Up early, very dark. As we rose it began raining. Our coats? In the motor. It got harder and harder (for us to leave, and the downpour). Déluge. We simply had to make a start. I dashed for the car, leapt in and drove almost into the hotel vestibule. Mme M slung our luggage on to the thankfully vacant back seat and leapt in…… and away. Awful driving conditions and the sun seemingly giving it a miss today.

Things did improve, of course they did. But it did rain almost more or less continually for the 200 mile drive through Les Landes to the Gironde Ferry. They improved further at Belin-Béliet in particular where Mme Melling zipped into an open boulangerie and acquired exceptional filled baguettes (well mine was). They improved again when we took time out to consume the repast, at Hourtin Plage, a place we had previously bypassed in favour of the forest road to Hourtin lighthouse, one of this western coast's phares built to provide navigational certainty on a mostly unlit coastline. The rain assured we had our lunch stop entirely to ourselves, the way we like it, unless in the market for a café-crême. Not sure the coastal security shouldn't have had someone looking out for surf dudes, mind – but there was not a soul about. Plenty of surf, but no dudes. And it rained. Not sure either that Mme Melling even got out of the car, at Hourtin Plage. 

We resumed. We took a detour here, an alternative there, and finally came out at Fort de Verdon and thence the Pointe de Grave. One could hardly detect the opposite shore at times (see below) but sharp eyed Mme Melling detected the ferry-in-service coming across from Royan to fetch those who would wish to be conveyed back there,  We were assured of a transit across the estuary mouth, and then be able to proceed to our third hotel stop in La Rochelle. For a few minutes, whilst we embarked, the rain abated. We boarded, were transported, arrived, disembarked, motored on (in the rain again) – and finally sank into the comforting embrace of one our favourite and regular stop-overs, where the vehicle also gets treated to underground shelter from the elements of the day. That's in La Rochelle.

All that now remains to record is the 300 miles, La Rochelle to Roscoff. Done it before, but just a minute, wasn't that to an overnighter at Yffiniac or Roscoff or Guingamp prior to a morning sailing, or for an overnighter on an overnight ferry? Today we are going for an afternoon boat, and moreover we need to be dockside not much later than 14.00, for the 15.00 departure. We set off the earliest yet, but are not out of La Rochelle before we are up to our eyes in……

Thick fog. Not the first time this, but this time the fog does not clear with the arrival of the day. If anything it just gets a bit thicker. At St Hermine we stop off at the cross-roads boulangerie, where we first refreshed in spring (see snap below) and the same outlet where I was discouraged from seeking-a-sandwich on the way south, back in September. Now we consume excellent croissants, satisfactory coffee and obtain sandwiches of good quality… we muse about lunching at Le Surcouf in Roscoff (or at least I do) as the fog swirls around outside……

So… For 210 miles (we are now growing aware that we are running things a bit fine) we drive through fog. Mostly medium thick to thinnish but without benefit of sunlight, views, aspects, or sense of place. Those choice baguettes, filled with flavour, nutrition and promise, remain untouched. My planned Surcouf oyster lunch? No chance. Somewhere north of Rennes we suddenly emerge into a sparkling blue, sunlit scene. No further brouillard or even cloud besmirches or encumbers our onward progress. We arrive outside the port of Roscoff with time to purchase a 5kg sack of the excellent sweet onions they grow thereabouts; we check in with fifteen to thirty minutes to spare. Result!

The Ste Hermine sandwiches are addressed/dispatched as our maritime conveyance puts to sea. Hours later, after we have wandered the deck a bit (can you believe, one cannot get a french cidre on this french craft?) and slumbered a while in our day cabin, we dock in Plymouth.  It isn't even raining which must almost be a first. For the first time too, on this vessel, we are directed to drive right off the back, without the doing of a U turn (I notice these things, but have not noticed the ferry has reversed up to the loading and unloading ramp: you see, we came on board through the bow doors and were not required to go up the ramp to the upper car deck. So did not need to come back down again. Do you follow me?). Off promptly then, queue a bit, clear customs, then motor back to our Devon estates, where the effect of our extended absence will be all too apparent in the light of our first day back – in the garden that is. No doubt about that…