Kategorie: Blog: Summer Trip 2021

It’s really only a few days that I stay at home. I’m loving it. I don’t think it is too short. No, it is just right. I love cuddling the cats for hours, but I do not sleep well in my bed at all – too much have I got used to sleeping in my cosy van. I miss waking up and having nature around me, seeing at once what is going on, breathing in the moment. I have learnt to live the moment. That’s something quite astounding for me, as I was and was known for wanting to plan everything well in advance. Well, I still need to do certain things well in advance, like packing my luggage. The older I get the more time I need. Time to think, time to consider, time to focus. Yet, having time does not automatically mean planning.

We are going to Tuscany.

So, early in the morning my younger son and me drive off. My older son still has to stay at home as he has started an apprenticeship as IT-platform developer this year. We drive off as usual when it is still pitch-dark but I make two mistakes: I stop at a petrol-station to fill up the tank and I stop a second time to get rid of my morning-coffee. We lose about 15 minutes – and they cost us about three completely nerve-racking hours.

You’ve to be early up there at north portal of the Gotthard tunnel on a holiday Saturday morning. Once the hold-up is building up, every minute counts. There are two lanes of cars approaching at 120h/km having to slow down to nil. I’m not good at mathematics but the queue builds up incredibly fast. So, there we are waiting a whole hour in front of the portal.

And once you’re delayed it kind of accumulates everywhere after. There is a huge hold-up at the border and even though I drive around it, it takes us an unusual time to get onto the Italian motorway. And as it is getting late morning there are already a lot of people on their way on the ring-motorway around Milan. So, that slows us down once again. On top there are building sites slowing us down when crossing the Appenin mountain range. And then there are these bloody toll paying stations – what an outrageous invention! Millions of cars have to slow down, wait in queues, having their engines running all this time, burning billions of litres of fuel and thus producing fumes and adding to climate change for almost nothing! Once I pay 2 Euros, once I pay 3 Euros, nerves racked, delayed, standing in the heat of the day! Thank you, Switzerland, that you charge me by a yearly badge!

I’m completely exhausted when I finally drive into the campsite three hours later than usually and swear that if ever I do that drive again I will get up even earlier or set off on Friday afternoon! What a difference to my summer trip! Getting from A to B on a planned schedule seems not to be my thing anymore.

I first went to that campsite Maremmasanssouci in summer 2005. My older son was a not even 2 year old toddler, my younger could not even walk! My boys have kind of “grown up” on that campsite. They loved it, as it is next to the sea and the lush vegetation forming smaller and bigger rectangles and squares as pitches was kind of a forestry labyrinth for the two little boys.

The first two years we went in summer – but found middays unbearable hot. So, I changed strategy and went there during the autumn holidays for many years – prolonging summer in Tuscany, wonderful. The side-effect was that there were almost only Swiss people on the campsite as these are the ones that are having holidays at that time of the year.

There is a small playground next to the bar and restaurant. Children used to gather after dinner and play ‚cops and robbers‘ for hours. The ever so amazing fact about it was that – unlike at home – every child was welcome to join in. There were six-year-old boys running after 15-year-old girls, the typical age-gap conventions were forgotten. And once the game was over at 10 pm sharp, the small kids went to bed, the teens turned to more silent games and the young adults moved down to the beach, to hang out and do things that parents should rather not get notice of.

When I pass by the playground one evening, I see them, about 30 children playing ‚cops and robbers‘ – as back in the days when it was still the highlight of the day for my own boys. Now my youngsters are a bit bored of it, but two of the 17 year old ones of the group even join in one evening! This sight touches me deeply. To see these children run around and chase each other for hours, young and older ones, these children who are blamed to solely spend hours in front of screens – it’s moving. And any adult that’s complaining about children running around – should leave the campsite!

My boys loved it and love it. They made friends. When they got older, they founded a WhatsApp Italian holiday group-chat and stayed friends. Now, they even meet at home during the year, organise their next stay in Italy. As almost grown-ups they don’t want to spend their holiday with their mother anymore. So, the boys share a bungalow with their best friends and Mummy stays on a pitch in her freaky camper-van. Never mind. Life is beautiful.

The campsite is full, really full. I think there’s almost no single pitch left. It used to be rather crowded that first week in October getting emptier from day to day, but what I see this year is extraordinary. No offence – families with small children everywhere. True, this campsite is ideal for families with small children – I was one of them for many years, but it’s still extraordinary this year. The beach is cluttered with inflated dolphins, crocodiles and other inflatable objects, you have literally to find your way around buckets and shovels, sand castles and frightening deep holes! I later learn that the campsite had advertised through a holiday agency of a well-known grocery seller-chain in Switzerland as well as in Germany. On top of that many people have become campers in Corona times that have not been campers before. It’s understandable, yet, for those who have been addicted campers for many years it’s a bit annoying to suddenly have to share nice places with so many other people at the time. I wonder, why other Italian campsites around have not grabbed the opportunity and stayed open for the onslaught. Only in the evening there is peace and silence!

So, I am kind of relieved to leave my boy with his friends the next day and go to Florence where I have – rather spontaneously again – booked a course on useful programs for teaching at Europass. When I called Europass on Friday the lady had asked me doubtfully whether I really would make it to get to Florence on Monday. Yes, I will! I decided to do this workshop in the first instead of the second week of my stay in Italy after the weather forecast had turned out not to be very good for that week hoping for more favourable weather in the second week. And on top – the workshop suits me fine!

Tuscany is beautiful. I’m peacefully driving along when I have to turn onto a small road leading to a village a bit inland. There is a sign inhibiting cyclists to take this road and I wonder why, as a country road not that busy should be perfect for cycling. I soon find out, though. This road is just too dangerous for cyclists as there are long and rather wide crevasses all over the tarmac. The road was built on swamp land and obviously it was badly built as the tarmacked sides are about to break off and by doing so many crevasses have broken up as well. You have actually to take care not to get too near to its borders as it is unstable and thus speed limit is at 30 km/h. I ask myself where all the financial aids from the European Community have gone – am I really still in Europe?! This road is simply a disgrace! I have already joked about the SS1 Aurelia coming down from La Spezia to Rome – the Strada di Stato Numero 1!! A conglomeration of potholes! Speed limit at 110km/h if you want to ruin your shock absorbers. Well, SS1 is a shock for your absorbers!  But this road tops everything I have ever seen. At some places there was weed growing out of the crevasses.

We are in Italy! So, 30km/h means that the average speed performed is 60 km/h. I try to do my best and drive about 45 km/h and still I’get doubled all the time which makes my heart sink each time on that road.

Later, when I’m driving on a road with a speed limit of 60 km/h the correct speed for Italian standards seems to be 90km/h and when I’m driving on the highway at 100 km/h (speed limit 90 km/h) I’m still considered to be an obstacle! At one time I spot the remains of a lorry, completely fallen apart, burnt down, rather a skeleton than a lorry. I week later, when I drive past it on my way back, it’s still there, untouched. Left over to remind drivers to slow down? Or just neglect?

I had not expected the campsite in Florence to be soo crowded at this time of the year. The guy at the reception tells me it’s completely booked out, so I try to be happy with my pitch. Next door are Germans. They warn me of bicycle thieves in Florence, gangs from Romania or Northern Africa, they say. Their favourites are expensive electric bikes – well then, take care Susanna! I do, and by the end of the week my bike has not been stolen! But one day I actually witness someone ‚taking‘ the back wheel of a seemingly abandoned bike with a ‚professional‘ tool – in the bright light of the day and with many witnesses around?!?

Then there are those German “road-surfers”. Once again, a pop-up appearance in Covid times. Rent your van! No idea of camping – camping is freedom. Camping is a subordinate, inferior way of having a holiday, thus, you needn’t care about others, you can play up – you and yourself! Those blokes come back from town around midnight, completely plastered and then they continue emptying more bottles in front of their van. They’re not aggressive, just having a jolly good time and just don’t care – camper novices! Only when I summon a guard, they stop. Next morning, I write to “road-surfers” and complain people should at least be told how to behave on campsites when they get handed over the van! Roadsurfers – surprise – actually reply to my complaint, apologetic, but telling me they cannot be made responsible for people’s bad behaviour!

When I cycle to my venue next morning through the cramped streets of Florence (yesterday the bus had taken almost double its supposed time because of notorious hold-ups) I once again think – central Europe is faaaar too crowded. Thus, a lot of Florence people try to get into town by scooters, the famous Vespa all over the place. That’s kind of nice.

My course is great! I truly enjoy my time in Florence. I had a rather dull memory of it, gloomy, dirty, narrow. The streets are narrow and gloomy, alright, blotchy black from the fumes of too much traffic. I also remember the dome to be gloomy – and am surprised about its bright beauty!! Like a glittering jewel it’s shining from its place right in the city centre.

Robin, our stranded American ‚history-of-art-student afternoon tour-guide‘ confirms that the dome used to be gloomy and dirty and has only recently been cleaned. She tells us many other things which you would not notice yourself, like the wine-windows, or the rather everyday life depictions on the dome’s decoration, or then the stone carving which is supposed to be a graffiti by the master himself, Michelangelo. Food is gorgeous, too. I eat far too good and far too many ice-creams!

Florence is art in every sense of the word!

And there is CLET. Clet is a Frenchman, an artist, who came to Florence about 16 years ago and ever since then has „decorated“ the street signs with stickers. Of course, it is against the law, but as these stickers are truly innovative, creative and imaginative, authorities have cast a blind eye to it.

I’m kind of sorry to leave autumnally Florence on Friday afternoon to join my friend Ruth and my boys at the Tuscan campsite. My older arrives as well. He’s taken the coach from home – and had admitted that he was a bit nervous about the journey – ‚a new experience‘ he called it. It was kind of nice to hear that this sometimes too self-confident young man could still be bothered.

We are having a few good days at the seaside, gorgeous sunsets with views of Giglio, Montecristo, Elba and once we even spot the outlines of Corsica! Yet, I realise that I somehow have outgrown of this kind of holiday. I’ve tasted something else, peaceful placidity, abundance of possibilities, time, creativity, peace, serenity. This is different, this is ‚a holiday‘. On top the weather is sunny but cold, too cold for October. I hardly venture into the water, me, who had been swimming in the Atlantic just a fortnight ago! The nights are particularly cold – we sit there in front of our vans or at the bar, wrapped in down jackets and rugs, wearing woollen caps!! I turn on the heating in the van several times, as it is not cosy anymore. And even though I still love sleeping in my van, I start longing for home.

Marcel from school had called me when I was still in Florence – I need to step in for a colleague who’s on sick leave. There I am, sitting in my camper preparing lessons! It’s a special, a nice experience. Homeoffice in my camper van. I take on the challenge and try out some of the new programs I’ve just learnt in my workshop in Florence.

This year we have not seen any boars!

We were laughing on end last year after the boars had actually helped themselves to Ruth’s Prama ham and Tortelloni from her fridge, making so much noise that the neighbours woke up and wondered why the lady next door would pack up in the middle of the night – Ruth was fast asleep and didn’t notice a thing.

We get back home safely and without too much delay!

When I wake up it is still dark. Days are shorter now, much shorter. I want to leave soon, though, so I get up, have some breakfast and a coffee of course, pack up, take a last picture of ‚my beach-house‘.

