A few posts ago I explained how a recent accidental encounter with the Humber Bridge had revealed a hitherto unrecognised fascination with big bridges. Estuaries are something else I have a bit of a thing about. In this case it's a minor obsession that I have known about for years.
We are quite familiar with St Valery-sur-Somme, a pleasant small town on the western shore of the estuary. In the days when we went camping for six weeks in France with the kids nearby Camping Drancourt was one of our habitual stopping places en route to Les Landes or Pyrenees. Atlantique. However we have never taken the time to explore the environs of the estuary nor used the bike trail through the salt marshes. Now seemed the right moment to do it, because in future spur of the moment continental jaunts will become a whole lot trickier.
One of the challenges of having to manage future trips within the 90/180 Schengen rules is to do with making short stays in Europe of a week or two. We plan to continue making a trips of 70 days or so during the winter/early spring to Spain and a similar length one to the eastern Mediterranean during the autumn. The only way I can see how to manage a shorter trip to the near continent will be to travel for two or three weeks in late June/early July, but the days spent doing this would end up being subtracted from the autumn trip.
I figure even if we used the Ancona to Igoumetsina ferry both ways we would still need at least 70 days to tour around Thessaly or Crete - both places we have future designs upon. I've given up on the idea of driving through the Balkans to get to Greece. It's more straightforward to make that a separate autumn trip. So that's three autumn trips on the list, shockingly by the time we've done those we will be close to our 70th birthdays. At that point life becomes even trickier, most travel insurance policies limit cover for the over 70s to 35 - 45 days per single trip. Furthermore I might have to downsize the van to a vehicle below 3500kg.
Honestly, I really must stop ruminating over all of this. Back to the here and now! We've found a nice small aire behind the dunes, a couple of kilometres from La Pointe de Hourdel near the mouth of the estuary on the western side.
Although the place is little more than a patch of rough ground it is owned by Camping Les Galets De La Molliere across the road who charge €10 and an extra €2 to use the Flotte Blu service point. However, there was plenty of space whereas in the big free aires dotted around the estuary were 'complet' and resembled living in a crowded car park.
The 'Route Blanche' dedicated to walkers and cyclists runs by the aire, one way to Cayeaux-sur-Mer, the other to Le Hourdel. We took the latter route, through dunes full of wild flowers, then along the shore passed a graffiti daubed WW2 block house.
The village itself is simply a couple of streets of fisherman's houses, a café or two and a stumpy little lighthouse. However for an estuary enthusiast it ticks all the boxes:
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After half an hour or so of mooching about we headed back to the van. By the time beer o' clock had been and gone, we'd got out the Cadac, grilled a couple of fairly indigestible Auchun steak hachés, then polished off the nice Savoy white that we'd opened yesterday sunset was in full swing. At first it promised a proper Götterdamerung performance, then it fizzled out behind a cloud bank. I was about to head back inside when the pyrotechnics reignited, the twilight sky became a splurge of purplish pink.
I would like to claim that it sent me camera in hand scampering up a nearby dune to record the event. I did manage to capture the moment, but my ascent was more of a determined plod than a scamper. It was good that the experience was a solitary one, by the time I reached the top I suspect my pallor was similar to the afterglow - a garish puce. Hyperventilating and making a peculiar grunting noise like an asthmatic donkey, weakly I raised-up my phone and clicked.
The walk back through the darkening dunes was memorable too, not so much for the soft light but a potpourri of fragrances, some tangy, some herby like thyme, but mostly heady and sweet which emanated from clumps of white flowers.
They looked a bit like stocks, but these only grow wild in southern Europe, so I am not sure what they were.
If all of this sounds idyllic, it was almost. Even Lou Reed acknowledged that a 'perfect day' is an impossible aspiration, the outro of his eponymous song repeats the phrase 'you're going to reap just what you sow', it's a slightly chilling conclusion designed to undermine the rosy 'carpe diem' romanticism of what preceded it. We are survivors of enough French beach holidays in July and August with the kids to be able to predict what was going to happen next. As fully paid up members of the Guardian Travel readers Francophile society we might like to think that after a day of sun and fun on the beach, by the time dusk approaches the natives gather in small, convivial groups beneath the stars, appreciatively sip a distinguished wine and animatedly debate the finer points of de Beauvoir or Derrida. They don't. What they actually crave is 'un spectacle soirée' the cheesier the better.
As we ate our evening meal we heard the tell-tale signs, the campsite across the road's P. A. system crackled into life, 'un, deux, trois' intoned the wannabe DJ, then there was a short blast of anonymous europop at a Glastonbury pyramid stage volume followed by ominous silence. All was set for whatever divertissement 21 heures had in store.
As I made my way back to the van in the gathering darkness the white-faced dunes shone with an eerie luminescence.
It should have been a profoundly tranquil moment, however the campsite entertainment by now was well underway and the soundtrack to the photo turned to be a particularly inept cover of Bonnie Tyler's 1984 synthpop classic 'Holding out for a Hero'. Belted out in incomprehensible Franglais to a pre-recorded soundtrack reminiscent of some Belgian Eurovision entry from the mid-nineties, it was a mere hors d'ouevre for the delights to come.
We were subjected to three hours of what seemed to be an eighties themed sing-along, co-host by a talentless duo who took turns to murder hits by Blondie, Tina Turner, Bonnie Tyler and a host of other has beens from four decades ago. The result two grumpy people next morning. Gill's high decibel impossible to shift ear worm - the aforementioned Bonnie Tyler banger; mine, 'The Final Countdown'. Who was responsible for launching this upon an unsuspecting public had escaped me. Some europop outfit from Sweden apparently called unsurprisingly 'Europe'. In the process of tracking down the perpetrators pleasingly I discovered that a reputable music journal had rated the song as the 27th worst of all time. I hate to think what the other 26 were like.
So here we are, France in August, simultaneously alluring, endearing and abysmal, it was ever thus. Whatever happens though I am really really happy to be this side of the Channel. We love it all, the weird street furniture, extreme traffic calming, disturbing roundabout sculpture, deliberately not quite straight lampposts, the sprawling neon lit retail malls. It's our nearby abroad, our escape from the mundane and familiar, an antidote to insularity.
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