One day out of 365

Autumn has arrived but we are still in a time of clear skies and sunny sheltered spots to bask in. 

Imagining the clear blue of our nearest stretch of sea I suggested a day out away from DIY and in-tray stuff. Mark - and the dog - agreed so we set off yesterday morning for the drive to Bretignolles sur Mer, via a convoluted but interesting journey, trying to avoid the usual fairly dull route. Road trip, in fact, and as readers of this blog will know, one of my favourite activities - on a smallish scale, not route 66. 

First stop for the dog to do her 'besoins' (needs). A small village of stone houses and beautifully constructed walls of rock chunks as oppose to the big blocks of tuffeau stone - the local building material. This small unsung place had a surprise in the form of an elegant chateau complete with an approach of umbrella pines and cypress trees. 

Next stop - probably the most depressing small town I have ever visited. I can't recall its name, and maybe that's a good thing. I think it was the complete lack of trees, and the tannoyed music being played which made it feel like being in The Prisoner - without the architectural charm. However there was a loo and a bakery, with cheery people - in the bakery, not the loo.

Foot down and we reached the sea in time for lunch. We just sat staring at the blue expanse for a while before the idea that anything that was open would soon close encouraged us to investigate the options. None, except a crepe place but that was fine as it was on the beach. It's amazing how all seaside places shut down so promptly in October. All the fish restaurants closed, all the souvenir places boarded up, but since there was only us and a few other people exercising dogs, no great surprise. 

We paced the shores marvelling at our deep footprints in the unusual sand - rather like stepping through the crust on a creme brûlée into soft custardy substance beneath. The dog - not usually a beach fan, ran about in the wind, and we took far too many bits of film of her. That particular bit of coast has kms of terrible 1960s/70s/80s blocks, thrown up within their respective decades, all seemingly uninhabited apart from a scattering of apartments with tables and plants on their balconies. Further along, the coastline is wilder with indigenous forest, long stretches of ochre beaches and just the occasional coffee-selling shack.

 traces of Mark, me, and Bali

A bit of a detour to find a salt-seller - this area is renowned for its salt - but the old blue van was shut up for the winter season, so we bought a couple of bags from a garden centre instead and set off home with a small bakery stop halfway. Tip for anyone in France reading this; go into 'Ange' bakers at about 19:50 in the eve and they sell off loads of stuff at half price. We took a large veggie pizza for eight euros, resisted all the cakes they were trying - very pleasantly - to foist on us, and arrived back, tired but happy after a day that felt as if it had contained many more hours than the nine hours we had experienced. Often the case with one day breaks.

Building no 39

One of my strongest childhood memories, along with the one of sitting in the Launderette with a copy of the Beano and a sherbert fountain, and the time I took my three mice into the chip shop with me and a woman fainted, was our daily trip down to the beach at Canford Cliffs, when we were on holiday.
The trick was to go down when everyone else was leaving, all sandy and tired, clutching stripy windbreaks and rolled towels. Then there would be space to park, the beach deserted apart from a few intrepid old folks taking their regular evening dip, and gulls picking over ice-cream wrappers.
On the few times we got down there earlier, this curved, 1950s? treats place would still be open. If Mum was feeling unusually flush, she would allow an ice-cream. I can remember seeing the blue and white facade looming each time we walked onto the promenade from the steps down the cliff, and wondering if this might be a 'flush day' or a 'make do with a wrinkly apple' day.

When I was very young I would choose a Fab. I don't know if these are still in production, but I have fond recollections of the fake strawberry taste and the crunchy 'hundreds and thousands'.
If gran took me to the beach, she would get a cup of tea and ask me to choose between crisps and chocolate (an agonising choice for a seven or so year old). Then we would sit on the sand, backs up against the promenade wall; gran with her skinny legs under a tartan blanket, pale lilac perm blowing in the sea breeze, fag, tea and the Daily Mirror.