Archive | September 2012

Postcard 4: Au Revoir!

Sep16

I am writing this from the ferry homewards to Plymouth, England is just in site.  Lots of anticipation up on the deck as the boat approaches Blighty.  Reading the first British newspaper for a week, my loyalties are torn between wanting to return to the haven that is Brittany and wanting to boycott everything French in Brit loyalty to Will & Kate over those photos.  Checking celiatime.com on board I was thrilled to find that it has just been awarded a Beautiful Blogger Award thanks to Susan at Women Making Strides blog.

Silver sands of Kerfissien


It seems a lifetime away but it’s only yesterday since we were on the warm silver sands of Kerfissien – like England but without the litter and the anti-social behaviour.  Plus there was the almost surreal landscape of giant boulders so typical of this area.  The children & dogs on the beach reminded me of an illustration straight from Le Petit Nicolas.  Reading tales of the mischievous school boy & his copains was Miss Mitchell’s Friday afternoon treat for our French class and for a moment I was back in that bright airy classroom, in my cotton school dress, a summer breeze wafting through the sash windows and wondering if Adrian Brewis would be on the school bus at hometime.

Land ahoy!

Our boys were enjoying the sea and a makeshift game of volleyball.  Guy & I aren’t great sunbathers so we went for a walk along to the next bay.  Neither of us like the sand betwen out toes so I’m afraid it’s socks with sandals again.  At least Simon wasn’t there to see me looking so uncool; I bet his wife is one of those outdoor types with bare sunkissed feet and trekking sandals.  Guy of course had to wear a hat to protect his bald patch which wouldn’t be so bad except he has a couple of strings which tie underneath to stop it blowing off.  Still at least he didn’t wear the stripy breton top he bought himself on a rainy afternoon in Brest.  It’ll be just like the Hawaiian shirt episode all over again; well at least old Mr Parsons got a bargain at the next church bring & buy sale.

We’ve had a super time in Brittany but as we are about to go down to the car deck I am looking forward to a cup of coffee with cold milk, driving on the correct side of the road, Northumberland beaches with bracing winds & watching Cash in the Attic in pounds not euros!

Postcard 3: Dans le foret

Sep9

Bonjour mes amis!

Huelgoat

Au’jourdhui we went inland to Huelgoat and nous avons mange nos jambon baguettes sitting sur un bench near le lac.  A few of the locals wished us ‘bon appétit’ as they passed which I thought was lovely.    I really like the Breton people, it’s not like Paris where they give that huge nonchalant shrug when all you’re asking for is une tasse de café avec du lait froid.  Anyone would think you were sending them to the ends of the earth on a mission to find the elixir of eternal youth.

Giant boulders, Huelgoat

It’s a good job that everyone here is so friendly & helpful as there’s only so far your grammar school French from 35 years ago can take you.  I mean your hardly equipped to ask for those holiday essentials every woman needs – a roll of black bin bags and something for your husband’s verucca.  But with a bit of gesticulation & a phrase book, I just about ended up with what I needed.

From the centre of this lovely little town we walked into one of the woods which form part of ‘le Parc naturel regional d’Armorique’.  It was an amazing landscape – quite surreal: huge boulders strewn haphazardly along the riverside under a canopy of beech trees, covered in moss and forming caves and amazing shapes.

Le Grotte d’Artus

We followed a recommended route to take in ‘le grotte d’Artus’ the cave where King Arthur is reputedly buried, but don’t tell the Cornish or indeed the Cumbrians that because they too are very adamant that Camelot was on their sacred land.  Then we chugged up the hill to the Camp d’Artus.  Of course the day we decided to go for a walk also coincided with the start of the heaviest period known to woman.  But like King Arthur you just have to soldier on and wear jogging pants.

Still, that didn’t stop me daydreaming about Simon, imagining that he was with me under the beech trees with the dappled light shining upon us as we caressed each other.  Poor Guy, I felt like a traitor but then I thought he’s probably in the midst of going for a long walk with Julia Bradbury.   Who can tell?

Postcard 2: La Vie en France

Sep4

Bonjour mes amis!

Je suis dans La France en Famille.  C’est un gite tres charmant mais I do wish the boys would open their bedroom window as it smells comme un gerbil’s cage in there dans le matin.  Goodness knows what Madame Marie would think.  I only popped my head round the door to ask if they had any dirty washing; you should have heard the response.  I thought it’s my holiday too you know; I didn’t exactly plan to spend it groping under your bed for putrid socks and undies whilst you have the luxury of a lie in.

