A small break, with consequences

I have to be careful. When I moan audibly about the difficulties of my present life those nearest to me try to cheer me up with solutions. Recently I stared mournfully at a half-empty glass of beer and reflected that I’d already visited France for the last time. And France (with its conversations) is an essential constituent of my life blood.

Days later I received an email from daughter, Occasional Speeder, saying she’d booked three days at Fécamp in northern France, on the Channel coast, for the two of us and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. 

Can you guess my response? 

So there we were, sitting in the Skoda, in a train presently stationary at Folkestone in Kent, waiting to travel – undersea for 35 minutes – to Calais. The hell with travelling by ferry which takes a couple of hours, what with all the driving on and driving off. Getting on to the train is like entering a continuous metal tube. Easy-peasy. Time for me shave in situ given I’ve never got on with beards.

Neither of us had ever visited Fécamp before and, I must confess, initially it was something of a downer. Elderly and industrial sums it up. And our small terrace (US: row) house was in a narrow back street. Cheap though. However, a quick walk changed my mind.

Fécamp is a working town, mainly trawler fishing, reminding me that what I hate are places that have become RESORTS, a term of abuse for me. Both residents and visitors behave less naturally in resorts. While Fécamp’s restaurants displayed themselves less tartishly.

Still Fécamp. What you see is my grilled sole, arguably the best flat fish in the world. Bloody marvellous and half the price it would have been in a resort. Served me by an utterly lustrous black waitress. Occasional Speeder eventually went inside to pay and when the till worker saw the note I’d specified as tip she beckoned the waitress over. And the waitress was embarrassingly grateful. But for me the emotions were even more pronounced. I was in France and now happier.

We drove up the coast and stopped to visit a war cemetery at St Valéry-en-Caux. This area is fairly near where it all happened on June 6 1944 and, inevitably, there are lots of war cemeteries. This one was Franco-British but it could easily have been Franco-US. And here it behoves me to make a point. The French have never forgotten to be grateful towards what we used to call the Allies and how they rescued France with the invasion. This was a smallish cemetery, enhanced by being on a slope. Flower beds recently trimmed, some tombstones which hadn’t stood the passage of time (France was very poor then) had been replaced. Beautiful and tranquil.

So we progressed up the coast towards a geological reminder. Once the isles of the UK were joined to what is now the French mainland. And there’s proof. You may have heard of the white cliffs of Dover (Vera Lynn sings the song); well here are their continuations in France and I stood to marvel.

Did I say the French still remember? There were flags waving over an area close to the shore and deliberately left bare. Over seventy years ago a US Flying Fortress crashed there and a huge plaque lists in detail everyone who died.

Too morbid? I can't apologise.

Heard of absinth? A near-toxic liqueur that killed the painter Toulouse-Lautrec and - the waiter assured me - wrecked Van Gogh. I have heard it's making a comeback. Had to be with the flood and courageously ordered two centilitres. Remarkably like Pernod. And, as far as I can tell, I'm still alive.

Something more personal. We went southish, crossing the wonderful Pont du Normandie.I wantyed to point out its glories and turned to the car's rear seat where VR usually sits, inviting discussion. But of course VR wasn't there and - being unable to travel - was, no doubt, reflecting unhappily in her Hereford nursing home. I visit her almost daily but, yesterday, I remained silent about the visit to France with OS. My needs having been granted but at a price.

Finally: A noticeboard lists the maximum purchases at a drinks emporium near, I think, Honfleur: 10 litres of alcoholic and “spirituous” drinks; 20 litres of “intermediate” drinks (port, vermouth, madeira, etc), 90 litres of wine, 100 litres beer.”

Yeah, about right for an average party of ten. That’s chaps, of course.