Returning To Sables D'Or

Six years ago, I produced a posting about my childhood memories of holidaying at Sables D'Or Les Pins in Brittany in northern France: http://rooksmoor.blogspot.co.uk/2009/03/memories-of-sables-dor.html  Conscious that I do not have a great deal of holidays left and seeking something that would not end in the kind of disaster my holidays usually do, e.g.:

http://rooksmoor.blogspot.co.uk/2008/03/when-holiday-is-worse-than-no-holiday.html
http://rooksmoor.blogspot.co.uk/2010/09/camping-in-me-first-era.html
http://rooksmoor.blogspot.co.uk/2014/07/canal-boating-running-gauntlet-of.html

I decided to go back to Hotel De Diane in Sables D'Or and sit there for a week.

The holiday was largely a success.  I aimed to go with Condor Ferries which use catamaran ferries that should shave three hours off the travel time across the English Channel.  However, being relatively small vessels they are affected by the weather much more than traditional ferries.  On both the outward and return crossings the sailings were cancelled.  In the end I had to return by Brittany Ferries, taking nine hours in total, but a very reliable service.  As it was, the Condor Ferries service saved no time.  In the last couple of years they have ended their sailings from Weymouth and from 2014 ended direct sailings from Britain to France.  Instead you are taken to the Channel Islands where you have to wait at least 2 hours, sometimes overnight, until a shuttle ferry from France arrives to take you the final stage.  Thus, the time saving is lost and often you will have to pay for accommodation on Jersey or Guernsey.  This rigmarole is repeated on the return journey.

Anyway, the ferry difficulties shifted my holiday by a day and meant me paying for another night in the hotel in France.  I also was very sick on the outward crossing.  It has become apparent that in contrast to my youth I now cannot sail on board a ferry even in calm seas without becoming ill.  I put it down to the inner ear infection I caught in Berlin some nine years ago.  It has affected the woman I was travelling with then in a different way but she has still had to abandon motorcycling.

In many ways the resort is similar to that portrayed above.  It was opened in 1924 and despite modern technology retains old world charm.  The houses shown in the picture are still there and it seems many French have holiday homes in the area as do some British.  Rambling, horse riding and golf, despite being things I did not engage with, remain important in the area.  The casino is still there, but did not seem open while I was in town.  Sitting between St Brieuc to the West and St Malo to the East, the hinterland is traditional rural France with quiet roads and pleasant villages with locations for horse riding and fishing.  The coast is a mixture of rocky headlands and large beaches from which the tide goes out a long way.  In June most of the visitors were the elderly there for the walking.  There were quite a few Germans in camper vans too.  I am sure it gets much busier once the school holidays start.

My parents stayed at the resort in 1965, 1966 and 1972; family friends also stayed there in that era.  I am not sure now if the Hotel De Diane was the hotel they visited, because it is run by the Rolland family, who have held it for four generations and that is not the name of the proprietors that my parents knew.  I think in fact they stayed at the much larger hotel less than a metre away next door.  It, however, has now closed down.  The Hotel De Diane, named after a valley rising from the town, is compact and has an award-winning restaurant which has good food though a small menu.  Everywhere seems to have been affected by nouvelle cuisine and it is very difficult to get anything traditional.  I suppose this is a result of catering schools and inspectors in France.

The hotel is modern inside and nicely appointed; the staff are very friendly - many seem to be from the Rolland family.  There is a waitress from northern England in the restaurant who shows off how people can have different characters when speaking different languages.  She squawks at British guests in English and speaks softly to the French guests in French.  A good place if you want somewhere quiet to stay.

Hotel De Diane, Sables D'Or-Les Pins, eastern Brittany, France

At this time of the year the beach which is immense at low tide, as can be seen below, is largely deserted.  There is an onshore breeze and some people sail or windsurf.

The Beach at Sables D'Or at Low Tide

The tiny chapel, seen in the picture at the top can still only be reached at low tide.  It is a real mission to reach it across the rocky causeway.

Chapel on the Islet of St Michael at Sables D'Or

The small town of Sables D'Or-Les Pins has a few restaurants of different standards, a couple of pizzerias and creperies.  Erquy down the road remains a functional town still with a fishing fleet.  Like many towns in the region it has a very large, very clean beach.  In fact how clean the beaches was stunning to me though I am familiar with award-winning ones on the South coast of England.