My neighbours are already up, too, and there is a car that wants to leave. I’m standing in its way, so I have to get moving. No time for sentimentalities – better so. I drive off. Le Grande Plage Village is almost still asleep. I hear the thunder of the surge at the beach, but I don’t want to go back right now, no, do not spoil the image of last night.

It’s cloudy. The clouds hang deep. I had heard the rain drumming on the roof of the van in the night. It’s not raining when I drive over the bridge back to the mainland, Fort Louvois at my left, the oyster bay and Saint Trojan les Bains at my right. I enjoy every single second driving as slowly as possible over the bridge. There is kind of a hole in the clouds and the sun seems to be peeping out of it – I think of my mother. She was with me when we first came here, when we discovered this beautiful island. For almost three years now she is somewhere up there, somewhere in another dimension. Just after her death I had often imagined her peeping out of these ‚cloud-holes‘, watching me going about my things and wishing me well. She had always wished me well. She would be very happy to hear that I have my little ‚beach-house‘ here now.

Again, I feel it takes quite some time to get to Saintes. It’s an hour, somehow a long hour driving through those small, seemingly empty villages. Right at the west rim of Saintes is the Atlantic Park, a conglomeration of chain-shops and supermarkets. I fill up my tank here and stroll a last time through Leclerc. I love strolling through French supermarkets, I love strolling through any foreign supermarket as there is always a country’s everyday normality on display. Unfortunately, I regularly get tempted to buy something of this everyday normality again and again. Today is no exception. I always find something useful, meaningful or just beautiful.

Then I hear it – now it’s drumming hard on the roof! It’s pouring. I have left my lovely island and worse weather sets in. I run back to the van and get in as fast as possible. I take the road eastward, the one, that I have taken already so many times, with my kids, with my friend and now it’s all alone. I finally take the road home.

I pass by Cognac but do not stay on the N 141. I know this road will be extremely busy once getting closer to Limoges. Instead, I turn off on the smaller country road D 951. In Confolens I miss a turn and actually drive through the small and narrow town instead of around it on the bypass. I’m surprised of the beauty of this little town. There are some people carrying things from a van into a house – moving in. I see English number plates – the Brits again!

Each time when I’m passing Guéret I have to instantly think of our French teacher Marcel. I once sat in one of his classes and we were reading a text about the wolves of Guéret. There is also a sign ‚les loups de Guéret‘ at the side of the road. I pass by.

Paray-le-Monial, a small town in the south of Burgundy, is my destination for today. It’s famous for its Romanesque basilica and the Christ painting on the ceiling in the apsis. I went there once when I was studying history of art as this basilica and its painting are somehow unique. Later, I wanted to come here again, but of course my boys were not interested in Romanesque churches and I also recalled it to be rather dull, sombre, at least from outside.

But there is also the nice Campsite Le Mambre. It’s 500km sharp from both Ile d’Oléron and home. There are lush, high trees and big pitches for a very good price. Yet, I still have to go for another 90 km and I’m a bit stupefied about the fact that my GPS tells me that it will take me one and a half hours to get there. How come? I remember the road to be pretty good, a 110 km ‚motorway‘. It turns out that those 90 km are one b i i i i g building site on end. There is a lady driving ahead going at 70km/h sharp or even less and there is a h u u u g e queue building up behind her.

I’m exhausted when I finally arrive at the campsite – change of owner – the nice Dutchman has gone. There is a friendly Frenchwoman now. The place is going to be done up a bit, which serves it right. Some of the picknick facilities have had a rather outdated, shabby look, something from the 70ties. There is one new facility, all with wooden planks – nice.

Dark clouds are building up and the lady at the reception tells us campers to stay on the gravel path and not drive onto the lawn-pitches, because she fears with more rain and soaked grounds we will not be able to get away again.

After the short thunderstorm I take my bike and cycle to the centre. There is service going on in the basilica of Paray-le-Monial, so I can only peep into the aisle from behind. I find a nice brasserie and have a nice meal. My son texts me I should bring some groceries as the fridge at home is completely empty. So, first thing in the morning I will go shopping.

n the morning, the grass is wet. For the first time on my nine-week trip I take out the wellingtons in order not to get wet feet! I don’t feel like going home, not really, so I plan to take ‘the long way home’ and avoid motorways. It’s autumnally foggy when I’m driving through the Jura range that separates Switzerland from France. Nobody is interested in me when I enter Switzerland at Orbe – and then I’m undoubtedly back on an immaculate Swiss motorway – with sooooo much traffic and I realise once again that this country is so small and so crowded.

After almost nine weeks on the road I’m back. It’s Sunday the 26^th September 2021 at early afternoon when I drive into the yard in front of our house. How do I feel? I don’t know. I walk up the stairs – and take my younger son into my arms!

I have a dream – ever since I was a young girl. I have always wanted to live in my own house. I have grown up in an apartment in a 12-storey house. The unspoiled view onto the lake and the close mountains was fabulous – my parents thought, who had immigrted from Germany, when they first saw the apartment. I didn’t like the famous view of Mount Rigi, even though the English painter and master of light, William Turner, has been fascinated by that mountain.

I didn’t like the view when I was a child, I didn’t like it when a was a young adult and finially moved out. I prefer open landscape; mountains have always evoked the feeling of being enclosed, trapped. I’m a free spirit. I think that mountains can be very impressive but I don’t like being close, let alone enclosed by them!

So, I have a dream – a house of my own with a wonderful garden somewhere where it’s warm, warmer than in Switzerland, warmer than in Swiss winters at least. I don’t like the cold, the snow. It prevents me from being outside (because I don’t like the cold) and I actually love being outside, in nature, feel nature, hear it, smell it, see it. But not the snow.

So, that house should be located somewhere in a warmer country. When I was around 30 years old I very often spent some of my holidays around Vaison-la-Romaine in Southern France. I – for a long time – dreamt of having a house there. But as a young teacher I did not have enough money. Then I met my later husband and we dreamt of having a guesthouse and horse ranch in Morocco. But land prices doubled there within a year or two and our savings were always ‚behind‘. We couldn’t afford it, we could not find a place, where it was save to buy, where our two sons could enjoy good, European standard education at the same time, so not too far out in the countryside. In the end, with the fading dream our relationship also crumbled.

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I once read a book about buying property in France. When talking about favourite regions that guy talked about La Côte Lumière, the coast around La Rochelle being one granted almost as much sunshine a year than the Côte d’Azur, but prices were – at that time! – significantly lower. Today, La Rochelle is the third most expensive town France, right after Bordeaux and Paris.

I had never really thought about that region, even though I had once cycled from Rochefort down along the Atlantic coast to the Bassin d’Arcachon and the famous Dune de Pylat, with 117 metres Europe’s highest dune (parts of ‘Lawrence from Arabia’ and other films have been shot there). Many, many years ago I also once drove through La Rochelle. I only remember it very slightly. I actually drove around the marina – which is not possible anymore, past the three towers. It did not impress me much then and I did not even think it was worthwile finding a parking lot and walk around for a while. I simply drove on. But after reading this book I got interested. I bought a guidebook about the region. My first attempt in April 2010 to get there was utterly shattered, though, by the eruption of Iceland’s Eyjafjallajökull volcano, when flights all over Europe were cancelled because of its ashes jeopardizing air-traffic. I eventually got there in July of the same year, peak season, but nevertheless I instantly fell in love with the region.

Ever since then I have come here again and again and dreamt of having ‘un pied à l’eau’. Campings close end of September, unfairly early for Swiss people and their school holidays in October. Anyhow, this region is not really frequented by Swiss people. You find German and Dutch people, as almost everywhere, quite some Brits but not on the islands, and many, many French tourists.

When I paid La Rochelle a first real visit I was ravished by its beauty! The aquarium is stunningly far more impressive than even the National Aquarium in Napier/New Zealand. The city is one that enchants with its ‘whiteness’ – all old buildings are kept in white limestone. There is a magnificent ‘old’ harbour, and – I think – Europe’s largest marina with more than 5000 berths at Les Minimes.

Not far from La Rochelle is L’Ile de Ré, another of those islands but unfortunately firmly in the hands of French and international celebrities. Property prices have been skyrocketing as much so that even locals cannot afford to have a house there anymore. But there is also the wonderful marshland of Le Venice Verte, there is Saintes with its Roman remnants, even an amphitheatre. The whole area is famous for its oyster cultivation (even though I personally don’t like or eat them, it’s still interesting) and there are many attractions more, especially for little boys, all those Vauban castles and towers, as for example in the small town of Hier Brouage, where Napoleon kept an icehouse in order to serve his guests a cool drink, or Fort Louvois, Fort Boyard etc. etc.

To cut this long love story short – I have come back to this region again and again and each time when I am driving over the bridge back to the mainland I feel so sentimental. So, why not installing myself here and buy a small house.

I have had a dream – for so long. Now, property prices have almost doubled because of Covid and people wanting to work from home – a nice home in the countryside – or on an island! No way for me and my budget. What I can afford is crap. What’s nice, I can’t afford. So, I decide to look elsewhere, somewhere nearby but on the mainland. That way I could come to Oléron for a daytrip at the beach.

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Last year I discouvered Saintes. There are two houses for sale which are within my budget. After having parked on Saintes’ lovely town campsite Au Fil de L’Eau I take my electric bike and drive to these two houses. The first one looks really nice from outside but is located right at a rather busy road and the property is a longish rectangle, almost a corridor. More than the fact that the price slightly exceeds my budget the fact that there is almost no life – as I call it – in this little suburb village of Saintes. So, I drive on, hoping for the second house. I cannot find it, but I needn’t find it, anyhow. This village is even worse than the first, even though some of houses are beautiful. There is one small restaurant that’s closed – that’s it! Sleeping towns – villages where people sleep, drive to big shopping centres once in a while to do their weekly shopping, where children go to primary school and are driven to secondary. No, no, no!

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I cycle on and find the cute ferry over La Charente and get to Cheniers, another village with affordable properties. The village centre is alive with a campsite, retired people, some shops, a bakery. Yet, the houses are aligned on a hill – certainly better, but could I really imagine myself making this hamlet the centre of my life? No!

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Discouraged I cycle back the busy main road to Saintes. When I reach it, I realize that I quite like the eastern side of the town, the one that I have been advised against buying any property because of the danger of flooding! In winter – the lady at the campsite told me – La Charente would regularly burst her banks.

I don’t have much dinner that night. I go to bed rather disappointed, thoughtful. When I wake up in the morning the scenery around me has changed significantly – autumnal fog is lingering on the campsite! It does not really help cheer me up.

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I got to know a French craftsman, Didier, and we meet in a village near the estuary of La Gironde,  a place I had long wanted to see – Mortagne-sûr-Gironde. There is a small harbour, and a longish town. Again, I don’t see much life. I tell Didier my story and he advises me where to look for houses that would meet my budget.

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That’s what I do for the next two days. I drive around the area and ask myself again and again: Could I make this place the centre of my life? Apart from ‘sleeping’ villages I find villages with some commerce but also a N 15… running through the middle of it with big 40-ton lorries driving through. I find almost abandoned villages, I find nicely decorated villages – but I do not find the place that makes my heart jump.

