from Normandy: on this day, sixty-four years back

You are counting and so you know. Of course. Who wouldn’t remember?

We didn’t. At first.

It’s Kathy’s last full day with us and we have chosen it as the day to pool our resources and rent a car.

Easy? Not in Honfleur. For all the tourists that pass this way, I must say that they do so with their own wheels. There is no train service here. There is no boat service that I know of. There are buses, but they aren’t easy to plot and work with if you want to do more than go from point A to point B. And there aren’t really car rental agencies.

Except for Sarl Locagis. Sarl Locagis will rent you a moving truck and sell you as many cardboard boxes as you need for your big transfer. And on a slow day, Sarl Locagis will rent you a car. Thursday was a slow day for Sarl.


It was a pretty day for us. The state of the skies is best represented by a shot of the old harbor.





Nice, no? Cool, but who’s counting. We’ve got scarves.

Fishermen seem a tad idle, but that’s not weather related. We’re very aware of the tension at the moment here, in the port towns of France (and elsewhere in western Europe). Fishermen are protesting the high cost of fuel and the elimination of fuel subsidies. If you love seafood, you better visit soon because they say the current supplies are going to run out within a week.





Bonne chance, guys! Hope things settle for you soon. Love those little crevettes!

We come to Sarl Locagis a bit late. No matter. We have the car for the whole day, but we only have 100 free kilometers. That’s not a lot of driving. But, the very sympa mademoiselle at the Bureau de Tourisme noted that the D-Day beaches of Normandy are only some 35 kilometers away. They are our destination. That’s 70 kilometers round trip, with a little extra for mistakes and detours.

(Such bad math that was!)

And so we pile into the car, put on some French music and head west.
Shortly into the drive, someone throws out the idea that a stop might be nice. With perhaps a little beach time. Now, you may think that this is pretty wimpy. It speaks of poor road trip attitude if you can’t go for more than 30 kilometers without stopping.

Well sure. But frankly, we were coast deprived. Or at least I have been feeling that. Honfleur, for all its coastal glory, is really quite sheltered from coastal waters. It’s just enough around the bend in the Seine estuary that you can’t really see the sea. And on this day, driving along the coast, we are tantalized by fleeting vistas of sandy beaches and rippling waves and the desire to get out and crunch on sandy shores really takes hold.

At Villers sur Mer, we stop. A small little place, with a market and a beachfront café. Two essentials of life in this type of community, so far as I’m concerned.

It's so different from Burgundy! Look at the houses, for instance:

















So there we are, tasting sausage samples that Madame cuts for us at her stall and buying wild strawberries and thinking that life, in general, cannot be faulted.





And on the beach, we crunch sand and shells, lots of shells and we exhale.


















And now it is time to keep going. Or is it? The astute reader will have noticed that we are some 30 kilometers into our journey. The D-Day beaches are not even a mirage on the horizon. Bummer.

So here we are – at the doorstep of history and the odometer is hovering near our Cinderella warning kilometer. What would you do? Bite the bullet, of course. Even at 26 Euro cents for each additional mile. Right?

It will be a long time before I agree to such rental terms.

In the meantime, I mentally magic-brush the odometer off the dashboard and accelerate.

And now we come to the crossing of the River Ome and then, just a breath away, the Pegasus Bridge over the Caen Canal.


Exactly on the midnight of this day, in 1944, the Normandy Invasion began. D-Day. And it started with the Allied army capture of this bridge. The first soldier to die in the invasion, Lt. Brotheridge, is buried nearby. The family Gondree installed a commemorative plaque by his grave. They live in the house that was the first to be liberated during the invasion. This house.





Now a café, run by a woman who was a little girl living there on June 5/6, 1944 (no photos inside allowed).

And so by the chance of Sarl Locagis’s schedule, we stumbled on the annual reunion of World War II veterans, their families and friends, school groups, onlookers, all here now, all thinking back to a day when the weather was slightly worse and the toll on lives lost is hard now to fathom.



















Hit hard now by history, we push forward.

The villages along these Normandy shores are quiet places now. Summer homes and water sports centers draw the attention of the families who come here to enjoy the stretches of sand and water.

But there are monuments as well. And flags: English, American, Canadian, Polish. And plaques. And cemeteries.

Like for so many, D-Day images for me, come from movies. The Longest Day, Band of Brothers.

Not after today.





We picnic at Lion sur Mer, right on the water’s edge. It turns cold and a few dark clouds roll in, threatening rain.

A million men landed, a war was won. Much later, but it was won. No one doubts that it needed to be won.


Sar Locagis forgives us the extra miles. The many extra miles.


We eat well on this night at Le Breard, where plates resemble paint palates and food is presented with pomp and flair.