There are some sights to see.  I returned to Fort La Latte which I mentioned in my previous posting.  The battering ram from the movie 'The Vikings' is now properly displayed.

Fort La Latte

Prop Battering Ram used in the Movie, 'The Vikings' (1958)

I enjoyed visiting the historic town of Dinan and for some reason found Lamballe a town which houses France's national stud, very pleasant too.  St Malo old town is a tourist attraction but did not seem overwhelmed by it.  This maybe because I was early in the season.

Dinan

Lamballe

St Malo

Even St Malo which has a commercial port has a long, attractive beach, it seems compulsory for towns in the region.  Being an adult rather than a child, I had freedom to go where I chose.  Unlike many members of my family,   My car did great service getting me around the countryside.  Drivers in rural France seem more patient than their equivalent in the British countryside who always seem offended that you are simply there.  My sat nav despite containing maps of France pleaded that it lacked the memory to cope, so I ended up map reading which did me well.  I only had difficulty entering and leaving St Brieuc where the drivers were impatient at me looping the roundabouts and where, anyway, the roads were disrupted by road works and diversions.

I found some other interesting places, St Jacut de la Mer is a town with very little bar a modern looking abbey.  However, being a narrow peninsula it is lovely and quiet and I can recommend the 'Awawa' restaurant run by a young couple.  The food there is delicious.  I did not have a bad meal anywhere I ate but this one really stood out.  Jugon-les-Lacs almost due South inland from there, is also very pleasant.  The lakes are artificial but you could not really tell.  As with a lot of the region, I saw loads of wild flowers everywhere and many more bird species than I even see North across the Channel in Dorset and Devon.  It must be a great area if you enjoy walking or cycling.  There was a cycle race open to teams and individuals of all levels while I was in Sables D'Or and a cycle rally in St Malo too.

One thing that struck me was how difficult it was to pick up radio stations that did not play old fashioned French music.  It was as if I was in an American's imagination of France.  I even ended up with a Breton folk channel at one time.  The rocky outcrops of the area seem to play havoc with reception.  I found no petrol station with any staff.  You generally have to pay by debit card and this can get complicated.

The main street of St Jacut de la Mer

Interior of 'Awawa' restaurant

Wild flowers in St Jacut de la Mer

Street in Jugon-les-Lacs

Jugon Lake seen from Surrounding Hills

As you can see from the shot of Jugon-les-Lacs there is a flaw in my camera, a chip in the glass right in the middle of the lens.  I had to replace it.  However, on the balance of what has happened on holidays, this one turned out to be better than the large majority.  I was able to both indulge in nostalgia for my youth and discover new places.  I also found a region, which certainly outside St Brieuc, is very quiet and relaxing to travel around and visit places.  It may be that going early in the Summer helped with this and it would be a different story in August.  No holiday in the area is going to be a staggering experience but it can be restful and that is what I really needed.  Last year's experience meaning I came back even more stressed then when at work, needed to be avoided and returning to Sables D'Or provided that.

On one hand, given this success I began thinking about possibly venturing further afield.  However, I fear now that one success has bred complacency.  Furthermore, there are few places I have been where things have not gone wrong, so I have little idea where I would go next.  I do, fortunately, appear to have broken a 7-year bad run of holidays.  Perhaps I need to go back to the pattern of the 1990s when I only had a holiday every 5 years so as to reduce the risk.  That would mean, however, I have only 1-2 holidays left.  I suppose I should be grateful this one went well.

P.P. 18/07/2015
I came across another postcard of the next beach East along from Sables D'Or and show it here with a picture I took this year to show how little has changed.

I was stood among the pines shown on the postcard, but zoomed in from there to focus on the beach, but you get the feel for it.

Canal Boating: Running the Gauntlet of Humilation

I know I have intense bad luck with holidays. It is now six years since I wrote: http://rooksmoor.blogspot.co.uk/2008/03/when-holiday-is-worse-than-no-holiday.html and in that period I have only had one holiday which has lasted more than 2 days before something has led to it being terminated. The last week-long holiday was in December 2012 in a cottage 45 Km from home. The last holiday I took did not even last two days as on the morning of the second day we woke to find the electricity had been cut to the whole district by a storm; power was not restored for twelve hours, so we simply went home.