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In the wild city park of Pons I meet Maddie and John, she English, he Canadian, a retired couple, formerly teachers, who have found their happiness there. They have been lucky enough to be able to buy a wonderful old house right in the city centre with a large terraced garden. I’m invited for afternoon tea and thus able to look at such a house from inside and see what you could make out of a ruin. I’m also told what it would cost. I realize I definitely need to be on site for such a project and that will not be possible for the next few years, not before my two boys will be more or less independent of me.

But Maddie solves the secret of empty villages for me: „You’ve to get used to it. French people stay indoors a lot of times. That’s why a lot of villages and towns seem deserted, but actually they’re not.“ Yet, will I be able to get used to this?

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It’s Friday when I decide to drive back to my beloved island, as property sellers will have closed for the weekend. I have an appointment in Pons, on Tuesday, though. A promising 4-bedroom semi-detached house with a rather large garden, nicely situated on a hill in a quiet quarter.

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It is only a one hour drive from Pons to the island, but this hour seems endless when I’m driving back. Almost relieved to have escaped it all I place my van on the same pitch as before, take off my bike and cycle to the beach. I feel disappointed, helpless, visionless, discouraged and confused. I realise how much I also love travelling – I want to go back to Sweden, I’d like to travel down to northern Spain and Portugal, and Greece must be nice by van as well, let alone my village in Sénégal, another visit to Namibia or a prolonged stay in the States or Australia. So, why looking for a house at all, then?

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The weather forecast for the next day is not beach-suitable so I decide to cycle to the main town Saint-Pierre d’Oléron. The island is supposed to be very, VERY, quite in winter. The population does not exceed 25’000 tot 30’000 people, while there are about ten times as many people there in high season. “I close in Novembre, the baker’s wife had told me.” And: “Why don’t you rent something to find out or buy a bungalow on one of the campsites?“ when I tell her my story. „That’s much cheaper than a house.“ But I cycle on – again I see two “For sale” signs at the side of the road – busy, loud roads, no places where I would spend my fortune and beyond on – and then stop sharp, turn back, drive to the campsite the baker’s wife has indicated and think: “I could at least ask whether they have anything for sale at all.” And they have – two bungalows, two different pitches. I was on THIS campsite last year, so I know it and I instantly realise that the second pitch is in a corner where there is not much hustle and bustle, not even in July or August.

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If I was interested I could come back after lunchbreak, the guy at reception had told me. Now, I’m sitting at the nearby beach, my brain pounding, my whole body vibrating, my thoughts chasing each other: What’s the risk? I can sell it, again, can I? I love this place – THIS PLACE – not any place over there on the mainland. My friend Ralf had once told me that my face and mood change instantly to the positive once I’m trespassing the bridge to this island. It just feels, it just feels – it feels as it felt when I was about to buy my first camper van – and I have never, NEVER, regretted doing it. It felt as I was feeling when I saw our current apartment even before I had seen all rooms, it felt just right, it felt – YES! I’ll do it.

At five to three I’m back at the entrance and – what a shock – I am not the only one who is interested in a bungalow. It turns out that the other guy, though, is interested in the other one. I’m shown the bungalow from inside. A very old French couple has owned it, loved it, spent the last I don’t know how many years in it. At a quarter past three I have bought it. The instant effect is one of calmness, only then joy mingles in.

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You can imagine the rest of the story: I cancel my appointment to have a look at the house in Pons, I don’t go back to Saintes to look for more houses. Instead, I move to the campsite and park my van in front of ‘my’ bungalow. I don’t live in it yet as the old owners will come back a last time on the weekend. I just take measure, imagine new curtains, plan changes.

I get to know my neighbours, a retired couple to the right and Marlene and Olivier to the left, who offer me tools, help and advice. I’m glad to have them and realise that living on a campsite it is easier to get to know people. I go to garden shops and builders shops and my face – what can be seen behind the mask – must be glowing as everybody is so nice to me. The days go by so fast. I realise that even with this small bungalow, there is this and that paper to sign and I feel relieved not to have to travel to France again and again to supervise a building site. This would have been surpassed my strength by far once I have to function back in everyday life.

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These are wonderful days: Buying plants and actually planting them – making the thing a little bit mine. Every night I go and see the sunset at the beach. It’s just a 5 minutes‘ cycle. I collect stones and take them ‚home‘ to serve as an enclosure for my ‚garden‘. I also collect shells as decoration and I just love being here. Once, when I cycle home from the beach I see a doe peeking out of the woods. Of course it runs away before I can take a picture. I also see multple traces of boars. They dig up the ground to find food. So, not only at my campsite in Tuscany’s Maremma there are boars, also here – mind you Ruth!

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I eat on the veranda and go to see the ever so beautiful sunset at the beach, and when I’m lying in my van at night I can listen to the cries of the bats and the distant sound of the surge. I have finally found my ‘pied à l’eau’!

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Pure happiness is a rare feeling!

4 – 9 September 2021

I arrive late at night. My younger son is still at my older son’s birthday party. The cats welcome me. Cat Lucy is – as always – courageous and curious. Tomcat Lou – the coward – runs off once he sees me in the door.

I’m back home for just a few days. My older son’s 18th birthday. We celebrate with friends. I have a few appointments, and a flying visit at my school. My fellow teachers and collegues are surprised to see me and I am surprised how warmly they welcome me back! Well, that’s my social life, at least some of it. A base I can relate to, rely on.

My sons are happy to see me, too. I clean the apartment, go shopping, pay bills, get rid of the recycling stuff that has accumulated over the weeks, help with writing application letters, repair here something and get something in order there, water the plants (some of them have hardly survived), say hello to the neighbours, talk to the garage about the stone chip that has hit my windsceen, cuddle the cats. Somehow the feeling of being ‚home‘ is nice.

Yet, I feel stressed out a bit, too. Of course, my programme is packed, but at the same time I very quickly also feel the onslaught of normality and everyday life catching me. Thoughts come up that I haven’t thought for many weeks. I do not sleep very well and this is not solely due to the heat. There is no wind, there is no space. I find the streets crowded, there is always a hold up, a queue, a hustle and bustle … people talking, Covid, problems – petty ones and crucial ones.

I hardly get done what I wanted. Then I leave again, early in the morning. Take the train to Zurich, the TGV Lyria back to Paris, with mostly Swiss people not respecting the quest of silence in the carriage. I’m leaving Switzerland again. Just after the frontier Luc posts me a sms. He’s going to catch me at the station. Great! I’m already feeling ‚at home‘ again. It’s not even lunchtime when TGV Lyria stops at Gare the Lyon. It’s cloudy this time. It’s even been drizzling on the way here. I have far less luggage and do not get hold up in the opening barrier, or rather the closing barrier at the underground.

I took tickets for the ‚Paris Metro‘ with me from home. This is so ingenious: Buy ‚le carnet‘ when you are in Paris!!! That is ten tickets for the price of nine or eight , I think. But the best about it is not the price reduction but that they are valid for Y E A R S on end! So, whenever you go to Paris, you do not have to fumble about at the ticketing machine, looking for change or queue up at the counter. Mine are from 2013 I think. That’s the when I was in Paris with little Sebastian and Maurice, being in second and fourth primary class or so … such a long time ago. Well, just take a ticket, slip it into slot and – off you go!

So, even though I have only 80 minutes, I buy my lunch, take the metro line No 1 to Châtelet, change, then the No 4 Montparnasse-Bienvüe. I already feel a little bit like a regular. The gates to the platforms open 25 minutes before departure. This time I’m not lucky. This is a ‚dual‘ train: the rear bit goes to Quimper, the leading carriages to Brest. And my carriage is the very first. So I have to walk up all the platform.

The atmosphere is again completely different. Everybody takes out his or her lunch and after finishing there is silence. Not even the cat that is travelling with us dares to mious. The train rushes past flat scenery. What great invention this is, the TGV, le train grande vitesse. The train is packed, almost to the last seat. I’m lucky, at least now for the first, long bit to Rennes, the seat adjacent is one of the few free – and it will stay free until I get to Brest.

Luc has sent me a message. He’s waiting outside the station. We go shopping to icci and then down to the port. I’ve brought chocolates from Switzerland for Luc and Sylvain, the two guardians of my van when I was away for so long. Rynka really seems to like me. She is a nice dog. Luc is sad that I’m leaving ‚la suisse nous quitte‘, but I really do not want to stay another night on the parking space of Port de Plaissance.

So I take my leave and drive off, out of Brest, over to the Crozon peninsula again and to the place that we have seen when sailing along the coast in the Baie of Douarnanez. It’s not only empty, there is an autumnly touch to the scenery. Quite some trees have a yellow-brownish shine.

I easily get to the place I’m looking for. It’s at Plage de l’Arber. I find it right away. There are a few mobilhomes and I start talking to a young Frenchman from close to Colmar. He tells me that he used to be a teacher for mechanics until two years agao, but couldn’t take it anymore with the online teaching during Covid lockdown. So he quit his job, furnished his van and drove off. Ever since then he lives, together with his dog, in the van, staying at places where you do not have to pay. He tells me that Portugal used to be great, but now you get heavily fined if they get you somewhere in the wild. Spain seems to be better.

It starts being foggy-drizzling. I sit in my van, out there is Brittany as it is quite often. I do not complain. I was so lucky with the weather so far. It was high tide when I arrived – no beach. In the morning, when the fog slowly dissolves and the sun comes out again, there is a wonderful large beach. You can even walk over to the ‚island‘, which is not an island at low tide. I take my time. I like it here and take my time.

I think about where I’m going next. At 15h00 I have to be at Port-Louis again to meet Denys and Melodie, his girlfriend. I decide to give it another try and try to find that campsite I had been on on my 2000 trip. It must be somewhere here – if it is still there. I study google maps for a long time and decide that I want to have a look at a campsite very near the place where I had breakfast on the beach a few weeks ago. It’s called Pors Ar Vag – whatever that means.

I enjoy the landscape while driving along. To my left there is Menez Hom, Brittany’s highest hill. I drive again along this ever so beautiful long beach near Saint Nic and then turn off to find the campsite. I first stop at another one thinking it is the one I am looking for. There are terraces overlooking the bay, but somehow it does not seem right. So I continue and get to Pors Ar Vag – I instantly recognise the very simple campsite. Nothing seemed to have changed for 21 years! There is the steep path down to the beach, there is the ever so grey service house, there are the rows of hedged campsites. I’ve found it. Amazing.

There are two German surfer ladies – we start chatting. They’ve been travelling Brittany for six weeks now, going from one surf spot to the next. I have to leave – and with leaving this bit of Brittany I also leave Finistère, the outmost bit of France. There are so many memories, so many places that I know here: Douarnanez, Quimper, Brest, Locronan, Crozon, Pointe de Penhir, Pointe du Raz, Penmarc’h and Phare Eckmühl, Benodet. I am very sorry not to go to Beg Meil, one of my absolute favourite spots with its pacific shell white beach. I also had wanted to go and spend a night in Port Manec, such a lovely little place, but I have to leave that behind as well. There are also famous places, like Pont-Aven, where the painter Paul Gauguin used to live before he left for the warmer Pacific. I’m driving past all those sign-posts. I leave the 29 departément and go back to the 56 (Morbihan).

