La France! Briançon to Roscoff.

Last week I posted a short blog. Today it’s a bumper version. It’s varied – I hope you enjoy it.

The Alps. 

There’s a motorway from Turin through the Alps, including an extremely long tunnel. It’ll set you down near Briançon. 

The tunnel is pricey at €70 in a van. 

It wasn’t the cost that put us off. 

It was the idea of driving through the Alps on a near straight road. 

How boring would that be?

Instead the truly wonderful SS24 climbed to 1850m passing the most sinister castle – the Forte di Exilles, before crossing the border into France and soon after the forts of  Briançon hoved into view.

 

The Forte di Exilles regularly passed between French and Italian ownership until Napoleon conquered what is now Italy. He demolished the existing structure and had the current beast built in the 1820s. It’s possibly the most foreboding castle we’ve seen. 

Scary castle aside, there are snowy Alps all around. Seriously cold. It’s utterly beautiful. A few Alpine restaurants on the Italian side have the most fancy cars outside. Fiat Panada for daily use. Maserati for going to the restaurant at the weekend. 

Briançon.

There’s van parking right under the walls of the Vauban Fort in Briançon. Once I’d circumvented the near impenetrable parking meter I could admit how knackered 132 Alpine miles in four hours had left me. I fell asleep before considering exploration. 

Vauban.

From his pictures online Vauban was quite the dandy, but also a genius of military design. Of his many projects around France, Briançon must be the most complex. 12 sites make up the fortress that defends the five valleys overlooked by the town. 

The Wanderers sat enjoying fine beer and contemplating the walls before us and wondering whether such purely manual construction would be possible today, anywhere, let alone 1350m up a mountain. 

Borders. Finite.

I’m often interested by the finite state of borders, even in Europe where they now stand open. 

There are very few French on the Italian side. Very few Italians on the French. A mile from the border and the bread is immediately better in France, while the coffee deteriorates. And everything is more expensive. 

In France the second language is (grudgingly) English. In Italy the second language is English. But you only have to go a couple of miles to learn the neighbours’ language….

Blame the Americans.

Towards Grenoble.

Next morning the climbing continued as ever higher Alps opened before us. We topped out at 2065m with strong cyclists climbing all the way, including an old boy I’d put on the upper side of 80. The road is quiet. The scenery has me in tears of wonder. 

On the steep descent there were moments where all before me was green, with a fine blue line of sky at the upper reaches of my vision. 

The drive from Turin to Grenoble is approximately 150 miles. I recommend it to any confident driver as truly magnificent. 

Lay-by Ladies and Nuts.

Past the big city gateway to the Alps we entered walnut country. Mile after mile of walnut trees, and farms selling their produce. Nuts and oils. There must be a hell of a lot of shells left that are be good for something – garden mulch?

And the lay-bys. Amanda was the first to notice the lay-by girls. Electric blue eyeshadow visible at 50m was the first indication that despite her energetic waving this was no damsel in distress. 

The next few lay-bys were all populated by scantily clad women of varying ages providing quite a distraction from the beauty of the Vercors National Park.

What happens then? Does François head out on Saturday afternoon to buy a few kilos of walnuts but on the way realise his own nuts are tightening and in need of release? It’s a scene we have seen in various places, but never as incongruous as here. 

Camping Côté Vercors. St Nazaire en Royans.

After a couple of carpark nights I’m in need of a hot shower and thankfully Minty located this sweet site on the banks of the Isère (of Val d’Isère fame). 

I try to pull up the human interest stories we see on our travels – the girls above, the 60+ year old fellow shaving his armpits, a girl hose showering outside the shower cubicles. It occurred to me earlier that I’m on similar lists as little children squeal on entering the mixed washrooms to see me, my whole head lathered preceding a shave. 

The village is so French. Pretty, slightly run down, and dominated by an amazing bakery. There’s a canal that flows high over the village on an aqueduct. On Saturday afternoon everyone is out drinking beers or coffees, and their dogs get ever smaller. 

Tabac.

In the evening only the Tabac is open. 

