autumn 2026 en suite

 

Brevity is called for in this post and I shall supply it. My international public, followers, critics, well wishers and range of other associates all await my account of our journey to the S of F, this autumn – some, as if their lives depended on it, others more akin to reading the guff on the side of a cereal pack, in the absence of anything more gripping to distract them at the breakfast table. Or so I imagine.

We reported for embarkation at the port of Plymouth, wondering what shape the inconvenience of doing so this time would take. We fully expected to be finger printed, either here or on the other side of La Manche. But no; nothing. We are aquainted with folk who have shipped this way recently and got the latest inconvenience of the Shengen Area over and done with already but nothing doing today. 

For the first time ever, (as far as I know, that is) we found ourselves shipping out behind a blood relative, also intent on holidaying ‘over there’ but in his case (my younger brother and his wife that is) in the N&W of F, in a van and on a tandem. I recognised my sibling’s latest wheels on the back of their van immediately (through rainstreaked windows) upon joining the check-in queue. They were parked up when we arrived, making tea. Had we known.

We eventually boarded our barque apparently before sibling (after the usual interminable dockside park up) and we met up on deck seven, where self and M were just finishing our customary pre-cabin freebe victuals. We chatted a while (I suggested a drink in the bar which was declined) and as the Armorique left territorial waters, we bade farewell to one another and took to our quarters. We did not see them again, either on board, or during the scramble to get through Fr passport control, out of the Gare Maritime and en route. 

As we have done so often before, we made good speed and 60 miles progress to Châteaulaudren where we found our usual favoured café to have been thoroughly refreshed and refitted, its former character giving way to greater efficiency, an encyclopaedic display of the greatest vapes known to humankind, and away with the bumpy seating. But coffee just as good as hitherto, although the croissants from across the way - a bit chewy today. 

Through occasional drizzle and showers thereafter we pursued our conquest and reached the Loire (it's a river) after 200 miles of fairly comfortable motoring. We ate our filled baguettes, as once before last year, on the river bank south side, opposite Ingrandes-le-Fresne-sur-Loire. The river was barely flowing seemingly, the sandbanks and islands as extensive as we have ever seen them. 

As in previous transits in this direction, we now proceeded on the south bank of the river for quite a while before weaving through Angers outskirts and taking the north bank levée road all the way past Saumur, where in the past we have called it a day. Not so this time. We are bound for Chinon.

We cross the Loire one last time at Montsoreau, stop to water the horses at Le Mail café, then ho! for our hotel in Chinon. 280 miles. Book in. Crash out. Weather has cleared, now sunny. Room boasts juliette balc. Eat outside in the square (chips: why can’t the Fs make them properly, isn’t there a diploma or a university course or something in how to make edible and appetising fries in France, FGS?) Bistro food C minus, pricing inventive. Good night. Quiet. Great bed. Good shower. All there is to it. 

The next morning, Saturday, river mists. Away betimes. Apart from those mists the day was straight forward. And pleasant driving: once beyond the misty reaches. Until a Route Barrée reared its unsavoury head. You’ll know that Mme Melling eats these for breakfast usually but this one did disconcert a tad. Diversion signs petered out… we did end up in a farmyard at one point. No matter! On roads no self respecting Michelin Road Atlas would deign to feature, surfaced mostly, if not this century, barely the width of a 2CV… but we won through! 

For hours, ever present and appearing at one time and another at various points of the compass, the vast vapours from the Civaux power station (nuclear, obvs, this is Fr) was the 'pillar of cloud going before' (old testament reference, keep up)… Until triumphantly we arrived under the very cooler itself, which has so often been our marker when en route to and from Périgueux…… where we arrived having covered almost the exact mileage as we did last time (which was sans route barrée so what gives?). Our sixth stay at this lodge, and still we failed to route directly to it. Perplexing. We ate in the hotel. Indifferent as the hotel is good. 

Weirdly, while taking our repose at Ibis Central I lost the ability to get out of bed in the early hours and when overcoming this disability by crawling, I could neither stand or walk to the facility. Stenosis. Don’t ask: mustn’t crumple. Panicky talk of abandoning this venture. Turning round. Shipping out.

