Travel

Are you really back for week 2? I applaud your enthusiasm.

Saturday, August 13

The rain, oh lord the rain. The local summer festival was cancelled. We went into Lorient and watched Mr. Popper’s Penguins. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen Jim Carrey speak French. My children exclaimed loudly at intervals throughout the film. We were surrounded by perfectly silent, perfectly behaved French children.

Sunday, August 14

We went to mass. It went on forever. The children were restive. The French children were, of course, saintly.

We went for a walk in the afternoon through the woods

as far as the little port:

That evening we attended the rescheduled poissonade (you will recall that it was rained off on the previous evening) where the Princess had mussels and chips and candy floss (sequentially).

And, ultimate poor parenting accolade, the leader of the band had to interrupt his singing to say, “We’ve found a little boy here, his name is Daniel, he’s wearing glasses and a stripy jumper..” Oh dear.

That night and every night thereafter, Michael asked, “How many days, including today, until the rescue ferry comes to bring us home?”

Monday, August 15

We did some more wading in rock pools. We forked out €60 to see the most depressing circus ever which even the children found depressing. Mr. Waffle bought “Breton pour des Nuls”. He tells me that links with Irish are not very obvious.

Tuesday, August 16

Down by the rock pools, the princess sat on my lap, “Ouch, ouch, get off!” “What?” “You were sitting on a wasp, my knee, my knee, my knee, the pain.” “It could have been worse,” said she, “it could have been my bottom.” Indeed.

That night she and her father went back to the abbey to look at bats and hear a talk. They left at 7 and weren’t back until nearly midnight by which time I was sitting up in bed a nervous wreck. They liked the bats.

Wednesday, August 17

We finally got to the flying fish adventure centre.

Thursday, August 18

We went to the Manoir de Kernault in the morning which had an exhibition about a famous French radio broadcaster. Children are sub-optimal company for those actually hoping to hear any of the broadcasts.

We also visited a Dolmen.

My husband, at my prompting, told me that I pronounce the word “du” incorrectly. Further, I cannot pronounce the words jeu, jus and joue in a way that makes them sound at all dissimilar. I am doomed. By tacit agreement, the short lived experiment of making Mr. Waffle my French teacher was abandoned.

The Princess went horse riding again. The boys were tired of it and spent the afternoon on a merry go round instead.

Mr. Waffle and I went for dinner to an immensely elaborate restaurant entrusting the children again to the intrepid babysitter. The restaurant was in a very industrial suburb (we were able to park in the DIY superstore across the road) and the decor reminded me vaguely of a very smart hairdresser but the food was fantastic and the service excellent [none of the chilly hauteur which we encountered in Pont Aven]. “A triumph” says the Michelin guide, oh yes indeed. If you find yourself in Lorient, do not hesitate. The memory of the crab soup will remain with me forever.

Friday, August 19

We went to the beach along the path. We made still more blackberry jam. We watched the squirrels in the garden and the hermit crabs in the rock pools.

Saturday, August 20

We gave the house back to its lovely owners. They wished us bon voyage and sped us on our way with a present of a box of Breton biscuits. We went to a hotel on the way to the ferry. It had television. The children nearly died of happiness.

Sunday, August 21

We went to Bréhat a small island about 10 minutes off the coast. It sounds delightful; there are no cars, there is a delightful micro climate and it is surrounded by a spectacular archipelago.

All these things are true but, the, rather rich, home owners in Bréhat do not fancy people looking at their tasteful houses, so it mostly consists of lanes with high walls.

Mr. Waffle found it strongly reminiscent of the part of suburbia where he spent his youth in Dublin. And there are millions of tourists. It is, frankly, not untamed. Alas, not a success.

Monday, August 22

We got the rescue ferry! Michael nearly died of happiness. We met old friends on board who were moving back to Ireland after 22 years in Brussels. Ah nostalgia.

Tuesday, August 23

And we’re back. Faerie hands have painted the outside of the house while we were away – alright, Glenn the painter, then – and the sunflower had come out. Home again, home again jiggedy jig.

I am still alive. Did you miss me? We returned last Tuesday from our final holiday of the summer. In my role as keeper of the family archive, I have detailed all below.

Friday, August 5

We drove to the ferry, stopping for a picnic in the park beside Castlebridge House where the Guinness book of records was thought up. It’s now very sad, boarded up and dilapidated although it would seem to be of mild historic interest and has an absolutely amazing conservatory.