When I get off the N 165, Brittany’s ‚motorway‘, and head towards Port-Louis, it feels almost like getting home. I stop at the big supermarket just before the little town and get some groceries. I arrive at 15h30, the agreed time, sharp. I spot AVEL and get on board, bring my ventilators.

Then we leave and Denys shows me where he has his ‚paradise‘. It’s somewhere in the woods of Riantec, another of these hamlets. This used to be a campsite and Denys has obtained about 8 pitches together with three mobilehomes. One he has done up really nicely. The other two are gone. I help him start his car as he hasn’t started it for 9 weeks – that the time he hasn’t been here. Then I leave.

This again is a really nice area of Brittany. I get to Etel, where we stayed on the campsite last year, my younger son and me. First, I turn off before the Ria of Etel, and drive to the outer point of the northern side of the estuary. From here, you have a wonderful view onto Etel. You can also see the campsite. It’s very narrow here and turning around, I almost hit a building – huuh, I’m not used to driving and manouevering my van anymore. The campsite is cramped with camping cars, big ones and bigger ones. The lady at the reception tells me she cannot garantee a pitch at the seafront – I believe her at once. But that’s actually the nice thing about this specific campsite.

I decide to move on. I don’t feel like putting myself up between these monsters. I also remember that the sanitary house wasn’t particularly inviting. Driving along this stretch of sandy landscape is always wonderful. Erdeven – in Breton Ar Dewen – means ‚on the dune‘. And this is what it is. Brittany’s longest sandy strech goes from Etel to Quiberon and it’s all a nature reserve – so, no wild camping here! I get to the small campsite of Les Omreux and find a nice pitch. No invasions of huge camping cars here.

The night is brisk. When I have a look at the thermometer in the morning it shows shocking 12 degrees! Yes, there is something autumnly in the air. I had already noticed it when driving out of Brest. Some of the trees show a little yellowish hue. And there is a faint mist lingering over the nearby cornfield. It’s a bit chilly when I get out of the van. But as soon as the sun comes out it’s inviting warm to stay outside again.

Where shall I go next? Shall I stay another day in Brittany or say farewell to this patch of France? I’m torn between going and staying. In the end I decide to leave, but, I have not noticed, it’s Saturday. So there is a whole load of people packing up and going home. Typically there is a hold up around Vannes – and yes there is! Google maps clearly shows it. So, why not go back to my favourite beach in the dunes and read a little till after lunchtime? That’s what I do.

I park and meet Brunhild from Saarbrücken, who is sitting her car having the same problem. She has to go home today after having spent a week around here. We start chatting for quite a while until she has to go and I finally make it to the beautiful beach. There I’m sitting in the warming sun, looking out onto the calm sea, thinking about what a wonderful moment I’m just experiencing, thankful.

Then, me too, make off. To get to the N 165 I pass the hamlet of Crucuno with it’s huge dolmen. I have been here before, on my 1985 first trip to Brittany with my friend Urs. We came here and I vividly remember the picture I took then of the dolmen with two children peeking out behind one of the stones.

The N 165 is rather empty by now and it is astonishing how fast I get down to Nantes and around it. This is where I definitively leave Brittany. South of Nantes the roofs are red tiles, north-west of Nantes the roofs are black-slate (Schiefer). Typically Breton, typically Aquitaine.

The landscape changes too. Less forests, more farmland. Large fields, corn, cattle. I suddenly realise that this looks a bit like the landscape around Fellingsbro in Sweden, where Maria lives. And I thus also understand now why I liked it so much up there.

It’s getting later, though. I don’t want to look for a campsite in the dark so I decide to get off the motorway at Niort. Just a 10 minutes drive away I’m in the middle of a wonderful landscape, called ‚Venice verte‘. It’s a region with lots of canals that have been constructed to make these stretches fertile. And it is green here! I was here in 2010 when my boys were still very small and I remember that you found ‚myocastor‘ on the menus here. ‚Myocastor‘ is a rodent, similar to the beaver, but with a smaller, round tail (Bieberratte). There are lots of myocastors around here.

I get the very last pitch at Campsite Venice Verte. I’m surprised about this, I thought it is not peak-season anymore, but the people have come for the weekend. The guy from the campsite drives away his own vehicle to let me stay. I take my bike and cycle down the road to L’Auberge de l’Ecluse, the lock’s guesthouse. I have eaten here before but new owners have just started. The food is good but not as heavenly as it used to be. Funnily enough the lady serving is English, but being married to a Frenchman, has lived for more than 40 years around here. She is very much into plants and herbs, telling everyone that the pesto is made from homegrown basil and the local terrine Poitevin is vegan and the bread contains potatoes …

I’m ready to leave the next morning when I catch a glimpse of a note that it’s market day today in nearby Coulon. I take my bike off the rack again and cycle along the Sèvre Niortaise to the small town. On my way back I encounter about 100 cyclists – it’s Sunday and probably the local Tour de France has been let loose …

Then I turn south, but I swear I will come back to this most beautiful patch of land and cycle along some more canals.

La Rochelle, ma belle. My favourite town in France, yet, I pass by as I want to see some of the inland towns and villages. I’m disapointed of Tonnay-Charante and Sant Agnant, and finnally get to the ever so well known road to Marennes and on to Ile d’Oleron. I don’t need my GPS here anymore. This is kind of home.

There are three campsite which I know. The one I used to go back in the days when I discovered Oleron, but which has unfortunately a new owner, got more expensive, a little posh with lots of mobile homes and lost its familiar atmosphere. The one I was on last year. There are sad stories connected with it, so no. The third one is the one my younger boy broke his arm in 2015. I was there twice and the boys and me loved it until that accident happened. So, why not. Getting back to good memories.

I find a wonderful pitch and make off to ‚my‘ beach. La Grande Plage is large at low tide, almost 100 meters large, or so. When I’m lying in the hot, but not too hot September sun, I am soo thankful. I have always wanted to be here once off peak season but being a teacher this has never been possible. I’m loving it! The surfers come when the high tide comes in and even though the waves do not seem so high, they are high enough to be surfed on. This is it. This is my beach! This is where I feel acquainted, I feel happy – really happy. I don’t like cold water and friends have often made fun that the Atlantic is far too cold to go swimming. This is true for Brittany where I hardly put a foot into the water. 15 degrees – I remember my younger son venturing into the water at La Pointe de Penhir last year for about 10 minutes. It was so cold that he had a headache for hours thereafter.

Here, the water might be 20, 21 degrees. I dare and I’m loving it, diving through the oncoming waves. The water is not as salty and sticky as the water in the Mediterranean. There are people land-sailing, others looking for ‚talines‘, better know as ‚vongoles‘, the Italian name for these mussels in Switzerland. You just dig in the wet sand at low tide and you find them. There are also tiny hermit crabs that dig themselves into the sand again the moment they get to the surface. You can hardly see them, let alone take a picture.

I love being here – I really do. I’ve come by bike and enjoy the long cycle back through the holm ork (Steineiche) and pine forest. The cycle lane has been improved a lot. It used to be a bumpy gravel road, now it’s smooth. It all feels so familiar and yet new – as it is not peak season.

Happiness is a rare feeling – I would like to share it as it doubles when shared. But there’s no-one. What did I tell the guy at the campsite when he asked how many people ‚we‘ were and whether there was an animal travelling with me: ‚I’m me and I’m travelling with myself.‘

28 August – 4 September 2021

On Sunday, I wake up from the remote yet distinct noises of the ferry that has obviously arrived very early in the morning as it is only dawning outside. I listen. I love these sounds. They remember me of my journeys to Ireland or Corsica back in the eigthies. The sounds are always the same: The announcements that you have to get to your car. The sound when a car drives over the metal planks that leads to firm ground. Tak-tak. I remember how tired I usually was after a night lying somewhere under a table or in a brightly by neon-light illuminated corner, listening the muted sounds of voices and clacking of dishes from the restaurant, being rocked to a somwhat light-alert sleep with the slow sideway move of the big vessel. Being on a ferry means leaving one place and arriving somewhere else. The ferry voyage to Ireland takes mininum 15 hours. The one to Corsika, given you take the night ferry leaving late at 23h in Italy, arrives very early at 6h or so in Bastia, just when the sun is rising. And after a short drive of maybe two hours you find yourself at your holiday destination, whereas in Ireland you have to adapt to the left hand driving.

The new crew has arrived. Alain, who has helped Denys a lot with his house in Port-Louis, and Muriel, a lady from Luxenbourg. After doing the usual weekly shopping we set off on Sunday after the two others got an extended introduction to how to handle the boat. I also listen from time to time but as I have already been on boat for a whole week I don’t feel inclined to listen to all the details again. Instead, I do some office work.

The night had been rather cold but now the sun is shining and once again we sail along the beautiful Ile de Batz just opposite the town of Roscoff. The wind is not strong at all and blows from right astern. We are not going anywhere. Either we have to goose wing (Schmetterling segeln) or hiss the spinnaker. Denys opts for the second. It is a lot of work but also good to learn about it as I have never sailed with the spi. The sail is beautiful. It is a very, very peaceful afternoon.

After a few hours I spot the lighthouse ‚La vierge‘ in the far distance. It seems only to be a needle pointing to the sky. I have seen the world’s highest lighthouse built from brick before, but only from ashore. ‚La vierge‘ is 82 metres high and was opened in 1902. I am absolutely ravished. I’m loving this. This is soooooo beautiful!

We have calculated our voyage but Denys suggests taking another route to get to the harbour of Aber Wrac’h. We seem to glide between the rocks portruding from the water at low tide. We keep silent in awe. This is magic. This is La Mer d‘ Iroise.

I don’t like the port of Aber Wrac’h. You have to walk around the whole harbour, at times on a narrow brick pier (10 metres high at low tide) to get to the service house. Yet, the evening mood is tranquil and peaceful. There are also some two and three mast boats, a ketch and a shooner. There is light in the cabin of the ketch. I see a man working on something. I ask myself how it would be to live on such an old, spacy, beautiful wooden boat.

The weather is not as nice as yesterday. There is a brisk wind blowing when we are leaving Aber Wrac’h but things get more gentle when we are out on the open sea. Denys has decided to hiss the ‚trinquette‘, a smaller foresail then the genoa or the spi. We sail along Brittany’s foremost northern bit towards the foremost western islands, Molène and then Ouessant (‚ouest‘ – west in French) (Ushant is the English name for the isle). To get there we have to sail through waters with enormous currents. You can only get to the Ile d‘ Ouessant when weather conditions are favourite and fine. Favourite means, the wind comes from the opposite direction of the anchoring bay so that your boat will not drift towards the beach. Still, as the island is so flat, there is not much shelter from the land.

We sail towards ‚La Jumet‘ – another of those famous Breton lighthouses, 47 metres high, built in 1911 from concrete and brick. It stands out in the sea signaling a row of stones that have to be sailed around to get into the Bay of Lampaul. We still have the wind from astern and together with a current of 4 knots (!!!) at this we sweep through the passage of Le Fromveur at a speed of 11 knots (!!!). 20km/h on a sailing boat is rather a lot. After having sailed with wind from astern on a broad reach course we have to sail close-hauled after veering around ‚La Jumet‘. And now the wind is really hitting! We are heeling heavily and for a moment I am a bit afraid.