At normal departure time I somehow managed to shuffle to the motor having decided to pretend it hadn’t happened. Perhaps it didn’t because normal service was almost fully resumed once moving down the sunday morning roads (sun full in the eyes notwithstanding) and we set forth to reach Laguiole. Via Brive. But not via Tulle as planned. You guessed it (or might have if you you’ve read this twoddle thus far), yes Route (altogether now) Barrée. 

Terrasson Lavilledieu, the old town

Before all that we’d had a pleasant 3/4 hour potter in sunday morning Terrasson, a delightful place with lovely bridges and water (see the header picture). No croissants but you can’t have everything. And we nearly missed the old town: we returned after sucking up a coffee at a Rugby Union cafe on the outskirts, to give T-L but a fraction of the time the older bit deserved. We took to it but had to move on. 

Now, Brive is laterally extensive (east to west). Thankfully we know it (it is a fair and interesting city, once favoured by ourselves until the somewhat scrotty hotels apertaining at that time turned us against it) and have been misrouted through and about the city’s regions several times before. We have come to know something of its inner workings … we sailed right through it without a stutter. Piece of Sunday morning gâteau. Except that Le Dept Highways had decided to close entirely the main Brive to Tulle road, and offer no meaningful diversion except back the way we’d come. I mean: who would possibly want to go to Tulle on a Sunday, FGS? 

Mme Melling expunged Tulle from the record. Forget Tulle. I deleted it from the itinerary. Wrong direction anyway. We have passed through it, back in the mists… so. They make tulle there, th’knowst. 

Argentat on the Dordogne river

We continued onward, like the wise men (new test) via another way… Argentat for example, very nice, on the Dordogne (that’s a river) where we took refreshment, even hobbled along the riverside quay a bit. Thereafter the roads got really whippy over bigger and bendier hills ravines and tree filled gorges, all in cloudless sunshine. 

Laroquebrou tiffin stop on the La Cère river

We digressed for lunch, taking refreshment originating from Bullsmead and brought for such a convenience by the side of the La Cère (that’s a river) at Laroquebrou. Then we bypassed Aurillac and down sweeping roads to Entraygues… vast views over rolling grassy moorlands dotted with satisfied looking caramel cows. (30°+). High passes, sort of 1300 metres mark, and then some. We shipped into hilltop Laguiole at 1540, to our Logis Hotel in this cooler upland town. A short day. Clean air! And a good dinner before us. Oh and a most satisfactory hotel suite, top flight, separate shower room etc etc, wonderful bed. Another winner from Mme Melling’s quest for comfort in our old age. When I think back to those first budgety places, where bedrooms even (get this) had the bath and bidet next to the bed, well we certainly have come a very long way from that era have we not? Hmm. 

The hotel restaurant attached on the street frontage is Michelin Recommended. Our table, and one other were the only takers this sunday evening. Nevertheless the food and service was admirable if not quite touching Michelin star standard, just yet, which it may be in the process of seeking to secure, what do I know? We drank three different wines with our repast and decided it was worth the outlay. Or rather we accepted that it was the price we would pay without demur.

Which was odd: the following morning our bill (and we were assured it was correct) was very modest indeed. We left, took our breakfast coffee just down the road from the lodge, (we rarely have petit dej in these establishments as you’ll recall) – but this can’t be right we mused. 

Empowered by caffeine my Representative in the République gathered her skirts about her and surged back up the steps to our hotel reception. I remained outside. There was no shouting, I trust there was some gratitude, we were right, they’d left off our dinner from the reckoning, which actually cost more than our bed and board. Once again the honesty of the Englishman abroad shone through and we tried to leave Laguiole with our heads held high (except we couldn’t find the right road at first, so went round in circles once or thrice). 

More bull for your bucks in Laguiole

Now for the last leg, over the central massif high hills and thus to Villedieu. 

A lovely day for it as well.

As previously mentioned we were initially confused as to our direction but once we had grasped how to go forward we embraced the challenge of a new day. The high grassy moorlands became more rock strewn, the Aubrac cattle dotted here and there in graceful twos and threes. My patrons may wonder why at this point I do not present them with sweeping panoramas of this wonderful countryside: I’ve wondered why myself. The truth is I didn’t pull over and try it, knowing as I do the limitations of the box brownie in these environs: you’ll have to visit the area tha'sall.

