Visit number thirty three to 1rueFB and it is March 2025. Expect no great insights dear reader, this is a record of the outward bound journey, brief and simple. In fact, I’d skip all that follows if I were you, but you know your own mind, I’m sure: due warning has been issued.
OK: off to Portsmouth. No sailings listed from Plymouth until April, you see. Something to do with quayside alterations or similar. I dislike the trek to Portsmouth, the lateness of the sailing, even the ship itself (Mont St Michel) which is a bit shabby in places and in need of a bit more tlc. As we don’t like driving much at night we arrived far too early, of course. In fact, we spent slightly longer sitting on the dockside than we did undertaking the journey to that dockside. I vowed never to do it again.
On the other side, at Ouistreham, we were almost last off the barque but still within half an hour of dropping the gang plank to disgorge. Ages ago MM and self used to come this way across La Manche before Plymouth came to dominate our thinking. We returned from here in 2018 just so I could clock the hitherto disregarded phare on the portside… doubt we’ll do this crossing again though. So about 0715ish we took an almost deserted road through the coastal habitations to Ver-sur-Mer. Two targets: the recently completed British Normandy Landings Memorial (curiosity) and the previously undetected village lighthouse (passion) overlooking legendary WW2 ‘Gold Beach’.
I’m sorry: we did not acquire more than a glimpse of the Ver-sur-Mer WW2 memorial: deserted car parks, where one has to pay fgs, grace the top of a coastal plateau across which a gale force wind was making a scene, so we drove on, not tempted to trudge what looked like quite a distance to review the latest tasteful and timely addition to the various war reminders, remnants and markers along this troubled coastline. Target two: the Ver-sur-Mer lighthouse: also up the hill, set back a bit. No access of course but I am glad to have at last eyeballed this quite modest but elegant phare, it has been an omission I needed to address. I have updated the entry in my Pharesighted blog concerning this light accordingly. Madame Melling did not stir from the motor.
Time to get going south. A quick look over the cliffs at Arromanches to see how much is left of the Mulberry harbour constructed in 1944 to bring in materiel etc. (still quite a lot survives but it is slowly sinking and breaking up, big gaps: the sea slowly eating it all up). Then a fortuitous wrong turn in Bayeux brought us to a good postcard view of the cathedral (visited many years ago, of course, it is a gem, and what with the tapestry and all, well worth a day of anybody’s time).
Hey ho to Saumur where we think we were assigned the room previously graced by Dr G when we patronised this Kyriad last and the motor got dusted with Sahara sand overnight. This time we ate out, very well indeed and in a restaurant I think we supped in previously, in a very distant past, when we came into town from some cheapskate accommodation we used before we realised that being comfortable overnight is worth the odd euro(s) extra. Here in the centre of town we slept well enough and it was surprisingly quiet.
Thereafter we made good time to our usual haunt in Périgueux, slap bang through the middle of town with nothing remotely like a wrong turn, Mme Melling’s bloodhound tendencies leading us unerringly to the riverside gaff under the brooding presence of the cathedral, currently being refettled under the customary scaffold and plastic shelter that indicates serious and probably lengthy remedial work. That blackbird which woke us at some god-awful hour last time we frequented this Ibis, was giving it out as per: terrific acoustics betwixt hotel and cathedral towers. We ate at chez Fred’s, our fourth visit and it was jolly alright (rice pudding) and not over filling. We retired.
Fortunately, Mme Melling is up to the mark, and all would have been sweetness and light if we had not run into a shocker Route Barée some kilometres before finally taking breakfast once more in lovely Lalinde.
Just a minute: we are greeted kindly by the receptionist-maybe-manager and are offered some sort of upgrade from the bog-standard accom we have booked. Why, this person shows us to our room no less, and even offers to carry our luggage. I decline the offer. Hey up… we are shown to a suite the like of which just isn’t for peasant stock like us. All is impeccable, a sitting room with a dear little private terrace overlooking an 180 degree panorama of undulating ridges, woodlands and farmland; a perfect bathroom plus shower with similar views, a giant bed in a lovely room (more vistas) – brand new mattress and bedding (we learn later), separate loo, nearby tea and coffee facilities, two tellies (we never use them - but that’s not the point). After rather a testing day routewise this is just what the Doctor ordered. Mme Melling disappears into the bath and I just gawp at the view.
It is. Lovely restaurant space, our table reserved within reach of a well charged woodburner, a bright, grand and tasteful interior, well peopled and perfectly served by attentive staff. The food is wonderful. We go for our favoured different wine for each course option. Lots of little extras and no condiments on the table. I look in vain for the HP sauce… no chips…… It does do you good to get out once in a while, don't you think?