The anchoring manoeuvre is rather difficult in this wind. We have to try three times before we get the line through the loop on the buoy. First trial: I get the buoy when we are going in the wind (aufschiessen), but the buoy is stearbord while we have prepared everything portside (backbord). I try to get the buoy to portside but the gaff gets into the pulpit and thus twisted. I have to let go of everything.

A couple in a dinghy nearby comes to help us. They get free the badly bent gaff from the buoy and bring it to the boat. Second trail: Alain tries to help us. We get the buoy alright but – I don’t know why for heaven’s sake – he is trying to tear the buoy away from Muriel who is lying on the deck both hands hovering above the water ready to get the line through the loop. I shout at Alain to get closer to Muriel but he doesn’t understand or whatever and in a surge of anger lets go off the gaff. I try to keep it but the boat has turned to one stearbord again as the wind is hitting hard and I’m unable to hold the gaff and have to let go a second time. The couple brings us the gaff again. Third tail: Without gaff. The loop of the buoy is so high that we can reach it without the help of the gaff. That’s what we do. Finally we get the line through the loop and are safe.

No word between Alain and me about the incident.

Muriel, Alain and Denys take our dinghy to get ashore. I stay where I am. I don’t feel like being close to Alain right now.

The sunset is beautiful, the wind still strong, rocking us to sleep.

From Ouessant it is 45 nautical miles to Douarnenez. The sea has calmed. We only hiss the trinquette, later we add the main sail. In the distance we see ‚Les Pierres Noires‘, another of Birttany’s famous beacons, and sail past La Pointe de Saint Matthieu, with its lighthouse adjacent to a former monastery. We spot dolphins again, for the third or fourth time. I don’t know the names of the birds that pass by but some of them seem to be rarely seen. Later on, there is Le Cap de la Chèvre blinking in the southwest and I and some time later again we sail along the coast towards Douarnenez. In the distances we can also see the lighthouse ‚Le four‘ signaling the famous Pointe de Raz and the passage of La Raz de Sein with its strong currents. I sailed through here last year. It’s a mystic place, difficult to sail through, lots of ship wrecks. It’s a dream of many sailors to steer through La Raz de Sein. The Ìle of Sein is so flat we can only spot the lighthouse, again sticking out of the water like a needle. Our objective is to get to Sein as well the next day but it’s not sure that we will manage with the northeastly winds.

We arrive at Douarnenez late, 20h30, more than 45 nautical miles lie behind us.

I suggest that we don’t do as much the next day. L’Île de Sein is out of reach with a wind from northeast blowing into the anchoring bay. And to go there as a day trip means 55 miles, beating upwind on our way back to Douarnenez. Noone feels like that. So Denys suggests going along all the coast of La Baie de Douarnenez and we do. The landscape is beautiful. I spot the beach where I took my breakfast almost two weeks ago; we sail along the caves of Morgat and Morgat itsself. I spot a parking where lots of camping cars are parked and decide to go there for the first night when I will have left Brest in a few days.

Denys suggest casting off before dawn the next day to be out at sea already when sun is rising. We do. It is – again – a breathtaking morning.

We sail around Le Cap de la Chèvre, but this time northwards, broad reach. But once around the cap the wind hits again and I sail very close-hauled towards la Pointe de Penhir and Les Tas de Pois. This is were I was exactly two weeks ago, looking down onto the rocks of Les Tas de Pois. Steering here close-hauled through the waves and the strong wind is magic! I can hold my course within 3 degrees and Denys is full of pride for me. I love this course, I’m loving this moment. Sunshine, great winds, not to heavy surge! Wonderful.

We anchor sheltered from the coast. The water shades from blue to turquoise hue. The sky is blue. We have a melon, lunch, read, lie in the sun being gently rocked in the waves. How beautiful is this moment! Up there they are, the many tourists, looking down at us when we are sailing through ‚Les Tas de Pois‘, taking pictures of us as I have done two weeks ago.

We sail past the peninsula, past the Lion’s rock and the ‚Pointe de Toulinguet‘ over to the other side of the Rade de Brest towards Le Phare du Petit Minou and back to La Pointe d’Espagnol along the coast to Camaret, our last destination. La Tour Vauban, masterpiece of Vauban’s architecture, shows us where to get into the port. We are welcomed, given a nice berth. The wind is still howling. It’s Denys‘ turn again – soirée de crèpes!

Somehow we are all up early. Maybe it’s because of the day before. We hiss sails just after the sun has risen and have to ‚tirer les bords‘, to beat upwind all along the Rade of Brest.

We do, having to veer in ever so shorter intervals till we get to the bottleneck just in front of Port de Plaissance du Moulin Blanc. We sail through the bottleneck passage wind abeam, lower the main sheet and steer into the port with only the foresail. Sailing until the very last moment. I am allowed to do the manoever but do not do it very nicely. Yet, we get into our berth at Moulin Blanc.

Once arrived this is not the end of our trip. The boat has to be cleaned after lunch. Muriel has her TGV to Paris at 14h23. Alain and me do most of the job, scrub the deck. I desinfect my cabin – hullo Covid! – take my luggage to my van.

It’s there, safe and sound – my van. I will have time to tidy up tonight. Denys and me want to go shopping first. It’s incrediblby hot. I already miss the cooling wind. Hot and sweaty we have a shower first, then we drive to ICCI. Great place to go shopping. Everything is from nearby farms and cultivators. We get bear, vegetables, dairy products.

Then I leave Denys and – meet Luc and Rinka again. They (Luc and the other guy that’s living on a boat. His name is Alex as I learn a little later) invite me to have dinner with them. I accept though I want to eat my own stuff. The fried eggs do not really taste well. They’re probably too old – Danish! I even get stomach ache for a moment. The peaches are not succulent anymore – peach season is over. The figs are nice, though.

I learn that Luc and Alex were actually worried I wouldn’t come back. And I also learn that Alex gave notice to Luc about my arrival, as well as the ever so nice harbour master, Sylvain. Ok!?! So I’m actually known here.

I sleep rather well. I want to take the bus to the station to get on the 12h16 TGV to Paris. My luggage has got heavy again. So I ask for a taxi. The weather isn’t as nice as yesterday, humid. I’m sweating! The train gets packed.

There seem to be usual Saturday afternoon demonstrations ongoing when I arrive in Paris. The streets are strangely empty. The buses outside Gare de Montparnasse announce considerable delay. I take the underground, though I know I will have to go up and down a few staircases, all with my heavy load. But I have enough time. Take it easy. Getting into the underground area proves to be tricky. You have to be extremly quick to get through the opening barriers. My suitcase gets stuck and only with the help of a young couple I get loose again. He puts his ticket into the slot. I manage only to get the suitcase further through the barrier before it gets stuck again. So now we have one more go: one suitcase and two people: One, two, three! I yank my suitcase and they jumb forward through the barrier at the same moment – it works! What a stupid invention!

I have to get through some more of these barriers but none of them is as bad as the one at Gare de Montparnasse. I change the underground line at Les Halles to get to Gare de Lyon. The atmosphere is completely different here to the one at Gare de Montparnasse. Montparnasse was all hustle and bustle. Here it’s much calmer. There seem not to be as many people. I step out of the station building just to see Paris and have some ‚fresh‘ air without the mask. Then I sink exhausted onto a chair in the nearby restaurant, have a salad and a latte. It’s been raining here in Paris. The streets are still wet – and empty. The air is humid.

Another hour and I’m sitting in the train heading towards Zurich. It’s my older son’s 18th birthday tomorrow. We will celebrate his full legal age – well, one weight of my shoulder, too. There are also advantages of getting older.

The TGV Lyria to Zurich is not as packed as the one from Brest to Paris. For the first time after many, many weeks I hear people speaking Swiss German again. It feels awkward. Swiss people do not respect the policy of putting the phone into vibration mode in oder not to pester other passengers. Swiss people speack loudly as if there were at home.

While the train is taking me ‚home‘, away from my beloved van, I’m looking at property adverts in France … my mind is not keeping up with the speed of the TGV!

I’ll be back soon!

21 – 27 August 2021

This is my first of two sailing weeks. Granville is still located in Normandy and you can see Mont Saint Michel far away in the bay. The wind is strong in the morning and we have to leave well before 9 o’clock as water is descending and the tidal difference is pretty high here at the northern coast of Brittany. The marina of Granville is actually a big pool, so that the boats have still water under their keel at low tide. Our draft (mininale Wassertiefe, die nötig ist, um nicht aufzulaufen) is 2m30 so we need a minimum of water of 2m40 to be safe.

Even though the sun set wonderfully last night now clouds have taken the lead and once we get out of the harbour the wind gusts really make the boat jump forward. On top the groundswell (Dünung) causes considerable waves. I have not been sailing like that for many – MANY – years! Once out at sea the waves get more regular and smaller and we take course towards the island Les Chausey. This is a small French island south of the Channel Islands. Because of Covid we cannot go to the Channel Islands and on top there is no time.

Once we get into the channel and moor at a buoy for lunch the sun comes out. This is beautiful. We watch the water reclining and I find it amazing how fast this is happening. Within half an hour or so water and we with it have gone down about a metre. Once again out on open waters crew-member Sophie gets really sick. This isn’t a surprise for me with this groundswell and waves. It’s rather a surprise that I’m NOT sick. We take course to the small harbour of Saint-Cast-le-Guildo, past Mont Saint Michel in the far distance. There is a big three-masted ship sparkling for a moment when the sun finds its way through the clouds. It’s beautiful.

I am allowed to do the landing manoeuvre. We find out that four of the six Pen Duicks (Eric Tabarly’s boats) are in Saint-Cast-le-Guildo as Eric Tabarly would have turned 90 years this year.

From Saint-Cast-le-Guildo we take course along the Côte d’Emeraude to Saint-Quai-Portrieux. We see Cap Fréhel and its lighthouse and Fort de la Latte from afar. As we arrive rather early and its low tide we take a detour around some light beacons (Leuchtfeuer). Now, they are poised on little island. Once the tide comes in, they will be poles portruding from the water.

It’s full moon and nobody sleeps well during this night. When I go to the sanitary block at 4 in the morning I see that it’s low tide again (about 12 h later) and the piers leading down to the cat-ways are illuminated in blue. It looks beautiful.

When leaving in the morning I am allowed to put AVEL to sea and once out of the harbour I am again surprised at the dimensions of the waves! It doesn’t look much on the pics but once you are in that nutshell and thrown around to all sides, and spray wets you each time the one steering does not surf the wave in the right angle, well, then things look different, especially when sailing close-hauled (hart am Wind). Baaang, the boat comes down being lifted from a wave, and we are getting sprayed again.

Just before lunchtime we change course and sail into the Rade de Bréhat and around the eastern and southern shores of the island. For a moment the sea is calmer here as we are not as exposed to the wind here as much as on the open sea. The current pushes us gently forward, though and we almost surf on it – or the landscape is gliding past us. It’s extremely beautiful and we sit there with just the foresail hissed silent and in awe in view of this sheer beauty.

