Ken's Blog

Charles had travelled extensively in France, mostly on his small folding bike. He was spending a few days camping in Fresnay-sur-Sarthe. We wandered into town in search of a beer. Jean ran a popular ’cafe tabac’. He knew Charles. We were welcomed as locals. It was still early – a little after eight on a Saturday evening – but people were already beginning to drift away.

Charles explained that opening hours could be a bit unpredictable. You had to look for the signs. Complementary nibbles with our drinks was good, but then Jean began to stack away the chairs out on the pavement. Ominous said Charles. When the shutters were lowered we knew it was time to leave.

Not yet nine, the town was empty. But one more drink seemed in order. Wandering around the back streets we eventually found a small bar still open. It had more the appearance of a bookshop than a drinking establishment. There was something slightly out of place about it, but exactly what eluded me.

I returned the following day for morning tea. The service, whilst impeccable, was overly fussy. I gazed at the book shelves searching for inspiration. A selection of biographies of tortured cinematic souls – Dietrich, Bergman, Garbo and the like. A French translation of ’The Art of War’ sitting uncomfortably alongside ’Religions du Monde’ (’Religions of the World’). An array of home style guides. I drank my tea, thanked the two gentlemen, and left.

Back in Blighty we tend to view Europe as an unfortunate appendage, a miscreant child that needs sorting out once in a while. Nice to visit. We seem to think our friends across the Channel would embrace all things European. There just isn’t enough leiderhosen or escargot to go around.

But I was beginning to sense resistance. I noticed it first in the village of St-Denis-de-Gastines. Prices in the village shop were prominently displayed in Euros, but underneath, in much smaller print, were the equivalent in French Francs. At first I thought it was an aberration – a futile local protest – but I encountered it again later in a decent sized branch of a national supermarket chain. Perhaps we have more in common with our European neighbours than we think.

By the time I’d returned from the washrooms the next morning, the Germans had left on manoeuvres. That left just Jean and I in our end of the camp. He was an experienced French camper. He had a hammer. A proper one. In England we’d call it ’Going equipped’. In France, it was the only way to get tent pegs into the ground.

’Municipal’ campsites are a curious French thing. Clean, functional, well-maintained with generous sized pitches, and at a price you really couldn’t quibble over. The clientele – at least the ones I could find – seemed reassuringly lower middle class. And yet you felt that in staying there you’d fallen on hard times. Perhaps it’s the locations – surrounded by industrial estates, or so far out of town even the budget airlines would balk a little…

Then there’s Mayenne – strictly speaking ’Camping municipal rue Saint Leonard’. You knew it was going to be good – the Germans were there in force. And they do love their excursions into France. A few beleaguered Brits huddled together at the far end of the site. I decided to join the Germans, largely because even I cringed when they spoke French. I felt much better.

It was late in the season for sun loungers, but there was WiFi under a small wooden canopy. The Germans sat in lines on the benches, laptops perched on the trestle tables. I watched for a while then picked up my towel and went for a shower.

The French are a remarkable polite nation. For example, exchanging pleasantries in supermarket queues isn’t viewed with quite the suspicion it often is in the UK. Indeed, here you simply wouldn’t conceive of not saying ’Bonjour’ or ’Au revoir’. Now, you would be forgiven for thinking that this is merely ’Have a nice day’ en Francais. But you’d be quite wrong.

It seems that all this politeness requires a good deal of effort to sustain it – everyday usage alone does not suffice. Indeed, at one campsite I couldn’t but overhear my neighbours practicing late into the night – quite loudly I thought – lots of ’Oui!’, ’Merci!’ and ’C’est magnifiique’. The enthusiasm of youth. I soon drifted off to sleep.

The enclave was soon behind me. I was back in France. And much happier. St Pierre-de-Plesguen is a pleasant enough place. The usual coiffeurs, bar tabacs, pharmacies, and pâtisseries of course. But otherwise unremarkable. It had started innocently enough. Stopping on the edge of the village to check the map, a white haired man came over to see if I needed help. He was curious. I explained about my venture, exchanged a few pleasantries and then we parted.

A little while later, as I sat relaxing in the village square, he reappeared, beckoning me over to the already familiar patisserie. I followed. He insisted on buying me a huge piece of gateaux. Accepting the gift graciously, I shook his hand warmly and left. It was soon clear that he was telling everyone in the square of my venture. A crowd was beginning to gather. I smiled, explained as succinctly as I could – ’Les Anglais!’ – added a few ’au revoirs’ and continued on my journey.

It seemed perfect. Manicured privet hedges, a friendly welcome, gleaming facilities. Helene, the campsite receptionist, greeted me with great enthusiasm – she too had a dream to cycle around the world and had clearly given it a lot of thought.