I remain the eternal optimist and having finally got some compensation, after seven months of battling, for the car which lasted me 13 days before breaking down entirely, never to move again, I decided to go on a canal boat holiday. This is a very British style of holiday. Americans and Canadians do not have this kind of holiday and fall enthusiastically in love with it. Even northern continental Europeans prefer our quaint, narrow canals to the vast still industrial/commercial ones of Belgium/Netherlands/Germany. I am part of the canal generation. Growing up living near a canal I saw it transformed during the 1970s and 1980s from a disused channel with little water in it and a lot of rubbish, into a functioning canal which attracted the growing leisure boat crowd. Yachting and power boating has always been popular among the well-off of southern England where I lived, but canals now offered a whole new opportunity with less risk of storms and less distance to travel to reach your boat. With boats on canals limited to 4mph (6.4kph) it also appears to be a relaxed way to travel. Canals were built originally to move heavy goods like coal or stone to industrial areas and for this reason they are densest in England in the industrial Black Country of the West Midlands. However, also linked to rivers, they also pass through rural and former industrial areas which are more pleasant to go through and connect historic towns which are tourist attractions in their own right such as Oxford and Bath.

Aside from the 'boating set' canals have also had an attraction for a more 'hippie' like clientele. The association with moving freely around the country, tying up mostly where you choose, obviously has an appeal for people who like a less tied-down way of life. Certainly in the 1970s canals were heavily associated with folk music and handicrafts. It has only been in recent years that the styles and decor of them has been allowed to diversify from the black, red, green colouring of 'trad', i.e. traditional, boats. More and more have been built, many these days with modern facilities such as televisions and washing machines; steps are now in place to allow wi-fi on them. Perhaps the fad is passing as the number of canal boats for sale has reached an all time high and you can pick one up for as cheap as £32,000 (€38,700; US$54,000). This may seem a great deal, but new ones cost double or more that price. You are buying something 2.1m wide (for what is called a narrowboat, i.e. one that will fit all canals in the UK) and 16m long. The longest are 24m (72 feet) long, made of steel with water and toilet tank, a cooker, etc. on board. You can live on a narrowboat and in many parts of the country you will find people doing so for part or indeed all of the year, though it can get cold. You find the entire range from modern ones with double glazing and solar panels to traditional ones with the engine visible in the middle of the boat and a coal oven on board.

All over the UK you can hire canal boats for a holiday. They typically sleep six people but you can get ones accommodating more. For £1000-2000 depending on where you start from and the quality of your boat and its facilities, you can rent one for a week. You are permitted to drive it with only one hour's training. This is one challenge, people moving vessels 72m long in channels sometimes only a couple of metres wide with other canal users, notably canoeists and people on the towpath running beside the canal, including pedestrians, anglers and increasing numbers of cyclists. The other thing is that the momentum of a canal boat even when moving at 2kph is immense and water does not provide much friction. Lock gates weigh anything from 800Kg to 2 tonnes. There is a lot of room for bumps and knocks. One woman described it to me as 'a contact sport'. However, despite this, given the attitudes of canal users outlined below, you have to move as if walking on eggshells.

On paper a canal boat holiday might seem ideal. You can move at your own pace. It is like camping without having to give up all the facilities or having to queue to have a shower or use the toilet. In addition, if it rains you can retreat inside and watch television or a DVD; going through urban areas you can even use your mobile phone. The trouble is, the thing that ruins it is the British and indeed foreigners who aspire to behave like middle class Britons. You can do nothing in the UK these days without someone telling you very loudly that you are doing it wrong. They do this for two reasons: 1) to assert their social status, through having a privately owned boat or one that is 'proper' or better equipped compared to what you might be aboard; 2) to massage their egos, by showing you up to be ignorant or a fool.

