cordouan ticked off

If you are a fan of my Pharesighted blog you will have come across this post already, pretty much. I include it here for the uninitiated. You've been missing out though: pharesighed is top flight! Although I says so myself. 

IT IS APRIL 2026 and Mme Melling and self are relaxing in Royan at the southernmost point of our second spring jolly. No, not Ciboure, as projected elsewhere, we thought better of it in the light of rocketing fuel prices and possibly worse to come, but thought it wasn't too extreme to travel this far, albeit with five litres spare distillate in case fuel stations start running out.

To soften the blow of not going to the Spanish border, Mme Melling suggested booking a ferry out to Cordouan, it might be running. Sure enough, the weather is so good it looks like summer here in Royan and yes the boat is going and we secure seats on the 1230 sailing on Thursday 9 April (or at least Mme does, on our behalf). 

The boat indeed leaves at 1230, not quite full I think, and we ride on the top of it in glorious sunshine. We do the swop, after 40 minutes, to the shallow draught shuttle, a boat with wheels on the front to assist unloading, and which we've towed all the way from Royan. We are early enough tidewise to get taken right up to the steps of the edifice to disgorge, so no stroll across the exposed sands for us and no wet feet. The boat we left Royan on stands off in deeper water while the operative that works the shuttle takes a long kip (after the second load of punters have been fetched over) out of reach until such time as he is required to reverse the procedure, at the conclusion of our visit to the mighty Cordouan. 

Please find displayed, therefore, the results of this quest. Mme Melling is prompt upon arrival, as the other visitors assemble to receive the official intro and history in the ground floor chamber, she intimates that we'd best get climbing. She is right and furthermore no one else follows us as we rapidly proceed to the lantern, pausing (well I do) to marvel and record the interior spaces, and snatch some breath back, until all 301 steps have been achieved and we stand at last on the lantern balcony. Wow. Here is most of what we saw, and note the seeming absence of other visitors. That's how I like my phares……

So there you are, a brief guide to the principle spaces of France's oldest operational lighthouse.

The ground floor hall doesn't feature in this set as it was full of visitors, and the watch room, a panelled space under the lantern from which those final steps ascend into said lantern, well I failed to snap that as well, sorry. In fact those steps were recorded by Mme Melling (with kind permission) who also failed to capture a likeness of the watch room on level six. 

Just to give an idea of the view from up there on the tenth highest phare of France:

We leave, as we came, dryshod. The subsequent arrival, another flat bottomed shuttleboat from the Verdon-sur-Mer arrival, discharges its passengers a short distance from the crown entrance: they have to paddle. 

Cordouan: if you get the chance, don't delay, go right away. 

Thank you for your attention. Post number 63 In my sister blog 'pharesighted' describes Cordouan's history in some detail maybe you should have read that before perusing this post, that was the idea… oh well……

off to royan

 

Plymouth to Roscoff.    I was somewhat non-plussed when seeking to embark.  I am always quite prepared to be asked a few questions by UK and even French customs (on the return) about our intended or concluding journey, happy to open the boot even – to reveal the absence of stowaways, illicit pets, plants and foodstuffs, short-wave transmitters, and/or other articles deemed to be passé. When we were brought to a stop in order to go through this familiar palaver at Plymouth docks, outbound, as on previous occasions, that is all I expected, a few vague questions, although nine times out of ten we glide past without a request to pause for a chat at all…… never mind, it's our turn seemingly, here we are……

Whose car is this? Do you own it? Did you pack it yourself? Are you carrying anything for someone else? Are you carrying any motor fuel in addition to that contained in the vehicle's fuel tank? (Answer: mine/ours, yes, yes, no yes 5 litres in an authorised container), well, there we are, I thought that was it. 

But no! Next came a long list of offensive weapons we had to assure this chappie (our interrogator had a clipboard) we were not carrying, ranging from knives through to crossbows, shotguns and even APDs I think. I was able to assure the job’s worth that on this occasion at least we were not conveying so much as a toothpick. 

This was still not enough for Mr Security. He wanted to inspect the five litres of emergency distillate we’d declared: I thought to confirm that it was petrol and not over the ten litres limit stipulated by HMC&E. I pondered about unscrewing the cap to display the E10 sloshing about therein but feared the strong whiff of petroleum might be considered an indirect assault upon our stern but aged guardian of HMC. He seemed satisfied and didn’t press the matter when he had assured himself that it was but a five litre can. With some relief I closed the hatchback. The possible ignominy of what looked quite likely to develop into the full unloading of the boot and all our luggage being minutely inspected receded… what would he make of the wellington boots … seemed for a sickening moment that it might just be on the cards. 

This fellow-me-lad stood all of five feet six inches tall, wore the customary gilet jaune with hood and what I can only describe as a disciplined but nevertheless shortish white St Nicolas beard. He resembled Father Christmas, but in florescent yellow rather than the more familiar and customary rouge of that legendary figure. He was clearly several years older than me, and like me, very much past retirement age. More so in fact. His colleague, a woman in similar attire (but not bearded) and a few years younger than her male counterpart had, meanwhile, been looking under the motor to see if we had affixed explosives there, presumably so that we might end it all at some moment of our choosing. We’d not done that. Never mind… they announced that they were now going to carry out a pat search on each of us. Der?

I had the presence of mind to quickly remove from my pockets a spectacle case, wallet and sundry other chunky items, to aid this officer in his duty. He thanked me but took no interest in these items whatsoever. I explained the braces and belt combination lest he thought I was carrying bandoliers of ammo under my fleece. He examined my collar, for semtex I imagine (thank God I wasn’t packing any marzipan this time, round my neck, as you do). Mme Melling was undergoing a similar humiliation. 