We messed up though, but didn’t realise it until it was a bit too late, not that it mattered, I am not sure why I am even mentioning it. We joined our oft used route via Florac, took refreshment there, even. But the prescription had been for us to drive from Marvéjols via Barjac to Mende etc etc, whereas we actually went via Barjac south to Florac. You follow? never mind. Mme Melling had the situation by the balls: she directed me to turn off the road to Alès at La Grand-Combe and by roads of very diverse characteristics, navigated us through to St Ambroix and on to the second Barjac of the day, the place which was our base-town when we hired that gîte we so wanted to buy at Brujas. I digress because dear reader (is anybody still reading this?) so had we.

Now on familiar roads we motored on through to the valley of the Ardèche (that’s another river as well as a department) past where Max Ernst used to live, across the Rhône at Pont St Esprit, to Bollène, Souze-la-Rousse, and Tulette for the vital starters of life (supermarket shop and distillate for Octavia) before rolling up at Villedieu sometime after 1530. We opened up the rental in full anticipation and expectancy… we’d visited the exterior last november . . .

Ah. Hmmm. I see. (if I put the lights on). A rental that offers a free form interpretation of the official definition of en suite, (I’ve checked with AI). A rental where red represents white and the kitchen is on the roof. Good terrace though, if you can find somewhere to stand; while parking is nearby although not adjacent (on street level of course) . . . Within minutes we took ourselves up to the VD Café du Centre to reflect…… (greeted and acknowledged, always nice)…just what have we taken on here? 

NB On arrival I concluded that I have bronchitis again. I have no remedy and just hope it works itself out – but at time of writing it is still in charge of my throat and sinuses. 

autumn 26 approaches plus TdeF footnote

My dear reader(s), despair not, despite the disposal of 1-rue FB we are still not done with exploits in PACA 84 (Vaucluse) although it is going on nine months or more since we retreated from Sablet with the last load of possessions, without the table, etc etc. I brim at the recollection. And given the extremes of weather reported thereabouts since our departure we also have given the odd sigh of relief: its been a mixed bag – remorse and thankfulness in equal measures. 

A new page has been turned, we are reduced to mere tourists once more, but one more time at least, we are resolutely resolved to transfer by ways various (as outlined herewith) to turn up again in the vicinity of, if not actually resident within fair Sablet. Neighbouring Villedieu will be our base this time, in a rented property. That it should come to this. 

Notwithstanding, we plan to get there by the expediency described below; and after it is all over, return to Bullsmead Towers by the second expediency (or something like it) outlined below the expediency below. 

You may find these routes of interest, you may not. Whatever, you’ll be at a bit of a disadvantage without the A4 Michelin Atlas of Fr at your elbow… and as that is unlikely, I suggest you pass over this post and get on with stripping those doors… But whatever might be calling for your attention,  please don't skip the footnote that lurks at the end of this offering, it would be heartless, even just a teeny bit unkind…

A footnote here: I’d always hoped that Le Tour de France would pass through Sablet sooner or later, given the proximity of Le Ventoux and all that. Well, it didn’t although it came close in the summer that scorched us (40° no less). There’s a post. You’ll recall it, I have no doubt…… yeah, right.

Sure enough, as soon as we’d started the selling process, we received intelligence that the Tour-de-F Femmes would be finishing on the summit of Le Géant in 2026, and they would be passing down the D7 past Sablet, en route. Which they duly did. A key stage of the ladies race too, on ‘our’ local roads, and us not there to witness it pass a mere 20 metres from our former habitation, on the main road through Sablet to Beaumes-de-Venise — where there was a sprint even.

Sabbers does not feature on the official stage profile, unlike Seguret that is indicated and which the stage did not pass through (Sablet comes after Seguret and before Vacqueyras, as any fool know). 

the ladies leading group pass under Seguret en route to Sablet

part of the breakaway approach Sablet

Had we known in advance, our policy of not going to Fr anymore during the summer heatwaves would have probably prevailed, to be fair, even if we’d still been Sabletonians: as it was we were getting fried to a crisp (record breaking temps) in drought-torn Dirty Devon, just the same. There was no TV coverage of the TdeF Femmes in this benighted isle but at least The Guardian did do daily ‘as-it-happened’ reports and even published one or two snaps to rub the old sodium chloride into the jolly old wounds a bit more. Yes, you probably have just about concluded by now that the pictures and the graphic in the footnote are not the work of your author. I wasn't there, you see, in Vaucluse, on the seventh of August 2026. I was back at Bullsmead Court. I think I may have mentioned the fact. 

the breakaway leaving Sablet to the rear… 

the ladies sprint through Beaumes-de-Venise

So none of these images were made by me and I am risking incarceration or massive fines, community service etc by showing them here just to give you my reader(s) the feel of what we missed by selling up, amongst other things… I thank those lucky enough to catch these moments photographically and trust they will look benevolently upon my presumption in their inclusion herewith. 