But something wasn’t quite right. A man was washing his already spotless caravan. I wandered into the bar. The young woman behind the counter looked surprised when I ordered in French.

They drifted in slowly at first. The odd football shirt, some shell suit bottoms, and the flip-flops. Soon exhausting their usual golfing repertoire, the alpha males amongst the group quickly moved on to trying to out do each other over who’d killed what with a .22 rifle. I was thankful there were no bison in France.

I wouldn’t have minded so much if they were going to sample the local cuisine in the adjoining restaurant. But no, they preferred to order take-aways – with frites of course – and retreat to their little piece of home. You wondered why they’d ever left. Les Anglaise.

I always feel very guilty going into pâtisseries. It’s not that I’m in any way embarrassed about purchasing ’eclair chocolat’. No, it’s the French obsession with gift wrapping cakes. They do it so beautifully, I mean ordinarily I’d keep the paper and use it for birthday presents.

The problem is that my phrase book lacks an expression for ’Please don’t gift wrap that succulent looking chocolate eclair as I’ll be scoffing it the moment I leave your shop’. So, instead, I’m obliged to scurry away, discreetly devouring my purchases and then quietly consigning the wrappings to the nearest waste bin.

At least this time there were no tigers. A previous visit, many years ago, to a place called Bellevue – then a zoo on the outskirts of Manchester – had ended rather abruptly with the entire family being urinated on by one such large cat. Who says humour is the preserve of homo sapiens?

No, this Bellevue, a campsite on the Brittany coast, east of St Brieux, was a more tame affair. Just the incessant flapping of flags, Brittany’s own black and white affair being given equal prominence with the French Tricolor. Pierrick was the proprietor, receptionist, chef, barman and consummate host, effortlessly and endlessly switching between each with just the occasional Gaelic shrug. He found my efforts at French difficult at first, asking if perhaps I spoke a little English? ’Oui, Monsieur’ I replied. I wasn’t giving in that easily.

I had planned to be further east towards Le Mont-St-Michel, but it seems the cartographers had skimped on a few details, roads mostly. Frustrated at my progress, compounded by 34 degrees of heat, I stopped at a bar in the small village of St Carreuc. I struck up a conversation with Alain whilst his dog played dead in the oppressive heat outside. He suggested I explore the coast to the east of St Brieux. Tim, back at Etables-sur-Mer, had said something similar.

En route to the next village, Quenay, I mulled over Alain’s advice. At this rate I’d struggle to reach my intended destination by night fall. And they’d be no more opportunity to enjoy cooling sea breezes until Turkey. That was that then.

I arrived in Etables-sur-Mer on the Brittany coast unsure as to exactly where the campsite was. Just like Troon in Scotland back in May. But this time I had much more success. Venturing forth to ask directions in the village square, I was able to order the ’gauche’s, ’droite’s and ’descende’s and find the delightful Camping l’Abri Cotier campsite.

Tim was very patient as I introduced myself in my rather dodgy French. Originally from Dorchester, he suggested things might be a bit easier in English. You sensed he’d done this before.

I was struck by the warm, friendly atmosphere – nothing was too much trouble. Over an ice cool beer that evening I mulled over my plans for the next few days. I had intended to head further east towards Dinan, resting up for a few days to take stock for the first time in quite a while. But, I thought, why leave such a pleasant location, with all the facilities I needed, for the uncertainty ahead? By the following morning I had decided to stay for a couple of days.

Tim’s wife Pierrette was curious about my expedition, having recently read an account of a French couple who walked the length of Africa. We chatted at some length over a cup of tea in the garden, enjoying the autumn sunshine. I too was curious – what had brought them here to run the campsite? We stumbled onto the topic of the remote South Atlantic island of Tristan da Cunha. Tim was surprised to find someone who’d actually been there, almost by accident as it happens.

I soon found I had a new neighbour. Scott was originally from Taunton, close to my own cottage, but had moved to France with his parents whilst still very young. He spoke English with a distinct Somerset accent, but not even a hint of this when speaking French. I was impressed. In earlier times, I mused, a candidate for SOE.

A quite unexpected offer of lunch from Pierrette and her mother, as I sat tapping away on the netbook in the shade, was the catalyst for expanding a little further my limited vocabulary – ’Le repas etait delicieux. Je vous remercie’ (The meal was delicious. Thank you very much).

That evening Pierrette’s mother kindly prepared me a hearty meal, typical, I was told, of the central region of France. She wanted to make sure my first impressions of France were positive, memorable ones. Having been shown such selfless hospitality there could be no doubt about that. Alas, my as yet still limited grasp of French forestalled what I am sure would have been a thoroughly fascinating discussion.

As I retired for the evening I wondered whether such a welcome for a perfect stranger would have been reciprocated back in the UK….