But it’s the Normandy cheeses, served at the end, that stay with me. Pont l’Eveque, Livarot, Pave d'Auge, Camembert. Creamy, soft and pungent, the same as they have been for so long. Centuries. Years of war, quiet times. Same cheeses.

from Pont l'Eveque, Normandy: knee-deep in buttercups

If you come here for the cheese (Pont l’Eveque: one of the most popular French cheeses, right up there, I am told, with Camembert, Brie and Roquefort), you’ll be disappointed. I mean, you can find it in stores, sure. But then, I can find it in Whole Foods, Madison. What you cannot find in Pont l’Eveque, Normandy, is a Pont l’Eveque cheesemaker.

Which is fine. Especially if you come here on a partly cloudy day, after a miserably wet one and you expect to be charmed by other Pont l’Eveque attributes. Like buttercups.

But maybe I’m jumping ahead too much.

First, you have to be told that it is the place to go if you want to see a charming village in the Department of Calvados in the Province of Normandy. Well, maybe not THE most charming village. For that, you should hike from there to Beaumont en Auge. That is absolutely THE most charming village.

Yes, fine. We can do all that. We don’t have a car, but we are so absolutely on top of things that we can work with bus schedules and we can get ourselves anywhere.


And so we set out. [Oh, wait. There is the matter of the Honfleur market. We are staying in Honfleur. The official Honfleur market day is Saturday, but trust this place (what with its artists and super with it locals) to develop, in addition, an alternative market – a bio market (meaning organic), on Wednesday mornings. How perfect! I stock up on the red treasures of the region: strawberries, cherries, apples, tomatoes, and a good and heavy bottle of Normandy apple juice.]










Oh how I love to go for a ride,
To see the country far and wide…

I hum this to myself as we climb the bus and speed down south to Pont l’Eveque. Maybe speed is the wrong word here. It’s not really a long trip, worthy of great speed. Fine, it’s a very short trip. Pont l’Eveque is a mere 17 kms from Honfleur.

We’re happy as we’re rolling along…

How true.

And so we find ourselves in this quaint old town ...which we fully intend to leave ASAP, because we really do want to get to THE most charming village in France.

So, we look this way…





…and that…



…and we head out.

Mind you. Not all of us are avid hikers. In fact, I later find out (much later: after I whip everyone along on this close to 20 kilometer round trip trek) that an alternative may have been to take a more contemplative move through the day, one which would include a lot of pauses and conversations. Like, maybe, this:




But, the skies are almost blue, the buttercups are in full bloom and the there’s the prospect of discovering all that charm. Who can pass on that!

We walk slowly at first, each taking, most likely, the same picture, but in three versions. Perhaps all of our photos look something like these:



cows, knee-deep in buttercups










And we are charmed by similar things. Like this mom donkey and her donkey kid. Can you even guess how long we spent looking at the two of them chasing each other in a the field of buttercups? (And we did it both going there, and on the return)



let's play, mommy!




oh, I'm hungry...




walk with me




not now, I'm prancing!




oh, come here!

And then, suddenly (perhaps not suddenly enough for some) we were in Beaumont en Auge. Actually what Beaumont was really sur (on) was a pretty steep hill. Which added a nice little denouement to the whole journey.

But, hills do give good views and I’ll let you judge for yourself if this qualifies. Zooming in, you can see Deauville by the Channel…

…and zooming out, you can still see the sheep. I always like sheep. Especially knee deep in buttercups.

Some people, those who live here, for instance, may find this view to be commonplace. They'll come to this spot for the quiet that it offers. A place to read a newspaper.

I'm not so jaded. For me, it's heavenly up here, in Beaumont en Auge.

And the village itself? Not sure how any of us felt about the MOST CHARMING label. Here, take a look:

It was pretty alright, but then, so many of these villages are lovely. And besides, we were too hungry to chew over the matter of labels. We wanted dejeuner (lunch)! We find the one open eatery and settled in among the men and women of Beaumont en Auge. Here, you see mostly muscled men. I assure you, at some tables, there were women. An older mother and her son, both with their dogs. A couple. And us.

The food? Here are my choices:

(The hearty men ate heartier dishes -- meats and gizzards and such; I didn't notice the plates of the mother and son, but I did note that one of their dogs liked a morcel, and French dogs are fussy so I am certain it was good.)

Afterwards, well, one had to get back. There was mention of a taxi maybe, but that thought drifted toward the sea as Beaumont was low on taxi stands. In villages of about 52, you just don’t have much use for cabs.

In Pont l’Eveque, we compensated for the absence of cheese makers (they’re all outside the town, which figures as cheese makers are often where the milk is) by visiting a Calvados distillery. We sampled the stuff, but I myself will admit to not appreciating anything that is that potent and so one of us purchased small quantities for gift purposes while the others delighted in being offered free samples of everything in very large glasses.

