�le d� R�
12:12 p.m. -- 2009-06-11
Day two of the holiday, and we finally crossed over to the �le d� R�. Until a few years ago, this had to be done by car ferry, and at popular times it could take several hours. Now, there's a bridge... and it took several hours.
The whole thing was very Gallic. For miles, it's been clearly signposted that you have to be in a certain lane for the bridge. But hey - why wait your turn when you can cruise past everybody, and then push in at the last possible moment? (Which knackers things for all the people going to other destinations, since the 'non-bridge' lane is now choked with people trying to force their way in... but that's okay because people in other cars are not me. The French are not very big on empathy, I'm afraid.
This process of pushing in was complicated by there also being a stream (or should I say, a crawl) of traffic joining from an on-ramp. So you take pity on one of these new arrivals (who hasn't just driven past three kilometres of queuing cars), and let them join the road... only to have some snail-munching bastard from the other lane make a grab for the space. The sinner and the new arrival then fight it out, in a tense battle where they try to pretend they haven't seen each other, and studiously ignore the other vehicle while advancing millimetre-close in a war of nerves.
I can only thank God they weren't Italians, or we'd have done the whole thing to the accompaniment of a cacophony of horns.
The other very French thing about the bridge to the �le d� R� was that only a couple of toll booths were actually manned. Because it's the weekend, no doubt. Never mind that this is the busiest time; the French have never embraced the idea that a service should be provided in a manner that suits the convenience of the customer. Don't get me wrong; I enjoy the French, and their wacky ways. A holiday should always be about seeing things that are different from where you live. And if it makes you feel a sense of relief when you get home... so much the better! To spend one week a year in a country where sandwich shops close at lunchtime (for two and a half hours) is a lot easier than living there full-time.
So France is a basket-case... but it's a pretty basket case.
Time for some random photoness... so much easier than proper blogging!
Poppy fields in France always fill me with melancholy, due to their First World War associations... but it was peaceful and beautiful. And this little piece of France hasn't been fought over since the 1600s.
This is St Martin d� R� (our destination), as seen from the bell tower of a half-derelict church. Our hotel is down there, somewhere. Since I am not a travel writer (and also because I'm trying to remain anonymous) I will not provide a specific endorsement of our hotel. Instead, I shall fictionalise its name. Hmm... this'll do:
Auberge le Petit Camembert.
If it seems weird and paranoid to refuse to pass on even this most tangential piece of information concerning myself and my travel plans, I should explain that my blog's been getting a regular, silent visitor from East Grinstead... home of Sta�n Hill Manor, $ci�nto�og�'s UK headquarters [*].
St Martin has an intricate set of city walls, all organised with exquisite geometry that would have allowed the defenders to shoot at you from all kinds of different angles. The walls are in very good condition, and offer a perfect cycle track. We hired bikes two days running.
Exploring the perimeter in this way, I found them! The donkeys in pyjamas!
Aren't they stylish? Hell, they were better dressed than I was, some days. I felt a bit self-conscious at times, since we were staying in a very posh hotel. Not really my natural environment; I need flunkies like a donkey needs pyjamas.
Fortunately, the donkeys get plenty of time off, turned loose in the 'moat' type spaces that form a part of the fortifications. Fortifications that still have their uses today; that's a prison in the background...
(Who'd have thought there were so many bad people on the �le d� R�?)
At nearby La Flotte, we attended market day...
I liked the spices stall, but if you're looking for something more characteristically French...
I call this a freakish gathering of snails; a Frenchman would probably call it 'lunch'. I was delighted to learn that the collective noun for snails is actually an escargatoire. In English, I mean. You might think it's a load of molluscs, but it's true.
Let's just get through the last of these photos, shall we? You've suffered enough. Here's some wheat I found: just right for pretending you're Maximus Decimus Meridius (Russel Crowe), on his way to the afterlife in 'Gladiator'...
Gratuitious arty shot looking over towards the mainland...
And finally, a sneak peek at Citr�en's new people-carrier...
That's all for now, folks. Thanks for reading. (Yes, even you, East Grinstead.)
* Quick message for cultists: Hello, OSA... greetings from the outside world. The end condition at OT8 is "You mocked up your own past lives." There are no superpowers; you got scammed. But hey, have a nice life. And when you decide to blow... I'll see you at www.exscn.net
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