Saturday, August 6

After what felt like an immensely long drive, we arrived at our holiday house in torrential rain. The lovely, slightly elderly couple who owned the house were there to meet us with cider in the fridge and a slight air of nervousness at the thought of handing over their house to these odd foreigners.

Sunday, August 7

The rain continued. We went to Lorient to look around the damp interceltic festival.

We decided to visit the Thalassa which, the website tells me is an “espace découverte de l’Océanologie”. I would love to know what that means but I am afraid I cannot tell you for as we trudged in damply at 4.35 to do our discovering, we were told coldly that last admissions were at 4.30. “But, it’s open until 7,” I protested feebly. The woman looked at me indifferently and said that admission was by guided tour only. We trooped back out into the rain. The only thing to be said for our visit was that it allowed me to have the following conversation with my husband.

Me: Is there some phrase or something – “Thalasso, thalasso”
Him: Thalatta, thalatta. It’s the story of a bunch of mercenaries trying to fight their way back to Greece and when they see the sea, they know they’re nearly there, so it’s an exciting bit.
Me: Do you have to pronounce it as though you have a lisp?
Him: Well, yes, because it’s in Attic Greek.

Feeling in need of child friendly activities, we went to the fair which accompanied the interceltic festival, the sun came out and the children stocked up on their supply of weapons with which, somewhat rashly, they threatened the police.

Monday, August 8

The sun came out and we walked along the coastal path at the back of the house to the beach. It was a bit like an Enid Blyton story. That path made my holiday. It was so pretty and as you walked along there was the scent of pines and the sound of crickets chirping.

On this occasion our walk was marred by losing herself for a slightly terrifying 15 minutes – she ran ahead to the house and disappeared. Turns out she wasn’t as good at recognising it as we all thought. It made us appreciate her more.

Tuesday, August 9

We went to the market and got new raincoats for all the children. The weather was fine but we felt prudence was probably appropriate.

The local press informed us of the books which the presidential candidates are presenting to the public for the “rentrée littéraire”. Only Martine Aubrey hasn’t produced one and that’s because she’s already written 14, the last of which came out in March. Is there any other country in the world where writing a book is a pre-requisite to running for high office. Remember de Villepin?

Wednesday, August 10

The children went to a riding camp for the afternoon.

Mr. Waffle and I hot-footed it into Quimperlé which is a lovely little place. And, even better, the children loved the riding so much they wanted to come back another day, even Michael who only speaks French under duress.

Thursday, August 11

The day started well. We went to the Abbaye de Saint Maurice which is lovely. It is also very cleverly laid out so that the children can run about while the grown-ups find out about the origins of the monastery.

After this successful start, we drove around the French countryside trying to find an outdoor adventure park. The children were very saintly as we drove around looking for clues and finally missed last entry. Sigh. Also, we made the amateur’s mistake of trying to eat in rural France at ten to two with the result that we found ourselves driving around looking in vain for food and had to stop off at the boulangerie for a baguette to ward off starvation.

Friday, August 12

Ouest France’s pages were more or less equally divided between the toxic green seaweed invading Brittany (36 unfortunate boars had recently died on a beach after snuffling around in it – who knew that there were so many wild boars in Brittany?) – caused, allegedly by excess nitrates created by farming methods – Le Monde had a diagram; the London riots and the collapse of the financial markets. Both Le Monde and Ouest France had interviews with the S&P staff in Paris while we were in France following the American rating downgrade. Apparently it’s all “tu” and first names in the office. I thought you’d like to know.

Then we were out to gather more blackberries for jam [we made a lot of jam].
Stage 1 – Collection

(in all weathers)

Stage 2 – Production

Stage 3 – Storage

Stage 4 – Marketing

We also peered at the rock pools.

They were extremely exciting and over our fortnight we spent much time looking into them spotting hermit crabs scurrying around in periwinkle shells, little fishlike yokes (marine biologist’s term of art), limpets, anenomes and this very exciting find:

That afternoon, the children went for more riding and Mr. Waffle and I went to Pont Aven. I did not like Pont Aven. It heaved with tourists and whatever attracted Gauguin and his mates there has, in my view, long since evaporated. It was unfortunate then that we were scheduled to go there for dinner that evening. Entrusting the children to a babysitter, we ventured out. The restaurant had not been very welcoming. We had to confirm our reservation on the day as we had a foreign mobile and, clearly, were not to trusted. The food was good and we got to wear lobster bibs but our hostess was chilly and forbidding.

Tune in tomorrow night for week 2. Ah go on.

