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…