Saturday 10th Oct.
Pornic to Beauvoir sur Mer
The ferry boat was huge and was still there, unfortunately last night the tide had been out and it was sitting snugly on the mud and this morning with the tide in, it (the boat) was still in the same position. So we cycled out of Pornic following the ‘velocean’ route which was reasonably kind to us in that where there are cliffs along the coast the route takes you in land to level out the worst of the bumps. This meant first off we went through a vignoble where the whole village must have turned out that morning to pick the grapes and as a reward were going to be given a sumptuous lunch in a barn which was all laid up with white tablecloths and quantities of bottles. A ‘mobile grape crusher’ was hard at work squeezing the juice out of the grapes which waited in ever increasing lines of wicker baskets to be tipped into the machine. It was fascinating and we learned the grapes were Chenin blanc – for those who are interested in anything other than pure alcohol. They didn’t seem terribly pleased to see us but we walked amongst them as if we owned the place and took pictures anyway!
Thereafter the country became flat and dull, masses of rather run down houses and riding establishments which always means acres of mud, long abandoned horse trailers, tin sheds and sad looking ponies wondering where their next feed was coming from. But we did see two red squirrels which was a bonus and many kinds of egrets, ibis, marsh harrier amongst other birds. They graze donkeys, horses and cows on these salt flats and marshes and they all looked very contented. It is still shirt sleeves weather with the occasional need of a fleece first thing in the morning.
Thinking about lunch we stopped in Bouin, again a down at heel village in fact for the first time we didn’t feel too good about leaving the bikes outside the local shop and adjacent to the church with all our worldly goods strapped to them. The church didn’t look too good either but inside was a real OMG experience. The entire east wall was one huge mural in wood, gilt, statues, candles painted blues and reds and all sorts – it was like a vast cinema screen and at the back of the congregation was the history of the village since 360AD. It had been an important port in Roman times and then again when the Vikings and Goths came over to France. Hanging from the ceiling and we don’t know why was a vast model ship. Unfortunately there was very little light so I couldn’t bag Station No 9! (I know how the flash works now so in future)
Anyway on we went through the salt marshes past several squashed beavers or possibly otters, road kill takes on a whole new fascination when you’re peddling across flat boring countryside (we thought of Murray and just what he could do with one – beaver and chips hmmnnn) . We arrived in Beauvoir sur Mer which is not a very prepossessing town, beside the Ile Noirmoutier. We were hovering outside a motel type place when we were waylaid by the proprietor . He was an absolute dead ringer for Leonard Rossiter and could have been Reginald Perrin after his successful escape from life. Anyway he persuaded us that we really did want to stay there for the night and as there wasn’t a choice we agreed. It was not very lovely and nothing had been done to it for some 40 years but he looked after us terribly well. He was a one-man-band as it is now low season so he rushed around cooking fabulous food, cursing and crashing about in the kitchen. It was best not to look too closely at the state of the floors etc but it all added to the general flavour. The only other customer in the cavernous dining area with strip lights was a fireman from Paris who bought us a drink so we fell in to bed feeling contentedly replete.
Saturday nights here are not for binge drinking amongst the young. It is for sitting in the town square and revving up the engine of your Vespa or other motor scooter until the early hours. We know this as they were all immediately under our window, and at about 4.a.m. they all met up again and finally went off in a very noisy gang, thank goodness. The church clock also liked to remind us what time it was every 15 minutes. Actually that is a bit of an exaggeration as fortunately the church clocks don’t strike between the hours of 11 p.m. and 6. 30 a.m.
Pornic to Beauvoir sur Mer
The ferry boat was huge and was still there, unfortunately last night the tide had been out and it was sitting snugly on the mud and this morning with the tide in, it (the boat) was still in the same position. So we cycled out of Pornic following the ‘velocean’ route which was reasonably kind to us in that where there are cliffs along the coast the route takes you in land to level out the worst of the bumps. This meant first off we went through a vignoble where the whole village must have turned out that morning to pick the grapes and as a reward were going to be given a sumptuous lunch in a barn which was all laid up with white tablecloths and quantities of bottles. A ‘mobile grape crusher’ was hard at work squeezing the juice out of the grapes which waited in ever increasing lines of wicker baskets to be tipped into the machine. It was fascinating and we learned the grapes were Chenin blanc – for those who are interested in anything other than pure alcohol. They didn’t seem terribly pleased to see us but we walked amongst them as if we owned the place and took pictures anyway!
Thereafter the country became flat and dull, masses of rather run down houses and riding establishments which always means acres of mud, long abandoned horse trailers, tin sheds and sad looking ponies wondering where their next feed was coming from. But we did see two red squirrels which was a bonus and many kinds of egrets, ibis, marsh harrier amongst other birds. They graze donkeys, horses and cows on these salt flats and marshes and they all looked very contented. It is still shirt sleeves weather with the occasional need of a fleece first thing in the morning.
Thinking about lunch we stopped in Bouin, again a down at heel village in fact for the first time we didn’t feel too good about leaving the bikes outside the local shop and adjacent to the church with all our worldly goods strapped to them. The church didn’t look too good either but inside was a real OMG experience. The entire east wall was one huge mural in wood, gilt, statues, candles painted blues and reds and all sorts – it was like a vast cinema screen and at the back of the congregation was the history of the village since 360AD. It had been an important port in Roman times and then again when the Vikings and Goths came over to France. Hanging from the ceiling and we don’t know why was a vast model ship. Unfortunately there was very little light so I couldn’t bag Station No 9! (I know how the flash works now so in future)
Anyway on we went through the salt marshes past several squashed beavers or possibly otters, road kill takes on a whole new fascination when you’re peddling across flat boring countryside (we thought of Murray and just what he could do with one – beaver and chips hmmnnn) . We arrived in Beauvoir sur Mer which is not a very prepossessing town, beside the Ile Noirmoutier. We were hovering outside a motel type place when we were waylaid by the proprietor . He was an absolute dead ringer for Leonard Rossiter and could have been Reginald Perrin after his successful escape from life. Anyway he persuaded us that we really did want to stay there for the night and as there wasn’t a choice we agreed. It was not very lovely and nothing had been done to it for some 40 years but he looked after us terribly well. He was a one-man-band as it is now low season so he rushed around cooking fabulous food, cursing and crashing about in the kitchen. It was best not to look too closely at the state of the floors etc but it all added to the general flavour. The only other customer in the cavernous dining area with strip lights was a fireman from Paris who bought us a drink so we fell in to bed feeling contentedly replete.
Saturday nights here are not for binge drinking amongst the young. It is for sitting in the town square and revving up the engine of your Vespa or other motor scooter until the early hours. We know this as they were all immediately under our window, and at about 4.a.m. they all met up again and finally went off in a very noisy gang, thank goodness. The church clock also liked to remind us what time it was every 15 minutes. Actually that is a bit of an exaggeration as fortunately the church clocks don’t strike between the hours of 11 p.m. and 6. 30 a.m.
No comments:
Post a Comment