from France: the matter of air

Late start (determined to put post up). Who sets out biking in the Provence at noon? Hot sun. We get lost quickly. But it’s pretty here. Monet land. A few hills, yes, but manageable.





Refreshing cherries – in season. We pause, eat a whole bunch.





Then starts the climb to Gordes. A punchy climb. I think I may turn around and catch the first train to Paris. But I don’t. I make it to this beautiful hill town, though just barely.







zooming in to valley below


Sustenance. A nice salad (tomatoes on a painted tomato plate), an outside terrace. Okay, I can continue.




More climbing? How can there be more climbing when I am already at a summit? People shout out of cars and at the side: courage! Allez, allez! (Have courage! Go, go, go!). Finally, a descent. Road goes down to a beautiful valley with an abbey amidst lavender fields.





And then starts a brutal climb. I pause once. 200 meters later, I pause again. 100 meters I pause again. I’m panting non-stop. But the pauses give me a chance to catch some air and finally, I reach the top (where Ed is sprawled out in the shade, on a bed of rosemary and sage, having paused far fewer times than me). I collapse and say I am going no further.

Staying on top of a mountain for the rest of my living days sounds appealing for only five minutes. We continue, downhill now, through gorges, down, down,





...to a countryside of vineyards and cherry orchards.





We are considering stopping. We are twenty kilometers short of our destination, but it is 6 pm, we’re tired, I am hungry for a good meal. We tell ourselves that the first nice b&b will be it for the day.

Ed is behind me. He calls out my name – I think he wants to show me something. Indeed.
I have a flat, he says.

The man knows bikes and so a repair is only a matter of time. He tells me to check my tires for pebbles. I do. He fixes his, we’re off.

Except that five minutes later, he has another flat. It’s Saturday evening. We have one more spare tube left. We should be eating dinner.

Ed examines the second flat, finds the hole and decides the spare was someone’s bad tube, mistakenly given to us with the bike. He changes it, pumps it up as best he can and we continue.

By now, it is so late that we may as well struggle til our destination – a b&b (Mas de la Lause) in the village of Le Barroux. Yes, perched on a hill. Why not.

We bike up at 8:30. Christophe, the owner is waiting. He has cooked dinner for us – salad, country pate, lasagna, apple tart. A bottle of rose. Outside on the terrace, with frogs making a racket.





We are surrounded by vines. So you make wines? It’s my wife’s family, he tells us. Ah. He cooks, she raises three daughters and has a finger in the wine making business.

Christophe understands a biker’s day. They all do here. Can’t tell you how many bikers one sees on these mountainous roads of Provence.

I ask who stops here in this remote place? He tells us it’s mainly the French, and Belgians and Swiss, some English and occasionally the Americans. Americans? Yes, a hikers tour group has affiliated with him. They go from village to village and a taxi service takes their bags from one place to the next. Sounds good to me… Oh, but you should see the size of their suitcases!

I think of last night's evening dinner at the spiffy little farm hotel we had stayed in. There were just a few other guests, all French. One woman wore beautiful linen shorts, another had a casual skirt, pressed, well-fitted. Clearly they didn’t squeeze their clothes into a yellow sack to strap onto a bicycle. For a minute, I had wondered why I was stuffing my yellow sack with a only a couple of items that I rinsed out nightly.


And now it is Sunday morning. I look out the window…




Take a deep breath, so that we can strap on our sacks and start all over again.

from France: shifting

Can you tell I’ve gone south? Forget even the temperature jump from the fifties to the eighties. Forget the still air, the clear skies (mistral effect!). Or maybe think of them as the culprits. The people act differently (and eat differently!) here. It’s noticeable.
Photos.