Saturday, August 14

For the foreseeable future we will be holidaying in August. This has a number of disadvantages in terms of cost and availability of accommodation and travel. It does have the advantage though that this is when all the excitement for tourists is laid on. August 15, the feast of our lady is a general occasion for parades and rejoicing. On the eve of this big festival, I took myself off to the church at the foot of the mountain to see the “pardon” of the Menez Hom. On the way in, I met an elderly local lady and she pointed out to me all the banners of the local towns and the mayor who was in his traditional gear. “I wouldn’t know who the mayor is,” she confided to me “except that he is the son of my cousin.” She told me that she was a native Breton speaker and only learnt French when she went to school at 6 and promptly began exchanging greetings in Breton with the equally elderly gentlemen in the parade. Mass lasted an hour and a half and had the somewhat festive atmosphere of Christmas mass at home. The church was filled with people of all ages including saintly French children. I noticed a group that I had seen at the bakery the previous day sitting silently in a nearby pew and gazed in awe.

Sunday, August 15

We took ourselves to see the parade at Plomodiern. This was terrific. It was short, not too crowded and the man who had led the bagpipe session earlier in the week waved at Michael and Daniel from the parade. Mathilde the silent’s father and sister were parading along with almost everyone else from the neighbouring parishes. The photographer from Ouest France was there and we had high hopes of making the cut for the following day’s edition as he pictured Daniel and Michael sheltering from the sun under a Ouest France advertising hoarding but it was not to be.

Our timing was perfection which almost never happens. We retired to a nearby restaurant just before the end of the parade and got prime seats upstairs from whence we could eat mussels and chips and survey the rest of the excitement. To make our happiness complete, a kind local lady gave Michael and Daniel little Breton flags (made in China, of course) and the Princess a stone painted with figures in Breton costumes.

That afternoon on the beach, Michael managed to find another English child and was ecstatic. Hugh from Harpenden was not, alas, as wonderful as Joe, but he was just fine. At least he didn’t speak French.

Monday, August 16

We went to the beach in the morning and the children dug a large hole with their hands ignoring the spades we had carted from Ireland.

They liked it. We liked it. We read our books. Something of a book crisis was approaching as herself had re-read Harry Potter books 5 and 6 several times, I had finished my books and I had read her Harry Potters, even Mr. Waffle had finished his books and was contemplating HP. Only Ouest France stood between us and disaster.

That afternoon we went to Pont Croix. It’s a lovely, lovely place, just as pretty as Locronan but mysteriously devoid of tourists. It has a deserted village feeling about it.
”

We went to a house which had been turned into a small museum. It was delightful and we had it to ourselves.

The whole place was absolutely entrancing. The children thought that it was a bit dull and the ice-cream offerings were poor. They were quite pleased with dinner in the local crêperie though.

Tuesday, August 17

It poured rain. Along with every other tourist in Brittany we went to Oceanopolis for the day. As we trudged from the muddy overflow carpark in the driving rain, I suspected that we were not going to enjoy our visit. I was correct. The place was heaving and the visit nearly killed us. Next time I will go on a sunny day. Luckily Mathilde the silent was booked for that evening and Mr. Waffle and I were able to go out for dinner to recover.

Wednesday, August 18

We drove down to the south of Brittany where Mr. Waffle had been on holiday with his family as a child (all remembered in loving detail – all I can really remember distinctly about my family holidays in Brittany is the time the girl from the tent next door insisted on playing with my slime and then dropped it on the ground and ruined it). We visited the château de Kerazan which was grand but I think that our familial tolerance levels for museums were declining at this point. We took the boat from Loctudy to ÃŽle Tudy (5 minutes each way) which the children absolutely loved but when we got there, they were hungry and demanded to go to a cafe. I got cross and things went downhill from there.

We finally got back to Plo̩ven to go to the soir̩e cr̻pes (local excitement with pancakes Рobviously РBreton music and dancing) with bitterness all round. Michael declaiming loudly from the back of the car that all he was was a servant to his parents being dragged from place to place to do their bidding. This tetchiness was not helped by finding on arrival at the soir̩e cr̻pes that there was nowhere to sit and you might have to wait up to an hour to get your hands on a pancake. Disaster was averted by nice locals kindly finding and moving a supply of tables and chairs for us. The younger members of the party ran off with a group of feral children and, aside from the cold, it passed off better than might have been expected given the dismal beginnings.