More fruitful shopping, so to speak (I'm feeling so clever now, long after midnight) was accomplished at a local clothing store where everything was tres cheap and billowy and cottony. Sort of like this frock (in an antique shop next door), except much more au currant:





And then it was time to leave. Except, perhaps you have not been reading this blog carefully or for a long time and so you do not know that I am notoriously inaccurate in reading French bus schedules. I always miss the pertinent piece of information, like that the bus takes a vacation on Wednesdays and this happens to be Wednesday, or that the bus does not stop at this particular stop on any evening run and here we are – stupidly waiting at evening time.

The point is, it took almost as long to finally get ourselves on the seats of a bus to Honfleur as it takes a meringue to bake to a fine crisp texture.


Back in our home town, we bought Pont l’Eveque cheese and many other things and one of us opened her secret bottle of champagne (well, not too secret – everyone at the b&b knew about it after all) and we ate and chatted until I pushed back my chair and retired, to go off and post. Loyal to Ocean readers, to the core.

from Honfleur: gray clouds, gray shrimp

Honfleur is a small town. 8,000 residents. My guess would be that there are 1,000 artists, 4,000 involved in servicing both residents and tourists, and the remainder – in the production of regional foods (don;t quote me on that -- it's just a guess). Which, in Honfleur, would put the little shrimp, France’s crevettes, at the top of the list (followed by apple stuff and milk stuff).

In many sea-coast towns and villages in France, in those charming little restaurants that fill to capacity every beautiful weather day, they’ve given up. If you ask about their popular shrimp salads and shrimp entrees, they’ll reluctantly admit that the little crustaceans come from the coast of Africa. They’re good, but they’re not local.

Not in Honfleur. So much does this town jump around its shrimp business, that it celebrates it annually with a huge shrimp festival (in the fall). And if you can’t stand the idea of peeling a plateful of tiny little gray critters (pink, once cooked), you can attend the shrimp peeling contests and grab the stuff that gets pulled out of the shell.


And speaking of gray, today was a gray, wet day. So wet was it, that you could not make do with just an umbrella. I mean, you could, of course. But you’d get wet in spite of it.





Over breakfast, we reviewed our options. Day trips were postponed until less wet days.

And here's a digression: I remain certain that the reason we are such good friends is that we have much the same orientation towards life’s essentials. We believe in being prepared against adversity and so we travel with supplies of food, wine, champagne, too, just in case. Even in France, where the chances of running low on any of the above are very minimal.

And even when supplies are not low, because we have managed to eat satisfying meals at least three times a day, we restock.

Today, we went into at least one candy store (purchase of choice: caramel au beurre salé), one sardine store (peculiar, as no one was especially looking for sardines) and one bakery.

Let me pause in the bakery, because we certainly did pause there, perhaps to demonstrate our support for the craft of fine baking in this part of the country (as if it were inferior elsewhere in France!).















We bought provisions for lunch (the likes of which will not be described here, as you may find us to be perhaps a bit over the top in our food cravings) and waited while the proprietor took great care to heat them properly. None of this microwave stuff. (Do they even sell microwaves in France, or are they banned for reasons of culinary blasphemy?)

During our wait, we watched people come in for their lunch breads and supplements. I grew intensely jealous of the client who was known to Madame, so that she would reach for his daily loaf in a familiar way. Such intimacy seems to me to be a wonderful byproduct of living here.

After, we ate. And talked. In the way that only the closest friends, who believe that bread products can break all final barriers to communication, talk.


We then went on to pursue our various interests, which include painting (don’t look at me), photography, and writing – professionally and otherwise.

I felt my camera needed a work out after staring at food so much and so I set out in the rain. It was miserable out there for all but those under solid cover (“solid” is a matter of personal interpretation).













The lens of my camera kept up a steady stream and steam of protest, but I was determined. Honfleur is about gray shrimp and gray skies and I want to sample both. At times, in combination. For example, let me poke around the fishing trawlers some and see if anyone is still out and about.









Fine, camera wins. The lens refuses to stay dry.

I search for a café where the camera and I can recover. Though really, only a radiator will help me now as I am thoroughly wet. Still, I pause at a little place and study a book on Honfleur. (Did you know that the village of Quebec is just a few kilometers from here and that in the Canadian province of Quebec, there is a Honfleur?) And I study the jovial men that come for an early evening drink.





I can’t tell if they are in the art, shrimp or service industry, but they are a happy lot and it warms me up to be in their presence. The outside weather seems less formidable now.





Afterwards, I slosh home, passing two young boys who, like all young boys, don’t seem to mind anything having to do with weather.





For dinner? Oh, crevettes, of course.