Encouraged by the woman I used to live with and her son, I hired a 33-metre, 6-berth narrowboat on a canal in southern England for one week. In many ways this holiday was a 'success'. It lasted 5 days rather 2 days, though it was supposed to last 7 days. I lost a hat and a map; a watch strap was broken but no electrical items or money were lost. I had some scrapes but no serious injuries. It did not rain and the weather was fine, with some reprieve from intense sunshine. We moved very slowly, covering around 7Km per day. In part that was due to the number of locks and swing bridges along the way. A lock is a large mechanism sometimes 3 metres deep with usually four, though sometimes two, of the large gates already mentioned. They allow the lifting or dropping of the water level in an enclosed space, so permitting a boat or sometimes a pair of boats, to go up or down hills. They are marvels of 18th century engineering and can be entirely operated by a single person if required, though it is typical to use two or more. You also need someone on the boat to move it in and out of the lock. To operate the lock there is no power bar that from your arms and legs. You let water in and out of the lock by turning ratchets and you open and close the locks with the strength of your back. Thus you need to be physically healthy and fit. However, of course, the British work at two extremes, either they lay utterly passive on the beach or they insist on a holiday which in centuries passed would have been deemed labour.

I knew locks well. Probably better than almost anyone we met. When the canal behind my house was derelict friends and me would climb down the tunnels that run through the locks. They were dry then and are now literally filled with tonnes of water. I have climbed up and down lock gates that most people now only see as they pass them. I am unfit and overweight, but thought I remained strong enough to do the job. Despite some 'sticky' lock gates, this proved to be the case. Indeed the 12-year old boy (1.67m; size 42 feet) with us was able to operate them alone.

The trouble with the holiday was not the mechanics, it was the people.  It was the not so wonderful British public who cannot let anyone pass without making some jibe or instructing them about how pathetic they are or simply insulting them.  When you are in a hire boat, you are the lowest of the low.  The company you are hiring from has its logo, its name and telephone number emblazoned on the boat.  Everyone knows precisely where you have come from and that you are not a 'proper' boater despite all the exhortations in the canal associated publications that people like us are an important source of revenue for the upkeep of the canals and for restoring the many miles of canal that still remained disused.  However, the British cannot stop themselves and it even seems the hobby for people to hang around locks simply to shout advice/abuse.  Within the first hour you get used to person after person telling you exactly what you have been told in the training you have received.  You smile and nod thanks.  However, this does not seem to be enough.  The people seem to want you to bow down and kiss their boots for the wonderful enlightenment they have given across.

We had a Dutchman not even bother to talk to us, but in the middle of us operating a lock simply walk up and take over.  I stepped back trying to stay calm and not say anything.  By dropping the vent (the piece in a lock gate that lets the water in or out) early, he actually made our job harder.  We had people bellowing at us that we were not doing it the 'correct' way, even when we were in fact the right.  One man became indignant when we started to use the barge pole to move the front of the boat away from the bank, though that is its purpose.  He insisted that the 12-year old insert his foot between the side of the boat and the lock wall, even though this risked it becoming crushed.  He would not accept our rebuffs.  We had people trying to race into a lock before we had exited it, making it far harder for the pilot, only a few days into driving anything let alone a 33m boat.  We had people 'speed' (if you can call 8kph speeding) past us, and they scowling at us when their wash meant we were sucked into buffing the stern of their boat. Always we were deemed to be on the 'wrong' side or opening the lock too fast or too slowly.  We were even chided for 'not having come far today' as if there is a set distance you must cover every hour to be deemed an appropriate boater.

Every passage through a lock we made, every peg we hammered into the ground, every knot we tied was judged as having failed and we were told very vocally that that was the case.  I tried to throw one rope aboard the boat, missed and cursed.  This resulted in a woman pursuing us for 1Km down the canal, bringing with her the representative of the boat company we had hired it from to harangue us for ten minutes about appropriate language.  Clearly you are not permitted to 'swear like a bargee' (i.e. someone operating a barge, a commercial version of a canal boat) however, the locals are into 'trad' boating.  To be told off for swearing such distance from the incident made me feel like a child.  I swallowed all the abuse, all the snootiness, all the patronising behaviour, all the haranguing, all the people pushing their way in to take over my task and all of this with the expectation that I would be grateful for their intervention.  I feel utterly debased from my five days on the boat.  I feel as if I have given up all dignity, all initiative and am fit only to be ordered around by people apparently so superior to me.  As you can imagine, I snapped and abandoned the boat.  No-one else would come with me.