Thursday, August 19

Michael was ill in the morning. I dragged himself and Daniel to the beach to find stones to paint and he trudged back very dolefully and promptly got sick in the toilet on his return. Heartlessly, after lunch, I left my sick son and his brother to be minded by their father and the Princess and I went shopping in Quimper. So excited were we by this outing, that I nearly completely lost the run of myself and was in the Petit Bateau queue, waiting patiently to pay over €100 for three pairs of children’s pyjamas when I said hang on a minute, put them back on the shelf and ran out of the shop. I subsequently got three pairs of pyjamas from Eurodif for €18. With the savings, the Princess and I were able to buy macaroons. And by the time we got home, Michael was better. This inspired me to try out the barbecue that came with the house (I dunno, I felt I’d like to give him a further dose of food poisoning?). This, despite the children’s interest in the novel coooking method was, frankly, not a success. Dinner was late and undercooked.

Friday, August 20

Raining again and, increasingly, the troops were getting restive and speaking longingly of home. We spent the morning in the local pub playing games of mini-foot. The Princess and Daniel are terrible (and loud) losers. Mr. Waffle and I were going out for a final French dinner together that night and I thought I would try to find somewhere nice. So I phoned my long-suffering sister and ask ed her to harness the power of the internet and see whether there was anywhere nice to eat nearby. There was; a two-star Michelin restaurant only up the road. And, in a classic my bourgeois hell moment, I knew that Friday lunch time in the middle of August would be too late to book a table for dinner that night. And I was right. Oh blah. To help me recover, Mr. Waffle took the children to the cinema while I went for a further stroll around Quimper. This sustained me during a last dinner in the crêperie. I am not sure that, if I were told that I could never eat another pancake, I would be altogether sorry.

Saturday, August 21

We spent the morning packing and cleaning. This was the moment to remove the revolting but highly effective fly paper that had been hanging from the ceiling when we arrived and swayed, increasingly ominously, over the breakfast table with its grim cargo for our fortnight in the house. Mr. Waffle did it. He is very brave.

We drove up to Mont Saint Michel and played I spy on the way. Daniel said, “I spy something red, white and blue”. “A French flag,” I said. “No, Mummy, in the car.” “I give up.” “Your eyes, silly!” No more late nights for me.

When we arrived our hotel Mr. Waffle and I were keen to get out to see the Mont but the children really didn’t see how it could be better than a two star hotel with the Pink Panther on the telly. Eventually we hustled them out under protest.

I may have been to Mont Saint Michel before. I can’t remember. I suppose an apology is probably due to my parents at this point. I do remember my mother telling me that the tide came in faster than a horse can gallop but whether this was in the context of crossing the causeway to the Mont or just the kind of general knowledge she felt I ought to have, I cannot say. Anyhow, on this occasion, I read nothing in advance. I knew what it looked like from the outside and that was it.

We arrived in the car park (not covered by water and unlikely to be flooded that evening – reassuring) and went in the gates. It was about 7 in the evening and from the moment we walked in the front gate everything was absolutely perfect. Mr. Waffle had the inspired idea of suggesting to the Princess that Mont Saint Michel was like Hogwarts and she was entranced. As the shopping districts in the HP books are inspired by twisting medieval streets she was soon happily pointing out Diagon Alley and the Hog’s Head. We stopped for dinner in a restaurant with a beautiful view out over the bay. The children were good. And after dinner we kept climbing up, up, up to the very top. The children were full of enthusiasm and ran ahead. Michael was particularly delighted and pointed out each of the many, many images of his patron saint taking out the dragon. Even though it was August, the streets were relatively empty as it was quite late in the evening. It was 8.50 for an adult to get into the church at the top of the mount and I hesitated. I have seen a lot of churches. The children, however, were keen to go in, so we forked out €17. The children were right, it was €17 well spent. The bored teenager in charge of ticket dispensing was charged with asking tourists where they were from and when I had asked for my tickets he said to me “quel département?” I was delighted with myself – he thought I was French. I think the secret of my success was that I had only to say “2 adultes et trois enfants” words which do not contain the almost impossible “ue” sound (if you can pronouce ‘rue’ and ‘roue’ differently you’ve got it, congratulations).