 Katarzyna Niewiadoma-Phinney won the stage on the top of Ventoux and assumed the maillot jaune but it was Demi Vollering who ultimately prevailed as the race winner in yellow which concluded in Nice, after two more stages of racing. But you'll have known that, I'm sure. 

 

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 radio 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. After getting off the N165 rat run east, 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 familiar 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 in white outline 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. 

phare out!

Well my dears, the bed at the Family Golf proves very comfortable and it is quite soporific to have the breakers on the beach audible all night: we leave the sliding doors open behind the privacy blind. The new day is cloudless. No hotel breakfasts here for us: we strike out to the port for ours, few folk about at first, cool and very bright. No croissants, it's the baguette and jam again, but no complaints from me. Thankfully,  walking proves to be much improved today. You'll have been concerned. 

After p'tit dej then, and a potter round the marina end of things, we motor via St Palais and La Grande Côte (where we took a singular easter break in 2002) to La Fôret de la Coubre: to the lighthouse, as you’d expect (with full acquiescence from Mme Melling, of course).

I decide not to risk the ascent of the superb concrete phare, I’ve done it in my time, and want to keep my currently uncertain capacity for lighthouse ascending for Cordouan. Mme Melling is not so disposed either. Instead, we inspect the excellent little museum where the former (1905) 1st order Fresnel is available for close inspection (it was still in situ and functioning when I ascended the tower, back in the noughties). Plus lots of other stuff, a dashed good show, and gratis to boot. Bravo, friends of the light.

2002

We just have to relish again the fabulous beach, punctuated by the stump of the former Coubre light, built in error, too close to the sea. Back in the day (our easter visit in 2002) we erected a whole series of timber posts and poles (washed up, presumably off some ship or other) at intervals down this beach, coast art, line of sight sort of stuff. 

And some arty grouping of same, aussi. I wonder if the son-&-heir remembers doing all that? I’m welling up. 

My pharesighted blog has a post devoted to the Coubre phare and is a gem! Don’t miss out, here’s a link so there is no excuse…… 

Now we drive through La Fôret de la Coubre on delightful light flecked roads, to La Tremblade and the oyster shacks that line the road down to La Seudre (that's the waterway that drains the vast expanses of pans, lakes and saltings that punctuate this river estuary). It is our target: we enjoy the best seafood lunch in years (or so it seems, we are hungry) at one of the smaller shacks down there. 

We return the way we came pretty much, through La Palmyre, past the zoo, (60th anniversary this year, have patronised formerly) where it is teeming, stop off in St Palais-sur-Mer to walk round once more the Terre Nègre phare, (remember the cranes?) in very warm and brilliant light. This junior lighthouse of course has an entry, blah blah blah, I’ve added to it, visit it on that other blog, at your discretion, given your interest in phares may not be as deep as mine, despite my best endeavours. Shame. I take a snap of distant Cordouan emerging from a sea mist. It features in my Cordouan posting… in this blog.

Upon arrival back at the Family Golf we spend the rest of the afternoon people watching from our exclusive terrace and partake of a hotel pizza too: they don't offer meals but they do offer pizzas, if you see what I mean.  

Altogether a fitting, relaxing end to a jolly good day. Stonking! I could get used to this.

cordouan et cathédrale

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: Pharesighted 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 indeed, we secure seats on the 1230 sailing on Thursday 9 April (or at least Mme does, on our behalf). 

So, after the fascination of Notre Dame, 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 (I reproduce her photograph with her 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. 

Notre Dame de Royan: worth the detour and reachable without recourse to hiring a boat ride. 

Thank you for your attention. Post number 63 in my sister blog 'Pharesighted' describes Cordouan's history in some detail; maybe (as I recommended therein) you should have read that post before perusing this post, that was the idea… oh well……

test your french, why don't you?

I acknowledge and thank Jean Benoit Héron for his rendition of Cordouan's interior layout