Tuesday 18 -Thursday 20 October.
Three days in the Camargue
We have always wanted to visit the Camargue as it sounds so wild and unlike any other area of France, and it is where the Petite Rhone runs into the sea which is another good reason. We set off from St Gilles (crossroads for pilgrims from Rome to Compostela) and made our way via some very small roads which wove their way around large Mas (farms) who were mainly growing and busy harvesting rice, straw and hay for the first few miles. The roads were very narrow but the farm machinery was all pretty large and we had to take to the ditch to avoid combines and rice lorries. Fortunately it is completely flat so you can see them coming for some way. Knowing how expensive the Camargue Red Rice is in Waitrose in the U.K it was quite odd seeing it spilled all over the roads,
If we’d had a plastic bag it would have been very tempting to gather some and take it home with us!
It was lovely and sunny so there were many stops to look at birds as the edges of the fields are all reed beds and bamboo full of warblers. Of course not many sat obligingly on the top of anything for more than a millisecond. However the Ceti warblers in particular were very voluble.Egrets follow the tractors like seagulls do at home!
There were quite a few stubble fires (we thought it had been banned in the EU but seemingly not in this region?) and the reed beds between each field are good fire stops as they are growing in soggy ditches.
We crossed the Petite Rhone River and made our way into Les St Maries de La Mer, which is the capital of the Camargue and can be seen from some distance.
St Maries is rumoured to be where Mary arrived with a group of Apostles after Jesus’ death and they were given refuge. We thought that had been Mary Magdelene but here she is called Marie Jacobe with another called Marie Salome, whose relics were found in digs in 1448. In one guide book it states that she was Joseph’s (Jesus’ father in case you didn’t know) sister. There are great celebrations and pilgrimages on the saint’s days and of course we miss the autumn one by a few days. It would have been very interesting as much of it takes part in the sea with horses and the bishop giving the blessing.
Having been very excited to finally arrive we were rather put off by the slightly diffident attitude of the locals. Obtaining any information from the Tourist office was akin to getting blood out of a stone! The exceedingly bossy lady wasn’t going to help us find a hotel at all, so we stomped off on our own and finally found a kind soul to take us in, in one of the back streets.
Now whenever we reach the Mediterranean our first thought is to immerse our bodies in it, so we set off from the new hotel wearing our bathers and I’m ashamed to say were brought up a bit short by the icy on shore wind and the perishingly cold water. We paddled and then cycled east to check out the alleged naturists beach but not a ‘mesange blue’ in sight, despite enormous quantities of Dutch and Germans – we don’t think the Swiss or Brits are really into that sort of thing.
The little hotel in which we suspected we were the only guests, was in a lively suburban street very similar to some we found in Sicily where neighbours hung out of windows to converse with or chastise passers-by. It was all very matey and a lot more interesting than a ‘sea view’ modern job.
There were far too many restaurants to choose from but we are always rather put off by photos of what you are going to be fed outside as it indicates a serious tourist trap. Fortunately we found a small one in the back streets which fitted the bill. It has turned pretty cold at night so we declined to sit outside. The menus are entirely in French, German and Italian. English is not spoken anywhere and they speak quite a tricky patois ‘Camargaise’ so we have to concentrate rather hard while communicating. You could be in Andalucia; bull fighting is very important, flamenco dancing is performed in the bars, paella is very much on the menu and leather shops and cowboy boots are sold everywhere. Sadly no sherry!
You definitely are not much of a man unless you can gallop singled handed and prod a bull up the backside at the same time - Mr Sarkozy seems a million miles away from these guys!
We had a day off on Wednesday as we wanted to explore the marshes. We had a blissful time biking around the edge of the wet plains looking at literally thousands of flamingos, and wild horses.
We stopped at a little road side stall selling the Camargue rice and salt amongst other local goodies. The lady running it insisted we tried the Muscat wine which they drink as an aperitif , or with foie gras -very good and not too sweet or heavy, so that is their replacement for sherry. We asked why there was such a link with Andalucia and she told us that in the past the gypsies would trade the bulls and horses and the bulls they use for fighting all came from Andalucia originally. Now they are rather lighter and more nimble as they are not killed in the Camargaise fights. It is more a match of skill as the ’Raseteurs’ have to remove ribbons from between the bulls horns without being gored. Many of the restaurants and cafes have bull fights on the television interspersed with racing. The lady at the stall also said that the Camargue is entirely self sufficient in meat, veg, fish, rice etc so it might explain why they seemingly are not very bothered about whether anyone goes there or not.
Street sign in St Maries, with this going on you can see why they feel independent!
The horses are quite small, circa 14hh but must be very strong as the men all ride them. There are riding stables everywhere and I would have been tempted if we had more time. We passed lots of groups of tourists on trips through the marshes.
We visited the Bird reserve which was great, except that every time you stopped to look at something you were set upon by mosquitoes which were very blood thirsty. We only coped for about an hour before retreating wounded. The lovely man at the gate lent us his bird book (in exchange for Vivi’s passport!) as we didn’t bring ours on this trip. He was also able to identify a photo which we had taken the other day of a booted eagle in the hills near Nimes. Apparently they over-winter here but do not breed.