Avignon: southern light




Avignon: southern night




Avignon: southern food


[By the way, may I suggest a "can do" and "don't panic" attitude when travel details unravel? So that if you are waiting at a Brittany bus stop and you learn it's the wrong one, running a mile to get to the correct one before the one and only bus takes off may pay off? And say you have to move from Gare Montparnasse to the Gare de Lyon in Paris, and you have 45 minutes, and say, moreover, that your traveling companion suggests walking and you set out to do so, even though you think it's a bad idea, and say you finally convince him you'd better take the bus and you lead him to the wrong one, and say you then get off and find the right one, and you almost make it except that a passanger picks a fight with the driver and you are two minutes delayed, and say you pull up tp the Gare de Lyon 15 seconds before the TGV pulls out -- don't give up! The train my be on "track A" and the conductor may keep the door open for you as you madly run, backpack loaded with seaweed products from Brittany, and jump inside.]

Tomorrow we set out on les velos. We're so unprepared for this huge amount of daily biking! It should be a bloggable event.

from France: if someone paid me to come up with a plan for a perfect French getaway, I’d tell them – do this:

[A reader commented recently (paraphrasing) – I decided to follow your travels on my recent trip to Sicily. Thank you! We had hilarious adventures! Well now, I feel gratified. Ocean put forth some ideas and the reader took it from there, understanding that it never will be as you expect it to be. So, I get questions about what to see and do when in France. Here’s an idea - though mind you, it wont be as you would expect it to be:]

Oh, to get out of Paris a little! To walk along empty paths, to smell spring flowers and ocean breezes! To eat well, sleep better, to spend not too much…

Sure, sure, there are many ways to slice this banana. How about this: take a rapid train and then a local and alight in Roscoff (Brittany). It’s a town, not a village, but not to worry, it’s a good destination.

Book a room ahead of time at the Le Temps de Vivre. You want details? Click onto Ocean View (it's in the sidebar; no, not now – after May 25th). Ask for the cheaper room, in the tower. It’s beautiful! (View provided in previous Ocean post.)

You’re there. Now what? Get your shopping over and done with. Go to the Algae Center and look at all the fantastic things you may do with seaweed! Impressed? Loaded down with algae purchases? Head back to your hotel room, dump the stuff in the closet and head out again.

Walk along the little streets, admire the detail – the knobs to latch the window shutters, for example.








Go to the port and get your bearings. You’ll want to know what’s what. Walk out onto the footbridge and study the tides. Make sure you have a windbreaker on (see post below).

So now you’re hungry. Lucky you. Your hotel is right next to the restaurant of the same name. Feeling poor? Order from the cheapest set price menu. But if you’re going to splurge on food once in France, don’t do it in Paris, do it here.


Next morning, the hotel will provide a nice little breakfast. Eat up – a crepe, a Breton cake, breads and jams and yogurts. Oh, and the kitchen next door will have prepared a delicious little fruit thing. You wont want to skip that, nor the freshly squeezed juice.

You could, this morning, visit the onion museum. This is the region that wants to give AOC status (special French certification, reserved for such things as wines and cheeses) to the onion. It has a Roscoff terroir, you see. And a history. You’ll want to know about it.

Then, head back toward the little port. You may want to take your lunch now. There’s a great place – Auberge du Quai – it’s bustling at lunchtime, but they’ll find you a table. Tell them you’re in a hurry though. You’ll want to make the 13:30 boat. So order something simple like a half dozen oysters and an Ocean salad (no, I’m not copyright here, on Ocean) – with shrimp and smoked salmon.








Now you’re ready to explore the countryside.

Get on the ferry with the locals. (The docking point is different depending on the tide; watch what the others are doing and follow them.) It’s a fifteen minute ride to the Isle de Batz. You wouldn’t want it to be longer – the waters can be choppy here.



island view


On the island, head to your left and follow a path along the coast. You’re in the village now.

…but not for long. Just always take the path closest to the water and you wont lose your way. It’s about 15 kilometers around the island, so pace yourself well. Don’t be like this foolish American duo I know who had to run like crazy, waving their arms to keep the ferry from pulling out without them. There are only so many ferry runs and it would be sad if you missed the last one.

So what’s the walk like? It takes you past small Brittany homes, through pastures, past coves. You’ll stop to watch the waters crash on rocks as fishing boats brace their bows against the ocean waters.













