meandering through the cevennes to sablet

TIME TO BRING THIS OUTGOING TO FULFILMENT I think you will agree, and to get to where we are going. But even at this fourth stage we cannot resist meandering a bit, taking in favourite bits of the Cevennes… otherwise why would we have overnighted at Millau?

So out of Millau we proceed, doing what I projected we would do, (back in an earlier post) to breakfast at Le Caylar. Then, by tried and tested (if not exactly familiar) byways, avoiding sheep, to Vissec, to give Dr G a taste of our fondness for the place, she wanted a stroll around. As quiet as usual, although one or two camper vans down by the riverbed (dry). Very little has altered, at least in the old bit, the centre, around the church, and that's the bit we know, have stayed in and appeciated; no idea much about the newer bit.

But the main feature of this meander was Navacelles of course and there, there were a few more visitors about given the extended summer still going on. I am informed that Navacelles has an 's' at it's end but I am in no frame of mind to bother changing it on the montage below, just now, if ever.

We had a very pleasant potter about the outskirts of the hamlet, now fringed with discreet parking areas and that sort of thing… >sigh< … I expect you have to, but Mme M and your author could not help reflecting on our first visit here last century (and even subsequent visits, with the offspring) when we had the location to ourselves, there was no particular facilitation, and we could bathe in the river unheeded. Couldn't do that now (or at least, you'd not catch me doing it). There was even traffic going down to Navacelles and, damn it,  going up the other side! And down!! It was pretty warm and all.

Did we sandwich [v.] on this last leg? I honestly can't remember, but I think we must have done. [no, we failed on this front for once I am reliably informed] I know we stopped for refreshment at St Victor-de-la-Coste, just to check that the café there had got its 2023 Routard sticker (which it had) so we felt we could risk liquid refreshment there at least (lunch was over). After that it was hardly more than a moment to wind our way through the last bits, cross the Rhône into Vaucluse, (see snap below looking back the way we've just come) and thus to Sablet, where all was in order (if you ignore the loss of my favourite kitchen knife) and rather hotter than we expected. I shorted [v.] with immediate effect: I had been open toeing [v.] from stage 2 onwards… We fulfilled the brief…… 

Nine hundred and fifty-one miles from Roscoff. Yes, I do note the mileage covered, want to make some point about that, do you? If you did, well at least I would know you've read this to the end… I am given to doubting the loyalty of my readership at times, and that's the truth… but if you have been, thanks for your esteemed attention.

The sheep pictures are included with the kind permission of Mme M, who snapped les moutons just after Le Caylar. 

motoring on through gers & tarn & aveyron

 

…SO WE BREAKFASTED IN CONDOM, not en route as is most usual, to compensate for not having been about a bit the previous evening on account of the threat of rain and general lassitude. 

We took our breakfast across the road from the sandstone walls of the former cathedral of Saint Pierre, just up from the sculpture of your four musketeers which graces this space. 

The church was clad overall in scaffolding as is often the case in our experience. Many have been the edifices we have sought out, only to find the object of our attentions to be deeply disfigured by temporary plank-and-rail examples of the scaffolders' art, associated with repair restoration and revitalising. 

Anyway, we found our way in and were delighted with the space inside, the atypically complex vaulting, not common in France, the fine clerestory windows and the modern and creative extension of a useable space by application of a central awning over the cloisters. Tres bien.

The avoidance of most of the typical ecclesiastical paraphernalia was noted. Simple gracious spaces, calming and inspiring even to heathens such as ourselves. Tres bien again.

At last we tore ourselves away – au revoir Condom,   – and went off along the intended pathway, only deviating from same to locate somewhere half reasonable to take our lunchtime break. The river Tarn had been crossed, noted, and then sequested for this task: we followed a diminishing track marked to the port outside a nondescript townlet and found a waterside bench which served. Good tucker ensued if I recall.

Incidentally dear reader, may I point out once again that if you want historical background to Condom and the next place of particular interest you can look it up all by yourself. This ramble isn't up to such detail although one is tempted to try and give an outline when one stumbles across Sainte Cécile in Albi (that's Saint Cecilia in Eng.).

You'll be familiar with this edifice already no doubt: we've come this way several times before you know and we like that austere exterior with a passion. Inside? Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. It is so bad, its good! And a real tourist honeypot to boot! You could do worse than referring to Banister-Fletcher (A History of Architecture on the Comparative Method) which is where I learnt all about this weird concoction, as a svelte sixth-former doing his A-level Art studies. I had (and still have) my own copy of this seminal work albeit the 1954 edition. Great heavens, it is built of roman red brick, literally for God's Sake! Except it had to double as a fortress. Cathars and stuff. Read it up.