We also made it to the mouth of the Petite Rhone which was pretty wide in reality, a lot of men were fishing and the usual hangers on had accumulated!
Thursday.
This was quite our most challenging day, certainly on this trip and probably almost on a par with some of the very tiring ones in Sicily last year. We had to make our way north east towards Arles. Overnight the Mistral had blown up, I had always thought this was a warm wind coming up from the Sahara. Wrong: down here it comes straight off the Alps, is arctic and was blowing at up to 80 mph. We only had 30 miles to do across the Salt plains and marshes but the first 10 miles is a bumpy gravel track. Very scenic but with the sand whipping into our faces there were times when we couldn’t see the end of our noses!!
It's not safe to hang about too long around here!
Vivi pedaling like hell in a sandstorm!
And to make it worse the wind was so strong there were moments when you went from 4.5mph to dead stop when you hit a big gust. It took a ridiculously long time to cross and then the rough surface got the better of my back tyre and I got a flat. Fortunately we were by a (closed) cafe in the middle of nowhere so we sheltered behind their wall and Alec had a frustrating time with inner tubes and valves and all sorts that didn’t work. A notice on the cafe window stated that ‘le petit chat n’etait pas abandonnee’ which must have been in reply to many people’s concerns.
To cut a long story short we decided to go straight to Arles rather than find the hotel we had ear marked on the way as to get there would be directly into the wind.
Coming into Arles involves a curious route but well thought out by the inhabitants. You have to get off the main road go under the motorway back on yourself through some fairly undesirable areas and then into a tunnel which is a sort of pipe suspended under the motorway. The entire walls of the tunnel are lined with graffiti and it crosses the Rhone so is about 300yds long – not the sort of place you want to be,
but as it happened we met nobody except a jogger and were soon out in the centre of Arles. Needless to say the Tourist office had closed 5 minutes before we arrived but by gesturing through the glass, they opened the door a few inches and passed out a list of likely hotels. It was bitterly cold and we were thrilled to pile into the first available family run Logis with a very welcoming lady at the desk.
Unfortunately she had a streaming cold and Vivi went down with it within hours.
We were recommended a restaurant by sniffling madam but never managed to find it so went straight into the first Italian bistro we found and had the most superb dinner of veal, olives, you name it. The language became a bit confusing because Vivi quickly picked up on them all saying “ciao “and “bella” etc and started speaking her own version of Fritallian!
Three days in the Camargue
We have always wanted to visit the Camargue as it sounds so wild and unlike any other area of France, and it is where the Petite Rhone runs into the sea which is another good reason. We set off from St Gilles (crossroads for pilgrims from Rome to Compostela) and made our way via some very small roads which wove their way around large Mas (farms) who were mainly growing and busy harvesting rice, straw and hay for the first few miles. The roads were very narrow but the farm machinery was all pretty large and we had to take to the ditch to avoid combines and rice lorries. Fortunately it is completely flat so you can see them coming for some way. Knowing how expensive the Camargue Red Rice is in Waitrose in the U.K it was quite odd seeing it spilled all over the roads,
If we’d had a plastic bag it would have been very tempting to gather some and take it home with us!
It was lovely and sunny so there were many stops to look at birds as the edges of the fields are all reed beds and bamboo full of warblers. Of course not many sat obligingly on the top of anything for more than a millisecond. However the Ceti warblers in particular were very voluble.Egrets follow the tractors like seagulls do at home!
There were quite a few stubble fires (we thought it had been banned in the EU but seemingly not in this region?) and the reed beds between each field are good fire stops as they are growing in soggy ditches.
We crossed the Petite Rhone River and made our way into Les St Maries de La Mer, which is the capital of the Camargue and can be seen from some distance.
St Maries is rumoured to be where Mary arrived with a group of Apostles after Jesus’ death and they were given refuge. We thought that had been Mary Magdelene but here she is called Marie Jacobe with another called Marie Salome, whose relics were found in digs in 1448. In one guide book it states that she was Joseph’s (Jesus’ father in case you didn’t know) sister. There are great celebrations and pilgrimages on the saint’s days and of course we miss the autumn one by a few days. It would have been very interesting as much of it takes part in the sea with horses and the bishop giving the blessing.
Having been very excited to finally arrive we were rather put off by the slightly diffident attitude of the locals. Obtaining any information from the Tourist office was akin to getting blood out of a stone! The exceedingly bossy lady wasn’t going to help us find a hotel at all, so we stomped off on our own and finally found a kind soul to take us in, in one of the back streets.
Now whenever we reach the Mediterranean our first thought is to immerse our bodies in it, so we set off from the new hotel wearing our bathers and I’m ashamed to say were brought up a bit short by the icy on shore wind and the perishingly cold water. We paddled and then cycled east to check out the alleged naturists beach but not a ‘mesange blue’ in sight, despite enormous quantities of Dutch and Germans – we don’t think the Swiss or Brits are really into that sort of thing.
