As we left the wide Garonne countryside
where my lovely sister lives with her husband in an old Gers farmhouse, we
headed into a complex hilly country where the layers of civilization are
stacked one over another, and the place-names reflect the passing ages. We pulled up into a bastide town called Puymirol
which is pretty astonishing in appearance - it has a five-star hotel, arcaded
place, swimming pool, and stunning views all around. The steep road up to the top reminded me of Winchelsea near Rye, if that
helps to visualize it - but of course here things burn hotter and it's all less
green.
We strolled about, admired the
stone buildings, and had a coffee. Monsieur told us the sad story. He's pleased to have sold up - signed his
restaurant away last week. The town's economy - like the whole of France he
said - has collapsed. The nearby camping has closed. Whereas last year, the
town's famous medieval pageant attracted 3,000 people in one day - with its
Templars, knights, jousts, feasts, etc. - this year there was no pageant. Every business has slumped. The place is - for now - effectively dead. He said, this is happening throughout the country. People have no money, so it is a vicious cycle. He went to get
his iPad - started reading out the exchange rate of the euro against the pound,
against the dollar. He was nearly
crying. We did not stay to see the
town's necropolis, though perhaps we should have done.
Another astonishing thing about France -
from an English point of view - is how unrelentingly uniform it is. That was
very striking the moment we came through the tunnel from Spain, but on this
journey we have been very aware of how each town, village, restaurant, hotel,
crossroads, factory-zone - all of them, conform to their own sector's official
way of doing things. You could be plumped down anywhere and find exactly the
same thing: signage, schedules, menus, facial expressions, expectations…. This
is quite remarkable, considering how huge it is and when you see how tremendously varied the landscape is, and
the great variety of all the kinds of farming and industry which are going on.
It implies a total obedience or acceptance.
Even local pride is manifest in a nationally equal way.
We loved the drive up to la Rochelle
yesterday - over those great marshes. In the south, there is an emphasis on the
cultivation of oysters, with nice shambly shacks in the watery mess, but for a great part of the expanse it appears to be
just rough grazing and wild birds. The
sky is huge. The light, bouncing in from the Atlantic, is scintillating,
magic. We doodled about on the coast for
a while - exploring the clean, plush seas-side towns reminiscent of M Hulot,
and at Rochefort we gawked at the marvellous transporter bridge high over the
Charente (ceased working in 1967,
refurbished 1994 and now an historic monument open to foot passengers
and bikes during the summer time. 160' high!).
When you get into la Rochelle itself - so
historic and enchanting - you realise how well it has promoted itself for
tourists. The huge basin is - as I
gasped at you last night - furnished with more restaurants than you can
imagine. They push out onto the broad pavements at the back of the wide quays,
and through the back streets too, with impressive awnings and sidescreens, and that is not unusual of course, but
it's the fact that there are so many of them.
The menus are almost indistinguishable from each other. One had a live
piano show going on. One specialised in
ice-cream. But otherwise, there must be more fish soup and moules-frites on
offer per kilometre than most other places on earth. Tiens! Actually we had a very acceptable formule meal, with just a tinge of aggro underneath... were they waiting to close up? were they going to pounce on us and cook us for the next day's menu?
Today we zooped along northwards to this
resting place in Normandy, ready for Calais and the ferry home tomorrow. We are in Flers, which is not particularly
distinguished as far as I can see, but we had a superb lunch right on the banks
of one of the Loire River's mighty streams at Chalonne-sur-Loire, and have been
enjoying the golden light on the rich farmlands - maize, some grapes,
woodlands, more and more pasture, happy cows eating grass (ahhhh!). Wikipedia says they are not sure what the
name of the town means - possibly wetness, or grotty land, or bad smell. Hmmmn.
The Ibis (cheapo, natch) has the address Grandes Champs, which implies
agriculture and open space, but is in fact at the top of a wrinkly-tin-shed
area: factories, retail outlets and the like. Luckily we are too tired to take
much notice and will stroll down into the town for a light supper. Meanwhile we commend to you the Bistrot des
Quais at Chalonne if you are planning to cross the Loire. It has a fine
position, a fine chef, and a fine view of the bridge which was rebuilt after
being bombed to bits in 1944.
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