At the tip of the island you’ll lose a lot of time watching the gulls, so be prepared for that. After you’ve taken the n’th shot of their splendidness, move on.








And don’t forget to look at the other island inhabitants. No, not the people, the horses and ducks and what have you. Looking out at the ocean too long and hard may keep you from seeing a mother duck feed her young one.





So you managed to not miss the boat back? Great. Poke around the little harbor and watch others pick up their lobsters and crab for the evening meal. Don’t be tempted to do the same. There’s no room in the minibar for it.





So, not yet time for dinner? There are great tea rooms and pastry shops that’ll sustain you. Sort of like this one:





It’s evening. You’re wondering if you should go back to the same restaurant or try something new. Choices! You have choices! You don’t expect to be guided here every step of your way? Explore! Consult the hotel staff. It is your last night on the Brittany coast? Make it great – go to a place that serves mountains of seafood. Maybe like this:





Of course, leave room for the main course. And the dessert. And a noisette maybe?

Another night in the tower room, another breakfast of crepes and cakes and then you can return to your Paris.

Anyway, that’s what I would do.

from France: looking out

What’s a day like here? Yes, I walk, there are misty rains and plates piled high with shellfish. The fields are covered with artichoke heads and cauliflower globes and every person that passes shouts out a greeting.

But what’s it like to be here in the midst of spring?

One day at a time. Take yesterday: I wake up in a b&b just outside the sizable town of Treguier. A bird is at the window and it is sort of fitting.





The inn (Kastell Dinec’h) is an old house, run by an older woman, with the help of her daughter and granddaughter. OK, maybe the little girl isn’t much help. She’s only two and in the morning, she runs up to me, jumps into my arms and demands a kiss. She’s their charm agent and you forgive her running footsteps upstairs, above your room.

After breakfast, Ed and I hike to Treguier...





...to catch a bus to Lannion, an even bigger regional town – the only one in this area that has a train station. Except I read the bus schedule incorrectly and so we don’t really have a bus to catch. A costly mistake which only a taxi can save. Sigh.

We are waiting at the station, with still a few minutes to spare. Good thing there is bakery across the street. Good thing there are plenty of apple croissants and raisin croissants – you know, for variety.

We catch the train to Plouaret, where we catch another train to Morlaix where we catch another train to Roscoff. All on time, no missed connections.

Roscoff by the sea. Yes, there are a half dozen hotels, but the coastline remains untarnished by us, the tourists. This isn’t a beach casino town. There are no tour buses either, though maybe it is early in the season? Roscoff looks like what it tries to be: the "pink onion" capital of the world.





We wander into an algae store. A new variety is discovered every week (the store clerk tells us)! I’m in. I buy algae soap, algae spread (great with toast or artichokes!), algae scrub. I walked on the stuff at low tide and now I plan to smear it on my body. How odd we are, the occasional tourists who can’t get enough of their place.

The main street of Roscoff has a number of eating spots and one or two souvenir stores. At some point in the summer there will be tourists here, but now, the streets are empty but for the occasional French family out for a brisk walk..





A footbridge runs into the ocean waters. At the end, there is a platform for passengers of the ferry that runs back and forth to the offshore island. Walking it at low tide feels windy, dangerous, spectacular! The gust runs between groups of rocks and blows at you so hard that you are certain you'll be thrown into the waters below.





It is amazing how high the water level is by evening! Rock islands, so visible in the late afternoon are gone. Someone turned the ocean faucet on and let it flow too long! It happens so quickly! One, two, three, all flooded.






We eat a cheap meal at a pricey eatery. I say without hesitation that it is always better in France to do this rather than eating the expensive selections in a moderate eatery.

Here, take a look at this seafood and seasonal asparagus amuse bouche:





Then comes the meal. I have eaten so much seafood the past days that I am beginning to feel the addiction. What, no snails for breakfast? But here, at dinner, the chef works inordinately hard to create masterpieces. Yes, he has his emblem – his Michelin rosette. Want to find him and the wonderful little hotel his wife presides over? Check Ask for an Ocean View (link in Ocean sidebar) in several weeks. It will be there.