There are no cars allowed on Bréhat. The beaches, the stones seem to have a reddish tint. When we get to the foremost southern point of the island we have to veer the boat and that very moment the sea is not peace and beauty but beauty and lots of work, as we have to get along the western shore of Bréhat. We have to tack (aufkreuzen) several times. We moor up again at one of the buoys and – as it is Bréhat – doing so costs € 6.

It’s a short lunchtime before we hiss the sails again and sail out to open waters – and there it beats again, 26 knots and the swell is considerable. Another three to four hours beam reac (Halbwind) and close-hauled (am Wind) before we get to the entrance of the river Le Jaudy that will take us seven miles inland to the little twon of Tréguier. The current is rising now and shove us into the fjord. We have the main sheet up but the second reef.

With that current at aft (achtern) it’s truly not easy to get into the berth. Again and again I’m so astonished at the sheer force of nature when looking at the tides.

The current that takes us out of the fjord in the morning is not as strong as it was the day before. It’s rather cloudy and once out at sea the sea is rather calm. We have to steer broad reach (Raumschotkurs) which is not my favourite one as it can be tricky to sail it and avoid gybing (halsen). And gybing can be dangerous when the boom comes over uncontrolled. Yet, I notice that I’ve made progress and am much more aware of courses and sheets and anyhow anything on deck.

The landscape is beautiful again. This now is Brittany’s Côte de Granit Rose, and truly, the stone formations – most of which have names – are all reddish. We get to the small seaside town Trébeurden and have to moor at a buoy to wait until the water has risen as high as we can manoeuvre into the port. I set out for a short walk on the island ‘Île Milliau’ with its beautiful views on the port and on the sea.

This is our last day at sea. Again, the sun welcomes us. The wind has becalmed considerably. It’s for hours on end that we sail broad reach until we get the near Roscoff, our destination. But before we go into the harbour we sail around the nearby île of Batz. It’s a narrow channel between mainland and the island and it’s rather tricky to avoid all the rocks. The French call a single rock in their argot a “patate”, a “potato” and there are quite some potatoes around. Then we berth and tonight it is Denys who is serving Crêpes.

Friday morning, out at 9h again for a short sail into the Baie of Morlaix. Some sailing exercises, sunshine, patate, and ‘quickstop’. This is a technique to avoid collision when the one not having priority does not take any actions to avoid collision. It’s easy and very effective. Steer close-hauled, fall off and keep the wheel to windward as long as you want to. The foresail will alternately backwind while the main sheet will veer and gype alternately and thus you spin around again and again until you change the position of the blade. So, we practise this and then steer and berth in Roscoff for good.

After lunch, Guy, Didier and Sophie leave. Denys and me walk to the town of Roscoff as the marina is located somewhat outside town. It was here, where I arrived on the ferry from Cork in April 1989 when I came back from my 9 months stay in Ireland. But that was the old port, not where the ferry docks now. When I’m walking back to the marina I meet an Irish couple from Dublin. There was also a red haired girl waiting for the ferry and you can see that Roscoff is frequented by Irish and other English speaking people. You actually do hear a lot of English in the streets of this little Breton seaport.

Denys and me are tired of the long days at sea, exposed to sea, sun and wind and go to bed early. It’s a rather brisk night.

19 – 21 August 2021

Finistère (29), that’s the name of this „département“, the equivalent of Swiss cantons. Finis Terra, or Land’s End, and yes, this is the outmost bit of France.

I have two more days before I have to get back to Granville to join my sailing crew. It is a spontaneous decision to go to Penmarc’h and up the 300 or so steps of one of my favourite lighthouses. ‚Tour tan (Breton for ‚lighthouse‘) Eckmühl‘. Penmarc’h and anyhow Pay Bigouden in the region of Cornouaille (that’s the area around the beautiful town of Quimper) have always seemed to me „the end of the world“, but it only seems to be so. For, when you look at it from the top of the lighthouse you realise who inhabited Brittany is. Brittany is the most densly inhabited region of France, you wouldn’t think so because of it’s supposed wilderness.

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I have been here before, in 1985 for example, on my first trip to Brittany, then later with my Mom, that was in the late 80ties or early 90ties and again on my trip in 2000. Last time I was here was with my sons in 2015 or so. Still, I find the staircase just gorgeous the way it coils and resembles a fresly unfurling fern leaf and even though I have taken so many pics I add a few more to my collection. I like the way light changes within the tower when you look at the staircase from below, from different locations and heights when waling up in it.

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Having got rid of the herring I just relish the ‚Crêpe au Chevre Chaud et Pommes‘, and the ‚Crêpe au beurre avec une boule de glace vanille‘ in the nearby Crêperie du Phare. Then I take the road to a campsite which I have been on once before in 2000. It was – to stay with the topic – called Camping de la Crêpe, but now it is Camping de Lanven (after the hamlet’s name) and I don’t feel inclined to take a pitch when I hear the loud music from a youngster’s summer camp.

Instead I go down to the wonderful beach ‚Plage de la Torche‚. This is one of France’s finest sufers‘ spots. I have been here before, too, and sit for more than an hour in the sun, thinking about my past, because this place reminds me of my beloved ‚Grande Plage‘ on the Island of Oléron and my many stays there with my kids and sometimes with my mother. In a sudden surge of motherly feelings I text my older son how grateful I am that I have the two of them and that we had these times together. I think, it’s for the first time that I feel a little homesick – so I decide to leave.

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It isn’t the best idea to call and reserve a pitch on the Campsite de la Mer near Ploeven. There is nothing, really nothing special about it. I thought it was one that I had also been on during my 2000 trip. That one, I remembered, was situated on top of a cliff overlooking the beach and the sea. This one is located some hundred meters away from the sea, no view. And – lots of Germans. This is something I had already noticed at the Eckmühl lighthouse. Finistère is frequented by Germans at the moment.

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I have dinner, sleep and leave. Just a few kms further down the road I stop my van right at the seafront at ‚Plage de Lestrevet‚ and have an extended breakfast, i.e. I also have to do some online work to do for my boys. It is far nicer here. Some locals come up to my van and start a conversation. Nobody seems to be bother about people doing pick-nick pulled up at the side of the road.

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Then I slowly drive on along the coast to La Pointe de Penhir. There are a lot of cars going in the same direction. La Pointe de Penhir is situated right next to the lovely town of Camaret and its Tour Vauban. On top, there are some prehistoric ‚alignements‘ and some bunkers from the WWII. So, lots to see. Again, I have been here before. But I like the place very much, as we ankered just in the bay below and even sailed through Le Tas de Pois, the ‚heap of peas‘, several times, e.g. last August.

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When I come back to my van a woman approached me: „Hi, we’ve met before.“ I don’t recognise her at once, „on the bridge at Saint Malo.“ True, she was the one who was also taking pictures when we had to stop at the lock (Schleuse). „I recognised your car!“ Ah, well true. There isn’t a second ‚Avel Mor‘. We start talking about our itineries, our vehicles and I hve just explained that I’m travelling on my own and I haven’t met any other single campers so far when a passing man puts in that he is actually also travelling alone. Reinhard, Sandra and me have a long chat. I learn that there is an app „france passion“ that shows lots of place to stay overnight on farms and wineyards and so on for free, once you’ve paid the annual fee of €30. Great! You see, most of the time it is rewarding when you start talking to other campers!

It’s just an hour’s drive or so to get around the bay over the beautiful bridge of Térénez to Brest and the marina of ‚Moulin Blanc‚.

I find a great parking space for my van, which is utmost important here. Still, I go back to the marina and explain my case. I will take the train to Granville the next day to sail back from there all along the north coast of ‚La côte émeraude and la côte de granit rose‘ to Brest. So, my van is going to be parked in Brest for two weeks and another few days, as I have to travel back to Switzerland because of my older son’s 18th birthday. And what do they do, those nice Bretons? They allow me to park my van within the marina’s reserved parking area just opposite the Océanopolis – for free! (For those who love reading the detective Dupin series: Océanopolis is where Dupin contemplates on his favourite animals, the penguins, at the beginning of volume three ‚Gold of Brittany‘. The ‚gold‘ of Brittany is the salt grown and harvested in the many salt pans further south around the medival town of Guérande and the fishing hamlet Le Crosic.) I even get the code to the sanitary buildings for 24 hours. Spendid!

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I have been here before! At least five times. I like the place a lot, even though Brest has been badly destroyed during the second world war because of its submarine harbour. The submarine harbour is still there. The area around the port has changed a lot. Instead of port buildings there is the Océanopolis, kind of a zoo but dedicated to the sea and its creatures. I have not visited it yet, but I really want to pay Océanopolis a visit soon.

So, there I am and repack my luggage because I have to take certain things with me of course, but also want to put the e-bike into the van for the fortnight that it will be standing here. I meet Luc, or rather get attracted by Rinka, his dog. I don’t really like dogs but Rinka seems to be a bordercollie and I like bordercollies. The special thing about Rinka is her not only black and white fur. Her fur is rather greyish with some brown in her face and around her black ears. I have not seen a dog alike. Luc explains to me that there is probably some Austalian shepherd in her as well – that makes sense!

Luc is 63 and lives partly on his boat and partly in his big camping car just standing on in front of his boat. We chat for quite some time and get bitten by mosquitoes (my first real mosquito attact on my trip!) before I finally go to bed and sleep rather well.

After packing my luggage I take a taxi to the station. The train is on time.

French people like having picknicks, I know. But I did not reckoned on the intensitiy of this addiction. A family is sitting opposite of me. At noon they unpack plastic plates and cups. Roast chicken breast with salad is being served and this rather copious meal seems to be the most normal thing for this family. It’s amazing. Instead of having a simple sandwhich these people put a lot of effort into having a picknick on a train.

Once in Granville there is no taxi that I could take. Neither does any of the three taxi companies take up the phone as I try to phone them. Someone tells me there is a bus. There is – for free! I find my sailing boat AVEL (Breton for ‚wind‘) and its owner and skipper Denys.

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16 – 18 August 2021

Le département Morbihan (56) s’appelle après le Golf de Morbihan. En Breton, ‘mor’ c’est ‚mer‘ et ‘bihan’ veut dire ‚petit‘. Le Golf de Morbihan c’est le petit mer, presque entouré par de terre sauf d’une petite passage. Il y des iles, comme l‘Ile de Moine. Je veux partir à Lorient, L’Orient, oui, c’était ici ou les garnde bateaux sont arrivés dans les siècles passés de L’Orient. La Companie des Indes a emporté des herbes et d’épices de pays orientales. Il y a un musée sur la Companie des Indes, et une aussi sur Eric Tabarly, le fameux voilier français. D’après lui Lorient s’appelle aussi ‘Cité de Voile’. Comme j’ai fait aussi la voile, ce musée est bien pour moi.

Well, I can pretty much make myself understood in French, but writing it, is a different story. So, maybe I stay with English!

Before I head down to the South Coast of Brittany, I want to see a place called Erquy. I don’t know why, but I have always wanted to go there. First, I call „Le camping municipal“ at Port-Louis and book a pitch for three nights – this turns out to be a wise decision as the place will be fully booked when I arrive later.