What the F did they expect to find – a Magnum*, a Smith & Weston, a crossbow? They drew a blank. Sadly I could not offer them a compensatory Wurther’s Original to soften their disappointment… we were fresh out (*I do like Magnums though, I have to own: double choc with nuts — or caramel salé, if you are buying… but we don't ship out with them, obvs, they'd melt). 

Bloody hell, yes, we were FRISKED FGS. No explanation why was forthcoming (I thought it best not to seek it). Had someone tipped them off? They were polite, these two, chatty even – mentioned that they were going home in a few minutes time (were they a married couple even?) let us back into the motor, a cheery wave even, and allowed us to proceed upon our way, or at least to the back of the row already waiting to be called forward to the car deck on our sea-going vessel. Great heavens. Some sort of retirement activity? Uniforms? Pop along to the docks and play security? April Fools??

It was the French who had the crossbows and us English who relied on Long Bows, at Agincourt at least. That ended well. I wasn’t asked if I had any bows and arrows!

Not British, this sort of thing. I fumed for some hours thereafter I can tell you. I have only been frisked hitherto when visiting at HMP Exeter, where I could grasp the rationale (the sniffer dog too) but for the night boat to Roscoff, huh, what?? I conclude it was just a case of: we can, because we can, you know……

Anyway, that is how we came to sail overnight Plymouth to Roscoff and to breakfast in the Ty Pierre café the following morning before motoring south… let's get on with this shall we? 

Roscoff to Batz sur Mer.   Into Roscoff for breakfast, as I have already indicated. It’s a cloudless day but at Morlaix access to the tedious but useful N12 is coned off so we do not follow our planned route at all, or for that matter the alternative route suggested by the diversion signs. I am not sure where Mary takes us as we motor generally southwards but it is pretty at times, very fresh green, if a touch tortuous and mostly traffic free as it is Easter Monday – until approaching Vannes, where it is busier, as it is Easter Monday. We faff about a bit around La Roche Bernard. A pine marten ambles across the road but Mary misses it as she has her head buried in the Michelin. I feel bad about this.

port tréhiguier

We’ve brought our own victuals for this first day on the road, so potter on to a quayside lunch at the fishing port of Tréhiguier, overlooking the tidal pontoon: we secure a park style bench. Satiated, we move on, eventually to the Pointe du Bile for coffee and the parking granted to us as customers thereat, it is quite busy just here. We take a mooch above the extensive oyster or are they mussel parks.

oysters or may be mussels farming

We also try a bit of the coastal path to get the views. Back in the car we proceed and drive across the saltings on the familar snaking road to bring us to the railway station and our Batz-sur-Mer hotel. 

pointe du bile or close by

The temperature has been at least up to 23°C today and we have felt, at times, somewhat overdressed. We eat our supper in Le Croisic, at a crêperie, accompanied by an excellent bottle of cidre bouché. 

croisic

Still pressing on? 

I admire your fortitude. 

Not to worry, we get to Royan next. 

Batz-sur-Mer to Royan:   Off, as soon as the family member with desk duties turned up at the hotel reception, and to the delights of an early morning La Baule. Not my scene. How brash it all is. But at least it calms down a touch at Pornichet where we espy in the town square, a rather jolly yet refined bar where we consume crusty baguettes packed with Normandy butter and (for me) redcurrant jelly. Admirable woman running the show, I sat up straight… felt restored after all the lip curling I had had to do while negotiating La Baule.

Back to the quest: Pont St Nazaire! I never tire of crossing it, when the traffic is fluid, which today it is. And it is getting warmer still. Very familiar roads lead us past numerous storks, herons and similar, it is a joy. We just had to deviate through Port du Bec where it is very quiet but we score a pair of marsh harriers and take a potter round the canal sluices, relishing the highish tide which conveniently obscures the extensive mud flats hereabouts. The Passage du Gois is not far away round the corner so of course we parked up there and walked out just as far as the tide allowed. Waders (the birds). Of course, here there were tourists, some with tots, but no chance of using the passage for hours to come. It gets hot: today tops 28°C.

We eat the second instalment of food brought with us, at an unprepossessing oyster estuary south of Talmont St Hilaire, near an unobtainable Pointe du Payre. But soft! – there is the song of the nightingale, (two at least) here be circulating herons, storks overflying and what's that duck if not a shell? We do not, after all, envy those packing the oyster shacks just up the road. 

Thereafter, we press on to Royan, avoiding a large shiny snake on the roadside… shambling down the awful N137 road (us, not the snake) past La Rochelle and Rochefort arriving at the mysteriously named  Family Golf Hotel after finding the central promenade or esplanade closed for major roadworks. Consternation at this situation turns to satisfaction as we find our chosen hotel is located on the main beach away from said esplanade but still in easy reach of the centre: our spacious room is on the ground floor, benefitting from a designated terrace and immediate sea views across the road to St Georges, subject to the sound of surf. We sink into the place and sup kirs as one does, after a day in the motor.

Later, I limp back (awful) into the centre of town, trailing Mme Melling as best I can, for an indifferent (poor) meal. No. Bloody awful meal. A bad choice but who knew? This experience is the only one of its kind on this excursion – the scars are healing. I totter back and find recuperation in the sea’s calming presence and after most of the beach users have trooped off. I wind back the canopy-awning that in the day can afford us shade, lower the privacy screen down and repair to the extensive bed. M books the Cordouan trip. I watch Point-de-Grave phare flashing away across the Gironde. Not at all bad. I've indicated the position of our suite on the title illustration, as seen from sea – sans awning of course – I've retracted it for our day out — we are off to the lighthouses.