Greetings from Locquirec

When the boys had finally managed to get up, we had a baguette or two for lunch then took the voiture to Locquirec just east of Roscoff.  It’s a lovely little seaside town reminiscent of one of my favourite films – Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday – the one where he stays in a hotel and gets caught up in all sorts of escapades like that funny tennis match.  It was shown at our village hall last year when The Upper Welford Film Club had a French season.  We took a walk out onto the headland and arrived at the other side of the town to find a French car boot sale.  It was just like an English one – only with euros.

French car boot sale: like an English one but with euros

Guy & I left James & Julian on the beach at their request – I think they wanted to sit on a rock and further their French conversation skills with a couple of girls in bikinis.  We found a little café overlooking the harbour; whilst Guy went for a crepe; I decided to have a ‘Mega Emocion’ which was not in fact the latest sexual awakening from 50 Shades of Grey but merely an French X-rated glacee – a sort of Magnum with nuts.

Ice creams in Locquirec

We returned to the boys to find that they had been usurped by a couple of local guys on scooters; I couldn’t help but feel sorry – they’re my boys after all but they are going to have to learn about affairs of the heart sometime.  Talking of which, should I send Simon a postcard?  I’m sure he would count me as one of his friends?  Difficult to know what to write – of course I’d have to keep it general, be indifferent and address it to Simon and his family.

Of course I can’t say what I really feel – Dear Simon, Wish you were here!  Love Celia xxx

Dear Simon – Wish You Were Here!

Postcard 1: Celiatime en Vacances

Sep1

Bonjour mes amis!

Apres un tres long journey to get here, myself & the family are finally ensconced in a petit gite nestling in the beautiful Brittany countryside a cote des owners, Marie et Jean-Paul.  I do hope that Guy will now settle down – he’s been in overdrive checking tyres chaque deux minutes to ensure the pressures are correct for our load: he even bought a new gadget for the holidays.  And then he keeps running down his checklist to ensure we comply with all these new French laws like having a high visibility jacket for everyone in the car in case of breakdown.  I mean who wants to wear one of those?  It’s worse than socks with sandals.

La Phare, Roscoff

We arrived in France this morning, disembarking at some unearthly hour.  I sometimes wonder if the French arrange these ferry times to give maximum disorientation to les Anglais.  Thankfully, we found a boulangerie open in Roscoff serving croissants, pain et strong coffee.  Roscoff is a pretty little place not that we were able to appreciate its finer points as along with other bleary-eyed Brits we wandered up and down its quaint streets in what must have resembled a scene from Zombies En Vacances!

The first thing you notice about France is how stylish & well made everything seems although I wondered if the toilets would still leave a lot to be desired and whether Canard de toilette had made it across the channel.  I was very tempted to carry around one of the cloths  that I’d packed away in the boot but I resisted the urge and did all the sensible desensitising things that my counsellor suggested.

Market Day in the Mediaeval Town of Morlaix

We had a stop off at Morlaix for lunch with its fine Mediaeval Square and bustling market.  Its heritage was somewhat lost on my teenage boys who do not see the point of anything unless it can be turned into un jeux de computer and virtually blasted off the face of the earth.  They also seemed to have conveniently forgotten every scrap of French they ever knew and this trip was after all intended to help Julian with his French conversation retake.

Guy lit le Figaro

When we arrived at our lovely gite – a converted pigsty and were greeted by the lovely owners, Marie & Jean-Paul.  We nodded intelligently as they explained en Francais about how to reset the trip switch if they were out.  James & Julian took great interest in Therese (seize ans), the gite owners’ daughter.  It was quite remarkable how every noun, conjugation and past participle they had ever learned at school was suddenly brought to mind.   But I think they both felt rather intimidated by her brother Claude (dix-neuf ans), nonchalant, sporting a baseball cap, a Gauloise & driving a red Citroen Saxo.

Guy & I fully intend to throw ourselves into French culture this week.  Guy has bought Le Figaro and looks quite knowledgeable when he scans the ‘economie’ pages.  I have been watching French TV and really enjoyed Un Tresor dans Votre Maison which is the French version of Cash in the Attic except it’s all in euros.  But I’ve brought some DVDs of the first series of Morse just in case.

A bientot.