I returned to the yard where we had started from.  The woman on duty was surprised to see me leaving.  She has the faith that canal holidays are the very best that anyone could have and was unable to tolerate the fact that someone was having such a humiliating time that they had to go home early.  Of course, I have absolutely no interest in going nowhere near a canal ever again and will be happy if they all fade back into blocked up obscurity where they should have been left.  Dried out they could have provided decent roads between many towns.  The British (plus representatives of the Dutch, German and even Canadian populations) have to bring their egos and their suppression of people around them to everything they do.  You see it constantly when driving; you now see it if you ever dare venture out on a bicycle; I am sure you have long seen it on the golf course or the tennis/squash court.  They cannot be happy unless they are pressing someone else down and not just with a simple cutting remark but with sustained abuse, at best patronising; at worse insulting.  If you are thinking of a canal boat holiday, I would utterly advise against it unless you have skin as thick as a rhino or enjoy being made to feel small on an hour-by-hour basis.  The alternative is to go to another country where you do not speak the language and when treated this way simply plead lack of comprehension.

10 Years On - Part 8 of Account of Cycling Northern France

Staying in the Citadel at Montreuil salvaged a bit of something from the holiday. I wrote a letter, poorly, in French to the warden of the youth hostel, thanking her from 'the temporary king of the castle' and closed the main gate behind me. It seemed like far more than a week had passed. What I do not understand is why, given how much I was depressed by this holiday I decided to do it twice again. I can only suppose I stored my old diaries at my parents' house not to hand. I did regret not visiting a few more towns, especially not stopping in Boulogne. Not going to Beauvais on this occasion also lay problems for my next trip to France.

On the previous day, the left pedal, which was plastic, had broken on the road to Montreuil and I remember lashing it together in the rain using pieces of green coated wire that I found by the roadside. The journey is in fact 45 miles (72 Km), which, taking me six hours meant I was averaging 9mph (14.5 kph) which, though not good enough to get into the Milton Keynes Cycling Club which requires a 15 mph average over 50 miles for membership) given the terrain and the amount of luggage on board was not as bad as I felt at the time.

Interesting to note, that this was when I had been doing so freelance work and so was effectively self-employed and so owed the Inland Revenue £590 which is probably what my holiday had cost. In some ways it is better never to do these trips and retain the pleasant image of you enjoying cycling in France rather than facing up to the reality. I guess very few people going on holiday encounter as much, though often low level, but certainly sustained, bad luck which undermines the experience. Despite having mild Asperger's syndrome which means I keep memories of embarrassing situations with me as if they occurred yesterday, I am quite glad to say that I had forgotten a lot of the things that went wrong on this particular holiday. Maybe I blanked them out. Perhaps this project was a mistaken one. I hope it historicises the thing and allows me to see it with more clinically rather than bitterly.

I remember passing places I knew from First World War history, notably Etaples where the British training camp had been and a British mutiny broke out made famous in 'The Monocled Mutineer' (book 1978; television series 1986). Interestingly I saw memorials to the Portuguese soldiers who died on the Western Front (people forget Portugal was an ally of Britain and France) and an impressive one to the Chinese labourers killed during the war. The Chinese were the main group who actually dug the trenches.

Cap Gris Nez and Cap Blanc Nez are the highest points Northwards from where they stand, just South of Calais, right up to Denmark and they are steep cliffs. Having staggered over them (there is a deep defile between the two of them as well) my bicycle I was free wheeling down towards Calais when I saw two American cyclists (you could tell by the flags) coming the opposite way on bicycles which were so packed with huge panniers that they looked like they were on slowly-moving armchairs, you could hardly see the bicycle beneath it all and I still wonder how they got over the two caps.

The photos do show some of the beautiful countryside that I passed through on this trip. On other days not wanting to break my (slow) stride I had not stopped to take photos of the landscape I was passing through, but seeing the poppies and wheat fields that for so many British seem to sum up northern France and Belgium and all the violent history of that region in the 20th century, I had to take a few. My inability to expose photos well did not make the best of the shots I was taking. However, I hope it encourages people to visit a region of interest and beauty and I hope you have a far better time than I ever did.