Whatever you think, it is one of the most remarkable cathedrals in Fr, but one wonders just how much time was dedicated to 'decorating' its interior. Perhaps during a particularly long siege? Believe me there is no surface inside that isn't covered in paint, carving, pattern and the dreaded catholic ecclesiastical paraphernalia. One feels slightly nauseous in there, rather overawed outside… And it is always hot in Albi it seems.

Enough already! This post, this blog, isn’t about a lot of things and amongst those things it isn’t about is the development of gothic vaulting as compared within the different periods of gothic architecture in Western Europe, as compared to the full fruition of vaulting that reached its apogee in Great Britain. We mooched back to the parking spot we had secured, after an appropriately expensive but refreshing drink at a nearby bar…… and motored on.

We were enchanted to return to this area of country, it is most fair. We came almost unexpectedly to pass under Le Viaduc de Millau and shortly thereafter washed up at the Ibis Budget on the hill, a favourite of ours (although Dr G had not ever signed in here: she was more used to the central city address, but we’ve done staying there as parking is, or can be un cauchemar…) 

What’s more, the beaming hotel manager recommended, without reservation, the extensive restaurant complex just above the hotel on the hill, citing its use of local produce etc etc. I was naturally dubious (Mr 10% possibly?) but happy not to have try our luck in Millau again, and as Dr G was amenable, we strolled up the slope and dined at the recommended eatery. I can confirm that it ticked nearly all the boxes. And Ibis budget though this stopover may be, I can confirm it also ticks all the boxes, even to the extent that it is better than many Ibis (standard) hotels we have patronised. As if you cared, — what the **** is he going on about, hotels and all that, cripes, old son lay off it will you, if you’ve nothing to say further on this stage of your journey just finish it right now, capiche? 

OK already, yeah, right! This post ends here.

crossing the gironde en route to condom

LAST TIME WE BOARDED THIS FERRY we had to dash for it all the way from La Rochelle, (in Spring) then queue a while to board… but today it was but a few minutes from our overnight resting place to reach the embarkation point. Nevertheless we didn't think we'd make the early boat after all as it was earlier than we had anticipated (seasonal timetable change), so didn't try, just tootled along the sea fronts indicating this feature or that to Dr G, wondering if and where we might find our customary starter for the day in a rather sleepy Sunday morning Royan. Just checking the ferry times as we were in the offing of the embarkation point… oh look, there is the early ferry, not yet slipped its moorings… so by the skin of our dentures and with only minimal haste, we were last on… before we could collect our sou'westers and clamber out of the motor, we were gliding across to Pointe de Grave: saving ourselves an hour or two of heel-kicking in fair Royan, don't you know! Croissants on board (and better than last time) coffee piping chaud aussi albeit in paper cups.

An odd way to proceed to Condom, you might opine. Yes, maybe so but we like to do the unusual, wanted to share a bit of forest and brine with our passenger, and had high expectations on the sandwich front. The original strategy for this day (and all the other stages of this journey south) have been revealed and no doubt assimilated by my more attentive blog-fan in an earlier pre-travel posting.

I noted in my log: 

'… Phare Richard visited. Coffee break at Marcheprime. Excellent sandwiches obtained at latter – eaten at Bazas. Then visited the round bastide village of Fources (not visited before, in this life at least) and an uncomfortably busy Larressingle (visited many years ago when it was almost deserted and not developed to assuage the appetites of the motoring tourist). 

Larressingle, the quiet side

'… Thundery rain after we got into Hotel Continental in Condom. Too big, too many English speakers*. But had another good supper, sadly indoors, as it came on to rain quite hard at dusk; promised night time storms did not materialise…'

 

*The hotel (The Continental by name, you may have heard of it) was somewhat over-patronised by a large group of rather 'loud' types, obviously on some sort of up market cultural excursion. Not riffraff you understand, but persons who I am sure ordinarily would be almost interesting people to have a conversation with (this might not have been the majority view at our table, I didn't put it to a vote) but on this occasion, they did somewhat act as though other guests, such as ourselves were simply not present. Or were in their way. Or were of no consequence. Or were in awe of their international and cosmopolitan stature. 

They piped down a bit once the hotel staff had shepherded them to their excessively long table and laid their chosen dishes before them (all hands to the pumps for this operation, I'm not sure some of the more timorous guests weren't enlisted to carry in the seemingly endless array of variations on a theme, from the set menu ordered in advance). Prior to all that, a group of women (they were all of the fairer sex although the troupe was mixed in other parts of the dining room) of a certain age and several national origins, I shall be no more specific than that, saw fit to stand around so close to our table, swapping tales of their escapades, their household staff etc., so loudly that no detail could have been missed by anyone save the extreme hard-of-hearing. I feared I might have to urge Mme M to speak, nay protest to the manager on the subject! But luckily the matter resolved itself and we were able to finish our meal in something approaching normality. 