To go to Erquy I actually have to drive over „La Rance“. And there is a hold up because the bridge goes up to let some sailing boats into and through the lock. This time I am really ravished about this hold up, as this allows me to get out of the car and take ample pictures of the tidial power station and the view back to Saint Malo. I am not alone. There are a few people, mostly tourists, taking pictures, one among them is a blond German woman. We are laughing at our chance and each other!

Just before Erquy, there is another of these gorgeous Breton beaches, Anse de Croc is one of these. Erquy itself I find rather disappointing. The strong wind has made some people going foiling in the extended harbour. I’m having a sandwhich while watching them. I wish I would be young again and could take that challenge.

My challenge today is to drive straight through Brittany to the South Coast to Port-Louis. That’s actually not a big deal and I make it in less than 2 hours.

The campsite has only got 42 pitches. ‚Municipal‘ are alwas simple, but there’s everything you need, clean bathrooms, electricity, close to the town centre and the beach and it costs me – 42 Euros for 3 nights! This has been the cheapest campsite I have been on ever since I left home, maybe the cheapest ever!

I am among locals. This is real France now, „oui“, „oui“, „mais oui!“ „mais non!“ And every middle-aged couple in a mobilhome has got at least one of these f…. barking dogs! The smaller the louder. I really hate Yorkshire Terriers. I also have to listen to extended discussions on about I don’t know what „mais oui“, „mai non“. My pitch is close to the service house and the playground. So I have to listen to further extended discussions when papi and papa are doing the washing up and children teasing, arguing, bullying. But well, this is France and I am among French people now. I think I am about the only foreigner.

But why, why for heaven’s sake do people buy these huge mobilhomes when they are not able to handle them? Already on the campsite Les Chevrets an about 10 metres long vehicle was driving around the campsite looking for a suitable pitch. Well, there is none for such size!

After my stay in Scandinavia I find it rather crowded here in France, even though it is certainly not as croweded as central Switzerland. It’s peak holiday time on top, so I am happy that, with some foresigh, everything works out so well.

The day says goodbye with a nice sunset – in the morning it is drizzling, though. It is this very fine drizzle that is so typical of Brittany. The raintrops are so small, you don’t know whether it’s actually raining or whether it is just fog. Nevertheless, I take my electric bike and drive along the coastline. I want to see some of the villages along the river Blavet. From Port-Louis I cycle to Riantec, Locmiquélic, where I, just for fun, go to a DIY shopping centre. I love ‚bricolage‘, and I’d like to find out what kind of range of things French DIY centres have. It’s actually pretty impressive and I buy three ceramic drawer knobs.

I’m really fond of doing this kind of thing: Going to ordinary shopping centres or other completely ordinary places. I think, it tells you so much about a country, much more than all those pictoresque villages and places.

The „bateau bus“ takes me to central Lorient. The ride only costs € 1.50 The bike is for free. It’s a very convenient way of getting around and over the Blavet river. I am surprised what a lively town Lorient is. The town was almost completely destroyed during the second World War. So, there are no old half-timbered houses or so. Yet, there is a really uplifted atmosphere that ordinary afternoon. Lots of restaurants, cafés, shops, pubs, pedestrian areas and an organic market on the main square in front of the theatre, where people actually even bring their paper bags to get refilled with vegetables and fruit. The only downside to this city might be the beggers who are demanding a bit too aggressively for my taste and – the still foggy weather!

It is extremely easy to get around by bike. There are bike lanes on town streets and you are allowed to cycle in the pedestrain areas. I really like it! I decide to continue my afternoon ride and cycle out to the sea resort village on the other side of the Blavet river. I – of course – lose my way and my battery is running low. Well, that’s an issue. Have you ever ridden an electric bike without electric support? That’s harder by far than riding an ordinary bike. So, I change my plans and take the most direct road to Lamor-Plage.

There, I finally have my gorgeous „gauffre“, waffle with one „boule de glace croquantine“. I sit at the beach facing Port-Louis, trying to imagine what it would be like living here. Then I cycle back to the Marina de Kerneval, from where I take again the ‚bateau bus‘ back to Port-Louis.

The captain helps me with my bike and asks me where I was from. Switzerland. „Il me resemble qu’il y avait un accent sous la masque …“. And then he tells me that his mother came from Le Canton de Jura, and his father from the French Jura side. People are extremely friendly here, helpful, patient, open-minded – most of them.

Back in Port-Louis I have a quick dinner – my last Danish potatoes with my still Swedish herreng – and then I head back to the village. There is a vivid market going on in the few streets of the town and I am really surprised about how many people there are walking up and down the rows of stalls. The ambiance is nice, friendly, French. I buy some spices from a woman who seems not to sell much and start talking to her.

Later, when I am lying on my upper bedsted in my van, looking out of the ‚window‘, seeing the flashlight of Lorient harbour entrance, I am pretty happy.

I have never noticed before that seagulls can make such bugging noise. So far, their cries have always made me remember my ever so beloved sea. When they start their conversations at 4h30 in the morning, I think that’s a bit too much! Well, I am near the seaside and that’s where seagulls live.

It is still ‚foggy‘. So, I take my time in the morning and do not feel really inclined to get onto the bike and explore. Still, I’d like to go to the Eric Tabarly Museum. This is a museum about sailing and I have to say, once again, this is one of those French interactive museums that I really love. I once had asked someone in a museum here in France how it came that there were always so nice activities for children. The answer was so convincing: „Adults do not come to museums because their children feel bored. So, we decided that, in order to get adults back to visit museums, we need to do things for children. And we did.“

The museum is crowded! Even in covid times. The activities are really nice: Hissing sails, deciding what course to take, reading maritime maps etc. etc. Eric Taberly, by the way, is a famous French sailor, who won lot’s of races, one by a lead of 11 days. He was also involved in developping and improving sailing boats. His boats Pen Duick (I too VI) are famous. He died actually in a sailing accident, which is a bit surprising for such an experienced sailor. He went over board in a stormy night off the Cornish north coast when he and his crew tried to reduce the amount of sail when a loose sail hit him and washed him overboard. Obviously he wasn’t attached to a life-line. The old sailor saying says: „One hand for the man, one hand for the boat.“ And if you need more hands you need a life-line!

Once again I take the ‚bateau bus‘ to get back to Port-Louis and there is a second boat and I spot the „Jura-Captain“. I’m waving and he obviously recognises me and waves back! It could get cosily familiar here, I suppose …

This is true for the butcher, as well. I usually love fish and herreng, but enough is enough. I had enough of Swedish herreng. „I need something else“, my body tells me it longs for something else. So, I rush into the butcher’s shop and buy an oriental-style sausage, two sorts of potatoe salad and a seed salad with cranberries, which turns out to be rather nice. Once again the young butcher is so kind, chatting along with me about Port-Louis and having a look at his rather big range of choice I suppose that there must be a lot of customers, indeed.

11 – 15 August

I stayed in Britanny’s capital for a day only. It was easy to cycle to the city from the campsite situated in a spacious park at the rim of Rennes. The disappointing thing of my visit was that many buildings were being renovated, so they were scaffolded. I could not even get into the cathedral! Maybe this was due to the corona situation, supposingly less tourists (yet there were many) and on top many shops were closed and announced they were to reopen „à la rentrée“, so that means when tuition starts again after the long summer period, which is in the first week of September.

I still liked walking through the steets of Rennes with its famous half-timbered multi-storey houses. I was a bit taken aback when restaurants would not want to serve me at 14h03 (jusqu’à deux heures) pile! Yet, I managed to get a salmon pie and a choclate cake at a bakery that served two small tables in the street. When I was sitting there eating my lunch the huge gate opposite opened up and a troop of six heavily armed soldiers marched out. I was dumbfound. One of the soldiers was a woman and she smiled at me when I starred at the troop marching past me and one of the men even said: „Bon appetit!“ What was going on here? Was there a bomb alarm? – But there was no hectic. „This has become routine,“ someone explained to me, „ever since the attacks in Paris.“

After my stroll around Rennes I drove back to my campsite. The route wasn’t very well signposted. It’s pretty obvious that French authorities try to improve things for cyclists but have not really succeeded yet. And by the way, it might look nice and might not be an issue for pedestrians, but for cyclists the cobble stones in mediaval cities are a torture.

At the campsites the rabbit-scampers were there again. So cute. I had the rest of yesterday’s dinner and noticed a single woman sitting all alone in front of her van. The first single traveller I have met! I approached her. She was a bit older than me and was there for a few days, because her husband didn’t like travelling. Now she visited some places on her own, went to expeditions and so on. She was from Niort, which I actually know. It’s not far from La Rochelle. So my first single-traveller encounter on my trip! After almost 6000 kms!

I was lucky enough to find a pitch on a campsite near the sea on the north coast – La Côte Emeraude – just between Saint Malo and Cancale. I was in Saint Malo once in 1985 (!!) on my very first visit to Brittany and then passed by in 2015 or a year later, together with my kids and they didn’t want to see „culture“, „nice old towns“ let alone „museums“. So we had only quickly stopped at „La Rance„, Europe’s biggest tidal power station, I suppose, with a water level difference of up to 12 metres at highest spring tide.

Also adjacent Dinard with its old Edwardian villas is very beautiful. It really looks like one of these old „English“ 19th century seaside resorts with bathing huts and promenades. And there is a sea-water pool. A lot of these villas seem deserted, though. Probably too expensive to maintain. One was made open to the public, though. On top there was a foto exhibition. I spent some wonderful moments there with splendid views on the sea. And there you can see why this coastline is called „La Côte Emeraude“ (Smaragdküste).

I had taken the ‚bateau bus‘ from Saint Malo to Dinard and when I came back to the pier low tide made walk about 400 metres to a completely different spot to where I had landed three hours before. There were still sea water puddles on the pier. Amazing!

I stayed four nights at Camping Les Chevrets as I had found a wonderful small pitch overlooking the campsite and with a bit of a view of the sea between the pines. I was even able to put up the hammock, even though I had not much time to relax in it. There was direct access to the beautiful dunes and beach. I went there to play guitar in the evening.

On Saturday I went on an excursion to „La Pointe du Grouin“ with its lighthouse „Pierre Herdin“ in front of it.

Then I drove to Cancale. I was afraid of not finding a parking space, but easily found one. I strolled through the little town and wondered where all the tourists might be, because Cancale is know for its oysters. Only later I realised that there is upt-town with church, some shops and there is down-twon at the seafront with the port La Houle and all the restaurants serving oysters. And there it was crowded with tourists. I found a small path up the rocky side of the cliff to get back to my parking slot and left.

My next destination was Granville in Normandy where I wanted to meet Denys, my skipper, and hand him over my sailing gear so I would not have to take it with me on the train that I would take once I had parked my van at Brest Marina Mouin Blanc. It took me more time to get to Granville than expected, as there were many people leaving their holiday destination and there were hold ups on the motorway. It seemed endless and then was not able to located Granville marina on my GPS, but finally found it and even a parking space. Uggh! I called Denys and it was a very warm and welcoming reencounter on the pier.

On the way back I quickly stopped at Huisne-sur-Mer (it’s very close to Le Mont Saint Michel) where there is the German „Soldatenfriedhof“. One of these impressive memorials that should remind us never to take up arms against each others again, that make me also think about and be thankful that we have the European Union, which, in my view, is much more a construct for peace than for economical welfare and progress. My uncle, I have never met him, blindfolded by larksome youth and patriotic promises, had joined the SS at a tender age of only just eighteen. He had actually survived D-Day, but then a few weeks later, he tramped onto a landmine and that was it then.