The little hotel in which we suspected we were the only guests, was in a lively suburban street very similar to some we found in Sicily where neighbours hung out of windows to converse with or chastise passers-by. It was all very matey and a lot more interesting than a ‘sea view’ modern job.
There were far too many restaurants to choose from but we are always rather put off by photos of what you are going to be fed outside as it indicates a serious tourist trap. Fortunately we found a small one in the back streets which fitted the bill. It has turned pretty cold at night so we declined to sit outside. The menus are entirely in French, German and Italian. English is not spoken anywhere and they speak quite a tricky patois ‘Camargaise’ so we have to concentrate rather hard while communicating. You could be in Andalucia; bull fighting is very important, flamenco dancing is performed in the bars, paella is very much on the menu and leather shops and cowboy boots are sold everywhere. Sadly no sherry!
You definitely are not much of a man unless you can gallop singled handed and prod a bull up the backside at the same time - Mr Sarkozy seems a million miles away from these guys!
We had a day off on Wednesday as we wanted to explore the marshes. We had a blissful time biking around the edge of the wet plains looking at literally thousands of flamingos, and wild horses.
We stopped at a little road side stall selling the Camargue rice and salt amongst other local goodies. The lady running it insisted we tried the Muscat wine which they drink as an aperitif , or with foie gras -very good and not too sweet or heavy, so that is their replacement for sherry. We asked why there was such a link with Andalucia and she told us that in the past the gypsies would trade the bulls and horses and the bulls they use for fighting all came from Andalucia originally. Now they are rather lighter and more nimble as they are not killed in the Camargaise fights. It is more a match of skill as the ’Raseteurs’ have to remove ribbons from between the bulls horns without being gored. Many of the restaurants and cafes have bull fights on the television interspersed with racing. The lady at the stall also said that the Camargue is entirely self sufficient in meat, veg, fish, rice etc so it might explain why they seemingly are not very bothered about whether anyone goes there or not.
Street sign in St Maries, with this going on you can see why they feel independent!
The horses are quite small, circa 14hh but must be very strong as the men all ride them. There are riding stables everywhere and I would have been tempted if we had more time. We passed lots of groups of tourists on trips through the marshes.
We visited the Bird reserve which was great, except that every time you stopped to look at something you were set upon by mosquitoes which were very blood thirsty. We only coped for about an hour before retreating wounded. The lovely man at the gate lent us his bird book (in exchange for Vivi’s passport!) as we didn’t bring ours on this trip. He was also able to identify a photo which we had taken the other day of a booted eagle in the hills near Nimes. Apparently they over-winter here but do not breed.
We also made it to the mouth of the Petite Rhone which was pretty wide in reality, a lot of men were fishing and the usual hangers on had accumulated!
Thursday.
This was quite our most challenging day, certainly on this trip and probably almost on a par with some of the very tiring ones in Sicily last year. We had to make our way north east towards Arles. Overnight the Mistral had blown up, I had always thought this was a warm wind coming up from the Sahara. Wrong: down here it comes straight off the Alps, is arctic and was blowing at up to 80 mph. We only had 30 miles to do across the Salt plains and marshes but the first 10 miles is a bumpy gravel track. Very scenic but with the sand whipping into our faces there were times when we couldn’t see the end of our noses!!
It's not safe to hang about too long around here!
Vivi pedaling like hell in a sandstorm!
And to make it worse the wind was so strong there were moments when you went from 4.5mph to dead stop when you hit a big gust. It took a ridiculously long time to cross and then the rough surface got the better of my back tyre and I got a flat. Fortunately we were by a (closed) cafe in the middle of nowhere so we sheltered behind their wall and Alec had a frustrating time with inner tubes and valves and all sorts that didn’t work. A notice on the cafe window stated that ‘le petit chat n’etait pas abandonnee’ which must have been in reply to many people’s concerns.
To cut a long story short we decided to go straight to Arles rather than find the hotel we had ear marked on the way as to get there would be directly into the wind.
Coming into Arles involves a curious route but well thought out by the inhabitants. You have to get off the main road go under the motorway back on yourself through some fairly undesirable areas and then into a tunnel which is a sort of pipe suspended under the motorway. The entire walls of the tunnel are lined with graffiti and it crosses the Rhone so is about 300yds long – not the sort of place you want to be,
but as it happened we met nobody except a jogger and were soon out in the centre of Arles. Needless to say the Tourist office had closed 5 minutes before we arrived but by gesturing through the glass, they opened the door a few inches and passed out a list of likely hotels. It was bitterly cold and we were thrilled to pile into the first available family run Logis with a very welcoming lady at the desk.
Unfortunately she had a streaming cold and Vivi went down with it within hours.
We were recommended a restaurant by sniffling madam but never managed to find it so went straight into the first Italian bistro we found and had the most superb dinner of veal, olives, you name it. The language became a bit confusing because Vivi quickly picked up on them all saying “ciao “and “bella” etc and started speaking her own version of Fritallian!
No comments:
Post a Comment