Monday 21st June 1999

Today I woke early and packed. I then set off, the stretch to Boulogne was not too bad. I got there in about three-and-a-half hours. The road on to Calais was tougher especially Cap Gris Nez and Cap Blanc Nez. I arrived at the port around 14.10, so a six hour journey for forty miles, showing how slow I have been going probably never more than 7-8mph, often only 5mph.

I caught the 14.45 ferry and was in Dover by 15.15 British time. Getting lost in the town I missed the train and had to wait ages. I got off at London Bridge which proved to be much nearer than Charing Cross would have been.

I got back at 18.30. I had a kebab for dinner. I then unpacked. The zip on the saddle bag got broken when the bike fell over on the train, making it useless, further waste.

I will have quite a lot to sort out, changing my money, getting my left pedal replaced and above all, the stress that goes with being unemployed. The tax office want £590 odd, which is not as bad as I expected.

I wish I could have gone on with the holiday but not with more things going wrong and getting stressed. This evening I watched television and a video.

Programmes of the day: Goodnight Sweetheart, The Planets (videoed).
Weather: Sunny and warm, windy.

Valley South of Boulogne, June 1999

View of Wimereux, June 1999

View of Ambleteuse, June 1999

Wheat Fields near Ambleteuse, June 1999

View towards Cap Gris Nez, June 1999

View of Cross-Channel Ferries from Road to Calais, June 1999

View Back to Audreselles, June 1999

View of Cap Blanc Nez, June 1999

10 Years On - Part 7 of Account of Cycling Northern France

This was the day that I found I had had 700F (about £70 in those days) stolen. I had feared getting pickpocketed in the town and had concealed the money, with a distinctive 500F note in my spare of shoes. Though this may not seem much money now, it was a day's pay for me in those days and I was paying 120F per day, bed and breakfast, for my room. I assumed it was by the maid as when I came back to sleep the previous afternoon she came straight back into my room without knocking, I assumed, to see if she could find any more. Of course I had no evidence. The diary entry for 22nd June 1999 when I changed my French money back shows that I had had equivalent to £239 left, so my despair at losing the £70 need not have curtailed the holiday, but it seemed to be the final reason for cutting the holiday short.

I did get to stay in the youth hostel in castle at Montreuil-sur-Mer (though the sea is now a number of kilometres away, it was on the coast in medieval times), a small medieval fortified town. Some weeks later watching Richard Holmes's series 'The Western Front' (August 1999), I found out it had been the headquarters of the British command in the First World War. Given that I was the only person sleeping in the place that night, if I had known that fact I think I would have relocated for fear of being haunted. However, there were no curtains on the windows and it was the day before the longest day, so the night was very short.

Sunday 20th June 1999

Today I found I was about 700F short, I had put aside before I went out yesterday, but I could not find it anywhere today, possibly the maid took it. I do not know because I cannot remember precisely where I put it.

I cycled 100Km today going North instead of North West so it took time to get on the route. The weather was appalling - heavy rain, mist and wind, everything got wet. I reached Abbeville at 12.30 and Montreuil at 16.30. The Sun then came out but the wind remained strong until evening.

The youth hostel is in the middle of the Citadel, a 16th-17th century fort. It is a "green" one without permanent staff but adequate showers and rooms. There is only a woman on the gate when the Citadel is open. I am the only guest as one large group left today and a group of British children arrive tomorrow, if I had arrived then I would not have got in. The woman gave me the key to the main door so I have the whole fort to myself! I looked around it and the town taking photos.

There are a lot of British here as we are on the main road to Boulogne and Calais. I had some beers in a cafe then dinner at the Logis restaurant, 'Les Hauts de Montreuil' which was really tasty. Though I pulled the stops out it came to only 213F. I walked back on the ramparts and came back to the deserted fort, a bit unnerving. If I had arrived tomorrow I would not have had all this.

Weather: Dull, rainy, windy, cool, sunny and mild later.