Despite quite severe winds overnight we slept well and did a tour of the village hilltop before shipping out. The wind: severe, now very. Tiles coming off. And to the east a vaste duvet of grey cloud mush into which we would need to proceed. We left. The covered market illustrated herewith was snapped by Mary: I framed and recorded (I thought) works of unsurpassing art but my camera took against the place or the wind, may be both, or me, so declined to copy my images to its itsty bitsy memory card. Do that again just one more time, box-brownie, and it'll be e-bay for you……
Apparently, regarding our experience here at St Félix, MM has since detected that we had indeed been accommodated in the premier suite of the Auberge-du-Poids-Public, normally costing in excess of double the price of the standard room we paid for. Nevertheless, the final reckoning was still rather quite eye-watering enough, but actually I don’t care, this time. A lovely experience, not really in tune with the Youth Hostel approach to overnight bed and board that once was my mode juste.
Just 200 miles further on we report in at Sablet. Prior to our 1300 arrival we had once more been taxed in our efforts to find any breakfast refreshment on that route so often utilised onward from Castelnaudary via Carcassonne and on to Bèziers. Once more we tried to find just a cuppa in this little dreary village or that: they really do do rank stonework and shabby crumbling facades along the route in question – but we broke through (66 miles on) at the road junction into Bize Minervois. Here we got big strong coffees and we unwrapped our St Felix acquired croissants to complete the occasion. Snaffled a bottle of St Jean-de Minervois aussi, for those difficult days…… Under the greyness that now pervaded (with just the odd sprinkling of inclemency at times) we decided to press on at pace by employing the A9 auto route to conclude our passage to PACA84, and blow the toll expense.
The house is icy chill on unlocking the house door as all the windows are open behind the shutters! That’s right. Because you see our painter neighbour has been and painted the interior/exterior window frames plus entrance doors in bright white gloss: he left them open (not the doors!) to dry thoroughly. We will eventually get the cold stone walls warmed up with the jolly old central H, but it will take a day or two. Just now we are in receipt of strong southerly winds and further spatterings of rain… Le Géant is snow capped: it is colder here than in Devon, but we have expectations. It will soon perk up! And here we are, – that’s how we got ourselves ici; this is how we done it…
No deviations were offered, roads we selected got smaller and barely featuring in the atlas. No matter: despite some unsavoury remarks we won through thanks to MM’s skill and conviction, and got ourselves into that rather sullen band of industrial untidiness and agricultural mass marketing where Tarn and Garonne rivers converge, unavoidable when coming this way, and somewhere east of it we sandwiched in an off-road bit of public park. Then on, into fairer rolling and lovely countryside until we eventually espied St-Félix-Lauragais on top of a very windblown hill coming almost immediately therein to our third hotel, the Auberge-du-Poids-Public. And at our customary arrival time, 1600 we clocked in.
We are not done yet, either. We are eating in at this hotel because dear reader, Mme Melling has been at it again. She checked to see if the transport café down the road was open and found it not so (or so she claims, hmm) so to make sure we can get fed and watered she has booked us into the Auberge’s own restaurant. It has a Michelin Star. Being a Logis-de-France, we know the food will be good, but Michelin star good?
It is. Lovely restaurant space, our table reserved within reach of a well charged woodburner, a bright, grand and tasteful interior, well peopled and perfectly served by attentive staff. The food is wonderful. We go for our favoured different wine for each course option. Lots of little extras and no condiments on the table. I look in vain for the HP sauce… no chips…… It does do you good to get out once in a while, don't you think?
Despite quite severe winds overnight we slept well and did a tour of the village hilltop before shipping out. The wind: severe, now very. Tiles coming off. And to the east a vaste duvet of grey cloud mush into which we would need to proceed. We left. The covered market illustrated herewith was snapped by Mary: I framed and recorded (I thought) works of unsurpassing art but my camera took against the place or the wind, may be both, or me, so declined to copy my images to its itsty bitsy memory card. Do that again just one more time, box-brownie, and it'll be e-bay for you……
Just 200 miles further on we report in at Sablet. Prior to our 1300 arrival we had once more been taxed in our efforts to find any breakfast refreshment on that route so often utilised onward from Castelnaudary via Carcassonne and on to Bèziers. Once more we tried to find just a cuppa in this little dreary village or that: they really do do rank stonework and shabby crumbling facades along the route in question – but we broke through (66 miles on) at the road junction into Bize Minervois. Here we got big strong coffees and we unwrapped our St Felix acquired croissants to complete the occasion. Snaffled a bottle of St Jean-de Minervois aussi, for those difficult days…… Under the greyness that now pervaded (with just the odd sprinkling of inclemency at times) we decided to press on at pace by employing the A9 auto route to conclude our passage to PACA84, and blow the toll expense.
The house is icy chill on unlocking the house door as all the windows are open behind the shutters! That’s right. Because you see our painter neighbour has been and painted the interior/exterior window frames plus entrance doors in bright white gloss: he left them open (not the doors!) to dry thoroughly. We will eventually get the cold stone walls warmed up with the jolly old central H, but it will take a day or two. Just now we are in receipt of strong southerly winds and further spatterings of rain… Le Géant is snow capped: it is colder here than in Devon, but we have expectations. It will soon perk up! And here we are, – that’s how we got ourselves ici; this is how we done it…