Then we went into the church. Except it wasn’t a church, it was a whole monastery complex. It was enormous and breathtakingly beautiful. Huge gothic chambers illuminated by the setting sun. Room after room after extraordinarily beautiful room, even the children were astonished. And the views:

The most amazing moment was when I finally thought I had reached the top. We went up a narrow twisting stairs and I expected to come out in a small turret with a view of the bay except I didn’t, I emerged in a gothic cathedral. It was quite astonishing. I nearly cried in wonder. I cannot imagine what the medieval pilgrims thought. And then in front of the church, there was a parvis with spectacular views. Off to the side there was a cloister. It’s difficult to convey how surprising it is to see all of these things on a small rocky outcrop. Then we left and ran down the near empty streets in the gathering darkness. It was without a doubt the best moment of our holidays and the most spectacular monument I have ever seen.

Sunday, August 22

We were a bit reluctant to go back to Mont Saint Michel in case we somehow ruined the magic of the night before but we went back anyway because we hadn’t walked the ramparts and we are thorough tourists. It was still beautiful but full, full, full of people. It was standing room only and the children were cranky and we were worried about losing them. I went to mass which was lovely but I was conscious of poor Mr. Waffle waiting outside with the children (couldn’t face letting them run riot in a French church with only elderly people – I know, this makes me both a bad mother and a bad catholic). Mass was a welcome break from the relentless peddling of cheap tat and hoards of tourists on the streets outside and a reminder of why the Mont was actually built. As soon as I emerged we hot footed it back to the mainland. The previous evening I had looked at diners in the tacky restaurants across from the Mont and wondered who on earth ate there when they could eat on the amazingly beautiful Mont Saint Michel. Well this was my day to find out: people who ate on the Mont yesterday and couldn’t face the waves of tourists and fancied better and cheaper mussels.

We then went to a bed & breakfast we had found on the internet. It was run by a retired English couple. Normandy is awash with English people. There were times when Normandy felt like it was suffering a reverse takeover by the English. The nice B&B couple recommended that we go and visit a nearby forest and, shortly afterwards, the Princess was swinging through trees on a rope. Really. The boys were too small to go up but she was attached to a harness and sent flying for a couple of hours. She loved it. No helmet, no knee pads, no nothing. I can’t help feeling that this more relaxed attitude is delightful. The boys and I went on a little electronic boat to help them recover from their sorrow at being under 5 and therefore unable to do the rope thing.

Monday, August 23

We were all pretty much ready to go home at this point. We drove north to Cherbourg in good time acutely conscious of the horror of the journey to the ferry. We stopped off and looked at the beautiful cathedral in Coutances. We then had lunch in a brasserie congratulating ourselves on how the children’s restaurant manners had improved over the holidays (they all used cutlery, sat up in their chairs, didn’t shout, it was lovely).

As we had lots of time, we then stopped in a chateau in Pirou which was mildly interesting. When we emerged we still had three hours until the boat left. It was at this point that we realised that we had left all the children’s coats and jumpers in a bag in the brasserie in Coutances. We considered abandoning them but in the end decided that we just had time to go back and get them. Coutances had been dead as a doornail when we went there in the morning: rainy, gloomy and windswept. By the time we got back in the afternoon, all that had changed, the shops were open, the sun was shining, the good burghers of Coutances were out and about doing their shopping. The traffic was murder. I thought that we would never get out. There followed an unnerving drive to Cherbourg during which Mr. Waffle was heard to say between clenched teeth “you will never pass that caravan unless you drop a gear when we come to the next climbing lane” which remark led to some tension between driver and navigator. The children, doubtless recalling the journey to Rosslare, remained virtuously silent in the back. Cherbourg was full of traffic too. Surely we weren’t going to miss the boat? We didn’t. Next time, however, we will drive to the ferryport at 9.00 in the morning and remain there all day until the ferry leaves. Our marriage depends on it.

The boat was full of Irish people. After a month of French people, I found my compatriots delightfully chatty. You know, just exchanging little asides when we were standing looking at the same thing. French people don’t really do that. I was also quite shocked by how badly behaved some of the children were. After three weeks of French conditioning, mine seemed positively saintly in comparison to many of the others.

Tuesday, August 23

We were home. Note to file: we drove back from Rosslare in 3 hours. When I asked the children whether they would like to go to France again, they said yes, so I take it, the holiday was a success. Although Michael did say that he would like to go to England also to find Joe.

One of the courgettes in the back garden had grown to enormous dimensions while we were away and we harvested it and had it for dinner. I discovered that I am the only person in my family who likes courgette gratin. So much for all this guff about children liking vegetables they grow themselves.

And now the holidays are really over. The children are going back to school on Wednesday. The cat who was coldly indifferent on our return has now, just about, forgiven us for going away and last night consented to eat some cold roast chicken.

How were your holidays?