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Published: September 15th 2010
Right. It’s going to be a challenge to get all the material into the sort of size that will appeal to today’s fast-moving professional blahblahblah.
Having successfully wasted some space, let me say this - we had a quite extraordinarlily excellent couple of weeks driving around. Mary (Mon’s mum) was with us, so we were keen to put on a jolly good show. All got in the car, and into the ferry! Going by sea seems to be the option of choice for the guilty middle classes - no Easyjet fodder this. Carloads of kayaks, picnic tables and squalling children. Bliss, presumably. We arrived and stopped in Honfleur for our first meal in the land of yum. It didn’t disappoint. Indeed, I may very well use this blog to belabour the point that dammit, you simply cannot beat the frogs for grub. The trip was a veritable celebration of gluttony - exemplified by the way we methodically raided St Hilaire’s high street on Sunday morning, having missed the previous night’s supermarket opening hours. The fruit and veg lady hand-picked our produce (‘for tonight, madame? This one is ripe’), we stocked up on cheese (4 kinds), ham, salami, pate, plenty of wine,
It's a tree!
And a building! Huzzah!and loads of little sweet patisseries. And baguettes. And coffee. The hoard lasted 24 hours - we needed more. Dad got into the excellent habit of going up the road for fresh baguettes every morning.
Day trips included the Mt St Michel, best seen from a distance and avoided in August (hindsight, folks), and St Malo: ramparts, good food, crowded but bigger. We ventured further afield up the coast, to Paimplon, a fishing village that had (gasp) pottery studios! The girls’ bliss was complete. Rennes was another highlight - the food radar did not let us down, and we supped on galettes and pancakes filled with interesting and tasty melanges; our hostess was eccentrically entertaining. All this gluttony was punctuated with extended bouts of sloth: reading, napping, walking through the countryside.
When the time came to to leave, our belts were bulging. A short stop on one of the Normandy beaches preceded our boarding the ferry; there wasn’t a single French numberplate going over to Blighty. Go figure...
A note - I have put all the photos on this blog. Because I forgot I had split the blogs into 3. Carry on.
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