My images of Brittany include a night walk under a brooding sky. Forget it. I’m spent. Tomorrow. Definitely then. Or the next day. Oh, I’ leaving then. That’s okay, I still have a Brittany post in me – about offshore islands and kind ferry captains. In the meanwhile, a glance out the window, just for balance.

from France: the whys and hows and wheres

The posts have been a tad shorter, the photos – less numerous. Why? Because I did not finish all my work for the semester before leaving and so I’ve had to take some waking hours each evening to attend to it.

And I said little about the trip basics. How is this a hike? And where is the bike?

Let me explain:

We chose to hike along the GR trail (no.34), which for the most part, hugs the northwest coast line. Most of the time it is a dirt path. Sometimes it crosses beaches and stones, still wet from the receding tide. Sometimes, when a stretch of coast is impassable, we pick up a country road for a while.

We are carrying packs and I’ve grown used to the weight of mine. It helps to have a light computer!



through fields of artichokes



close up


The weather was fantastic the first day, fine the second and at first drizzly, then downright pouring rain the third.

I would say that, therefore, this third day of hiking was the best. We were energized by the wetness of it all! The scenery was well served by the gray, wet skies. We encountered the occasional person picking the night’s supper, or a fisherman digging for bait, or a farmer tending to the artichoke fields, but otherwise, there were few people out and about.









Brittany weather is like that – rarely cold, rarely hot, often changeable. Flowers thrive on it. I see plenty of evidence of this.



yellow and blue


When the drizzle first started, we paused at an old inn in a village of a few houses and ordered hot fish soup and a shrimp salad. A simple place with exceptionally cheap prices. Such wonderful, nourishing food!



a village with an inn










We were so buoyed by it all that we set out to hike further. That’s when the rains came down. No jacket could keep the wetness out of my pack. But we did not give up. Hearty Polish peasant stock here! (Ed, lacking that, is starting to sniffle.)

We hiked until the evening and then turned inland toward an auberge for the night. No buses here, nothing. Ed thought it would be fun to hitch a ride, but I balked. I’m too old, too wet, too something! Besides, there were too few cars going our way. And so we walked and walked some more until we found a bar where we could call for a ride for the last several miles. The country auberge had dinner ready for us. Good and hot.




with mussels and mushrooms



with morrells and white asparagus


So ended our hike along this stretch of the Brittany coast. We’re taking a train and a series of buses to a different location now, still in Brittany, but even further west. We only have time for one day-hike tomorrow. After that, we’re heading south to pick up a couple of bikes in Avignon.

Okay? Explanations typically come before an ocean crossing, but this time, my work got a huge grip on my time. By tomorrow I should be done with it and I can truly exhale. Actually, I’ve done a fantastic amount of exhaling already. And hiking. And eating. I have seasalt on my skin and in my hair and Brittany flowers in my head. Powerful combination.

from France: beaches, families and crepes

Having myself lived in two countries where the political leadership has been, at numerous points, tremendously unpopular among those within and those outside the particular nation, I am sympathetic to the sizable minority who voted for the losing candidate in yesterday’s election in France. And even more sympathetic to those who felt the choice was less than perfect on all counts. Oh, politics.

For us, the day was only mildly touched by the presidential fever here (with nearly 85% of the French voting, you have to think that it was a feverish event). On the Brittany coast, all was calm, the tide was again low, the rocks and cliffs were dramatically positioned at every turn, the flowers were at their spring best.





We spent a while watching the occasional person try windskating on this beach. And the small, dads only, soccer game, with kids playing in the sand and moms chatting. And the two swimmers who thought nothing of the cold water. Scenes from nearly empty beaches are mesmerizing. Three photos for Ocean – of the tall firs protectively looking down on the cove below, of the biker who chose not to bike across, and of the solo walker.














At the local creperie -- one of only two places selling food here, Madame Louisette was taking a break from the kitchen duties. Monsieur Fernand was in back showing off how “award winning” crepes are made, granddaughters were helping out. A Sunday in Brittany.