Entrance from Inside the Citadel at Montreuil-sur-Mer, June 1999

Towers of the Citadel at Montreuil-sur-Mer, June 1999

Barbican in the Citadel at Montreuil-sur-Mer, June 1999

Youth Hostel Accommodation in the Citadel at Montreuil-sur-Mer, June 1999

View through Arrow-slit in the Citadel at Montreuil-sur-Mer, June 1999

View of Montreuil-sur-Mer from its Citadel, June 1999

St. Saulve Church in Montreuil-sur-Mer, June 1999

Town Hall and Equestrian Statue of Field Marshal the Earl (Douglas) Haig in Montreuil-sur-Mer, June 1999

Assorted Houses in Montreuil-sur-Mer, June 1999

Why I took, let alone kept this last picture of a mundane street, I have no idea, especially as there are many prettier streets in the town. Given how often I get lost on holiday, I always spend ages walking through dull suburbs of towns rather than their better-looking areas, so I suppose my standards for what counted as 'interesting' were pretty low by this stage.

Views from the Ramparts of Montreuil-sur-Mer, June 1999

10 Years On - Part 6 of Account of Cycling Northern France

By this day, depression was turning to guilt as I knew that I had done so much more by just coming on this holiday than the bulk of my neighbours in East London would ever experience. Ten years on I have forgotten how traumatic this holiday was and am a little alarmed that I see, even a decade later, my attempts at holidays are still blighted as back then.


My fear of everything being closed on a Sunday may seem unusual to British residents of the 21st century but even now most French shops are closed on a Sunday and, as I had found out in the Dunkerque youth hostel, as a cyclist, that can leave you stranded without vital things.


Saturday 19th June 1999

Today I work around 08.00 having slept well despite the bed. Initially I felt relieved that I have decided to leave but today I just feel depressed and also guilty that I am throwing up a holiday neighbours would kill for. I sat around reading unhassled.

I wandered around the town, the market and the old town and stopped at the entrance to it to write the last of my postcards in 'Aux Manniken Pis', I should be less gloomy in them.

I had the plat du jour at 'La Capitainerie' on the quay of the river, made difficult to translate because spelt wrongly. I walked along the Hortillonages which are gardens and islands divided by small rivers. I did some shopping as much will be closed tomorrow.

Back in my room I slept and read more of 'Shōgun'. I then walked inmto town but had missed the festival's afternoon stuff and was too early for evening things most which started at 21.45. I ate at 'La Table Picardie' and unlike meals since yesterday did not rush it. I then came back.

I hope I can make Montreuil tomorrow rather than be depressed in Abbeville. This holiday has proven what a pathetic character I am, fearful of everything, unable even to relax or enjoy myself. I need to hurry back to the pathetic scraps of my life in Britain I have for comfort. I should eat lightly and save more money, though that is less important now.

Weather: Sunny and hot.

Old Building Reflected in New Building in Amiens, June 1999

Terraced Houses in St. Leu District of Amiens, June 1999

River Somme Running through St. Leu District of Amiens in June 1999

Bridge to the Hortillonages Area of Amiens, June 1999

View along River Somme to Amiens, June 1999

Gated Bridge to a Hortillonage in Amiens, June 1999

A Small Chalet on a Hortillonage in Amiens, June 1999

Etangs between the Hortillonages in Amiens, June 1999

Father and Daughter Returning Home from Working on a Hortillonage in Amiens, June 1999

The Perret Tower in Amiens in June 1999

When it was completed in 1956 the Perret Tower, also known as La Chandelle (The Candle), at 25 stories was the highest skyscraper in the whole of France. Its original budget had been FF 93 million but ultimately cost FF 225 million. It was begun in 1949 and took 3 years longer than had been planned to build. An underground river was found to run under where the foundations were to be laid and had to be re-routed. Water pressure in Amiens at the time was too low for water to reach the top 5 floors and it was estimated it would take the 350 people expected to live in it two hours to leave the building using the lifts. It seems to summon up modern construction problems, but for some reason I find it intriguing and think it would make an excellent base for some shadowy organisation in a movie. 

Steampunk Street Performers in Amiens, June 1999

Probably appropriate to have steampunk performers in Amiens given that Jules Verne lived there, was a town councillor and was buried there. 

Glass Shop in Amiens, June 1999

Water Alleys in Amiens, June 1999

Evening along the Waterfront in Amiens, June 1999