It is strange – my ever so stupid uncle, who had served such a stupid case, will have his gravesite here for many, many years to come, while my father, my mum or her parents‘ graveyards will be removed or have already been removed. But yes, this is a memorial of the cruel brutal stupidity of greed of power, unbridled egomania and sheer horror. Made me think.

Far faster than expected my four nights at Les Chevrets are over and I have to leave again. On my last day I hike around „La Pointe du Meinga“. I had wanted to take the bus to la Pointe du Grouin again and walk back to the campsite, a supposingly three-hours walk on „le chemin de douaniers“, which goes around most of France’s coast like its counterpart in southern England, the West Coast Path in Devon and Cornwall. But it is already getting late afernoon, so I decide to only go for „La Pointe du Meinga“ instead, and am surprised how often it goes up and down. The one-hour walk brings me 26 storeys and more than 11’000 steps on my health app.

There is a bit of rain in the night and the morning starts with lots of wind! I’m loving it. Beach is empty.

9 – 10 August 2021

And so I did. It was drizzling when I packed up, filled up the tank, checked the pressure in the tyres as I always try to do before a long journey, and off I went. Sometimes the sun broke through the thick rain clouds for a moment and let me hesitate, doubt whether I was doing the right thing but the next moment it started to heavily rain again and I drove on. My friend Ruth had told me this morning: „Mut zur Lücke!“ So, I did not turn to Lynvig Lighthouse nor to Römö Beach but got closer and closer to the German border. End of „no mask“ was getting closer, too. I wondered how the Germans would welcome me. Would there be a tent set up like when entering Danmark? How strict would the Covid check be? Germany had announced at the beginnng of the week that noone not vaccinated, tested or recovered would be allowed to enter Germany, not even Germans!

There was the panel with the sign of the European Community, the blue one with the stars, at the side of the road. And another in Danish: Forbundesrepublikken Tyskland. And a few hundred meters later there was a sign: „Reiserückkehrer, bitte testen lassen.“ That was it. I was in Germany.

Yes, I was! First stop, don’t forget the mask. Aha, I have to pay for the toilet. The toilet is clean, but I have to pay. Neither in Danmark nor Sweden did I ever have to pay to go to a public toilet – and they were always well maintained and there was always ample paper, nonetheless.

There was this huge Viking-looking Norwegian on his even „huger“ (comparative of „huge“ does not exist!) Harley. All black. Even the mask. Hardly did the mask cover his mouth, so huge …

Right, back on the road, heading towards Hamburg. This time not early in the morning, but just before midday. Hold up! Three lanes before Elbtunnel, huuuuuge building site. Stop and go.

After Hamburg it was a bit better, off to Bremen. Between Bremen and Osnabrück – around 120 km, 80% of it building site, 20% normal motorway. You were supposed to be allowed to drive 80km/h on the speed reduced lanes alongside the building sites, but it was actually only possible to do 40, 50kmh at the utmost. Pain in the ass – took me aaaages! OMG! Central Europe is so crowded, it is far too crowded, there are far too many cars, there are far too many people, Deutscher Wirtschaftsmotor, tok tok tok … and have a look at a map – there are sooooo many roads in Germany compared to Danmark let alone Sweden, so many, so crowded – I W A N T TO GO B A C K !

Finally, past Osnabrück, now Ruhrgebiet. OMG, there are sooooo many motorways, GPS leads me somewhere, I don’t know where, just follow. It’s getting dark. I have to decide, do I stop NOW and look fo a campsite or do I drive on? Then I have to get through that melting pot. It starts pouring, dark, very dark, thunderstorm – ok, not appropriate to find a campsite. I drive on.

Suddenly it comes to my mind that I have no „Umwelt-Plaquette“. Even though my new car’s fumes are ok for the green „Umwelt-Plaquette“ and even though I have a foreign plate I need to have one, I know. Where do I get one at this time? I stop at a big petrol station. At a „master-garage“ whatever that is, is the answer. All closed now, it’s 18h10. Ok, storm, rain, darkness, evening – best conditions to get unnoticed through the Ruhrpot. I drive on.

Ratingen – that name recalls memories. My aunt now living in Italy used to have a (nice) house there. Wuppertal – my grandmother (father’s mother) used to live there and when we visited „Omi and Opi“ in Kettiwg (Essen – another one!), we used to visit her as well in Wuppertal-Ronsdorf. So it was „Omi Kettwig“ (Mum’s) and „Omi Ronsdorf“ (Dad’s).

It’s getting darker. I have to slow down. The road is not only wet but partly flooded. It’s anything but inviting, here. Marl – a friend of my father used to live there. Probably dead, all these old folks now. For a second I wonder whether I should actually get off the motorway and drive to Kettwig and have one more, probably for the last time in my life, look at my grandparent’s grave. I had ADORED my grandfather. He was the best grandfather I can imagine and died far too young. I know, the gravesite’s still there but it won’t be for long. My granddad died in 1978, my grandmother in 1984 (!!) and she had paid for 30 year’s maintenance for the gravesite, plus there was kind of an interest concept. So, there might be a few more years. Well, there were already some more years when my cousin Nils, me and my other aunt went there in April 2019.

And so I started thinking about my other aunt’s house in Langenfeld and how the neighbours from Croatia had actually made her sign over the house and everything to them – and Nils and me lost not only Euro 150’000 each but also part of our family history that had been IN the house. – The rain got even heavier now, as if it had read my thoughts. No, no, no. Next. Düsseldorf – where my mum was born. A silver lining seemed to get visible on the horizon towards the west. Let’s go for it.

Some time ago my phone had peeped and at a red light just turning out of Düsseldorf I read Ruth’s message: „Schon in Ratingen! Ist es nicht langsam Zeit einen Rastplatz zu suchen?“ Right you are. But first I have to get out of this.

It wasn’t for long anymore and I spotted a farm on the park4night app. Ekrelenz was the name of the place. Never heard before. I arrived just before 20h, exhausted, 750 kms done, had done the 4444.4 km of my trip today and the farmer was talking to me on end, who and how and when there had been people staying overnight, and that I could use the „Reiterstube“ but he unfortunately had to lock it (in the middle of nowhere? and he suggested that I was safe here?) and that I could use the farm’s toilet but he had to lock that too, because of the (barking!!!!) dog and anyhow, because of safety (sic)! I gave him the 8 Euros demanded and went to sleep. When I got out of my car at dawn dazzling floodlights turned on and illumated the whole court. I did not think twice and left.

Mist was lingering once again on the still moist fields and gave the landscape a look of late summer – or early autumn? The villages, all in red brick, seemed deserted. There were a lot of cars, almost one parked in front of each house. So, there had to be people that owned those cars, that actually lived in these houses. But the atmosphere was the same as the evening before – depressive. Noone around, no shops or restaurants, no people, no life.

I somehow was glad to be on the noisy motorway again. And there it was, another European Community panel welcoming me just after a 10 minutes drive to The Nederlands! I stopped at the next petrol station and had a quick morning toilet and a huge Latte Macchiato, plus an apple pie! NO MASKS! Toilet not for free, but clean and paper. Unfortunately I only had to drive for about 30 more minutes and then I left Maastrich and Holland and unmistakenly entered – Belgium.

There are two things that make you recognise Belgium at once: One – all motorways are illuminated, so there are lampost between the two and two of the four lanes every 20 meters or so. Two – in order to spend all the money on lampposts and electricity to illuminate motorways the Belges probably have to save money on tarmarc, as I have not seen similarly bad motorways in Europe (well, maybe the Strada del Stato Aurelia from Livorno to Grosseto). These motorways consist of potholes. And it took me about 2 hours and a minimum of 2 more coffees to get through Belgium before I entered France and „Le Grand Est“. Still bad roads. Then the motorway – now it was going to cost me for the first time on my trip.

Resumée of motorways:

Switzerland: annual vignette Fr. 40, fair enough for all the tunnels and bridges, rather good tarmarc, but lots of building sites that slow you continously down.

Germany: Fine in some place, horrible and long building sites in others, frequent, very frequent hold ups – there is just too much traffic. At least for free.

Danmark: Free as well, not as well tarmarced as in Germany, but generally very good. There are a lot of motorways where speed limit is at 110km/h which I find very pleasing and traffic-easing. And – on most Danish motorways lorries are inhibited to overtake! Graceful Danes! How ingenious is this!!!!!! It makes driving so much safer and so much more pleasant. There is the lorry corridor on the far right, and there are one or two lanes for other cars. It works perfectly well. Why, for heaven’s sake, Swiss, Italian, French, let alone German authorities do not copy this system. Well, do not deplore any dead people on the road, my dear authorities, unless you stop this complete nonsense of a lorry driving at 91kmh (where 80kmh are allowed) being allowed to overtake one that is driving at 87kmh – and after having slowed down the rest of the traffic for about 5km they both pull up at the next petrol station to have a chat and a coffee!!!!! – And in Germany, on top, there is no speed limit in many places so that cars coming up behind you have to slow down from maybe 160 km/h to these lorry-like 91km/h when that bloody lorry pulls out. This is sooo dangerous and makes traffic nervous, streneous, an ordeal and nightmare, as people who drive at „normal“ speed between 110 to 130 km/h constantly have to change lanes to avoid stupid overtaking lorry drivers and speeding maniacs.

Sweden: Almost all motorways (apart from the ones around Stockholm) have only one lane, partially two lanes, so that at regular intervals you can overtake slow vehicles. The general speed limit is 110km/h. There is a fence all along the road between the two lanes, so you cannot be tempted to overtake when there is only one lane in each direction. And there are also a lot of speed-controls. Swedes do it properly and sensibly! As Danes too.

France: Good motorways when you have to pay, often three lanes each way. Immaculate tarmarc. Yet, it is enervating when you have to stop every few kms to get a ticket or pay the toll – especially when you’ve got one of those nitwits in front of you who either does not have enough coins or does not know how to handle the credit card or stops in a way so that he does not reach the slot where the credit card is supposed to slips in (and out in seconds when you do it correctly). Then you wait in the row and after a seeming eternity you put in the reverse gear and try another lane. I have made it a habit to get behind lorries at those péage stations – do you know why? Because a lorry takes up the space of about three cars but only pays once – and lorry drivers probably know how to handle these machines, so – no hold up. Think smart.

You do not have to pay for motorways in Brittany – anything past Nantes in the south or le Pont de Normandie that goes over the Seine river in the north is free. Britons are a free people, have always been since Asterix and Obelix! No pay. Still pretty good roads.

Change of plan – I drive to Rennes first. When I arrive at the nice campsite I am exhausted: 1550 kms and five countries in two days. France is crowded too, yet, it feels familiar here. Have done my 5555.5 kms today.

Ever since I had left in the morning it had almost not rained anymore and the sun had ever so often peeped through the clouds. There was one showery episode in Normandie, but once I got to the Pont de Normandie also that had vanished. Brittany has welcomed me with splendid weather up to now!

La Bretagne m’avait salué avec de très beau temps! Elle est belle, la Bretagne, très belle! A suivre!