Thereafter (we skipped the liqueurs) we retired to our comfortable rooms while the rain continued to fall.  We were out of The Continental the next morning just after the break of day (long before the hordes of the previous evening were up and doing) – but we only removed ourselves to the former cathedral area of Condom, where we elected to take our petit dej. before cracking on to Millau via Albi… a good decision, in a town we have visited before (Condom) and found to our general liking, leastways, as far as M and self are concerned. 

breaking off at st georges de didonnne

 

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. 

But there was no apparent vestige of any appropriate breakfast sojourn and I could feel an ‘atmosphere’ developing about this shortfall onboard so concluded that locating such a venue should become uppermost in our objectives before the day got much older. We motored on and across the Pont de St Nazaire. 

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. 

If you were to consult Mme Melling’s post concerning this passage of play, you might very well come away with the impression that matters took a bit of a turn at St Michel. Be assured, nothing very amiss occured. 

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. 

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.

We ate in the hotel. I thought it good. I drank neat Campari. I thought that good too. To deaden the pain you understand. Dr G reported the following morning that there had been a rather good thunderstorm after we had retired. I missed it entirely on account of Mme Melling demanding complete shuttering to our room against the street lighting. It would have completed the day most satisfactorily, that bit of a storm. Oh well. Mustn’t grumble. There was functioning air con after all.

stopping over at batz-sur-mer

TWENTY TWENTY-THREE, AS I MAY HAVE ALREADY VOUCH-SAFED is (or was) the year we decided summers in the S of F are no longer our thing, if they ever were, so the Autumn 2023 excursion had become rather keenly anticipated by the time we weighed anchor for our appointment with that trusty barque, Armorique.  There can be no doubt anymore that the world is warming up. Vaucluse aussi. Our tolerance of heat is going the other way, so summers at Rue FB are probably out for us from hereon.

As predicted Dr G did manage to reach Bullsmead Villas in time to be included in the contents, rapidly adapting to the rather over-cautious hour of departure, the tempting but dubious variation at Tavistock that won’t be employed again, the usual tedious quayside interlude – not accounting for the unreadiness of our cabins, the jostle at the restaurant, bar etc. 

Not withstanding, we surfed La Manche in comfort and were off the boat within twenty minutes of the ramps going down and at our breakfast table twenty minutes later… greeted warmly, our unexpected arrival appended into the legend of the favoured establishment, quiet this time except for the soft murmurs of approval from ourselves as to the quality of the beverages put before us. We added the only remaining croissant and two pains chocolade to our coffee order, ensuring selflessly our guest got the former while Mme M stole herself to chomp on the latter (pains-chocolade are anathema to her good self, y’see). The picture left was created in 2022 at the same table and place (St Julien)…

Ever keen to widen our passenger’s experience of Finistère, we built in a short digestive excursion apres petit-dej to Pointe de Pen-al-Lann (see the itinerary published previously) where we gulped in views of the Rade de Morlaix, teetered round the short circuit we have walked before, and even got a bit hot under the collar on account of the early morning sun not being fully anticipated. Sandwiches were secured shortly after this stroll was achieved, at a village whose name probably defeats even your locals, acquired by our quartermaster cum campaign commander… 

Great heavens, they were good ones too, worthy of the canal side, lock side location Mary subsequently pin pointed for us, see snaps above. Quite a good first morning don’t you think? Well you would have, if you’d been part of the assembly, I can assure you! I don’t think Dr G demured. 

To cut a relatively long day short we eventually stopped off amongst the saltings of Guérande in somewhat unexpectedly toasty weather. Took a stroll. Arty pictures were attempted. After this it was a short step to our hotel in Batz-sur-Mer which I noted (not for the first time) was unblessed with air con. This compromised my sleep somewhat but it was nice to be back in the wee hostel. Les Marais Salants – even though we clearly had left no impression on the owner (or shudder of recognition) from our first visit back in 2022. 

Dr G took the upper salon while Mme M shared her suite downstairs with the driver. We ate good crepes in Croisic and walked them off down the jetty, in failing light, to the Tredic feu, as you do, not withstanding that self could only summon up a painful limp. Didn't quite make it fact, but been there, done that, back in twenty-two…

It rained hard twice in the night. The trains came and went as softly as any trains can. I slept rather badly due to the heat. And not sleeping very well these days. The trains just soothed.