The French Tabac has moved with the times in a way similar places at home failed to do. The Tabac is often tobacconist, betting shop, bar, café and even post office. Here it’s restaurant too with great smelling grilled meat overpowering the fags.  Everyone is smoking. 

Keep the money turning.

Jean-Pierre nips to the Tabac to collect a parcel. Have a quick coffee, oh there’s a horse race about to start – bet on a horse. The tension raises the need for alcohol to offset the coffee and the adrenaline from the race. Oh shit, there he is buying fags again, only a week since he last gave up. There’ll be hell-up when he gets home. Might as well have a kebab while he’s there.

And yes. Everyone there is male. 

We’d have had another beer, but even outside the air was too thick with smoke. 

Pittosporum. 

While I remember…

The predominant scent of Sicily was pittosporum. Yes there were the magnificent perfumes of lemon and orange blossom.  But everywhere there was pittosporum. Trees. Hedges. Borders. Will ours bloom at home? I hope so. 

In France it’s an acacia that I haven’t noticed before, but it’s everywhere, white blossom. Delicate scent. 

Taking it for granted. 

No matter how hard you try, as you settle into van travel you stop noticing some of the wonders that had you wide eyed at first. 

We’ve just pushed back the curtains and thankfully taken time to absorb the contrast. Yesterday morning we were greeted by the snowy Alps and the walls of a Vauban fort. Today on Amanda’s side there are ranks of neat laurel hedges, new leafed maples, the Isère river and birdsong. On mine the same river rises to the massif of the Vercors. Mountains that just go straight up. No slope. Just sheer cliff face. 

The problems for rural towns.

The aire at Courpière is smart enough. Many individual van bays separated by established hedging near an outdoor swimming pool. 

The town though is on its knees. 

Despite being on a fantastic road through the Livradois Forest regional park this place has been bypassed and is suffering. The train doesn’t stop here anymore and while the big road is good for the two bakery cafés with parking on that road, it’s dire for the many bars and shops in the town which look as if they’ve been closed for years. 

As a Redruth boy I understand. There’s the memory of grandeur, but its roof is full of holes. 

Néris-les-Bains.

A town as close as you’ll get to finding the centre of France. 

Auvergne is volcanic, but they’re all extinct now. 

There are many spa towns. Some you’ll have heard of – Vichy, Volvic, and plenty of smaller places. Néris-les-Bains is one of the smaller ones, but there was a time when the mention of a holiday here would have placed you firmly in the upper classes. 

In the 1930s the wealthy flocked here. Fine hotels were built. Villas for those who could afford to come back time and time again. They built an insanely expensive extension to the train line from Montluçon with a gloriously Gothic station building. 

But as time went on people had good water plumbed to their houses, they could bathe at home. Perhaps a little cynicism crept in regarding the healing power of the magic waters. They stopped flocking to the spa towns. 

Today most of the grand hotels have been redeveloped into flats – no doubt wonderful ones. The railway line is a cycle path. The finery is mostly seen on the Belle Epoc re-enactment days. Yet even now it feels special here. 

There are still three bathing facilities, a number of hotels, and two great campsites. But not much was happening half way through May. Our aire right outside the campsite was only €9 for the night, and had an excellent shower, big enough for a football team, or at least the reserves bench. 

The wear of the drive.

I drive for a job. Often I do 200 miles in a day without leaving the environs of West Penwith. Little roads. Holiday traffic. Hour after hour. Searching for the customer, searching for their destination. It’s tiring, but it’s good. 

Put me on the wrong side of the road in the van and I’m exhausted in a couple of hours. I’m not aware of the concentration, but I’m absolutely worn down by it. Pulling into a familiar site in Amboise yesterday I’d driven just 150 miles in around three hours, but I was finished. 

Amboise.

I thought I’d written about Amboise when we stopped here last summer, but that must have been a pen and paper journal rather than the blog. 

Amboise is a rather grand town on the banks of the Loire with the chateau of French King Charles VIII. It was also home and final resting place of Leonardo da Vinci. It’s the most touristy place we’ve visited in a while, but we knew that and went there anyway. 

The huge municipal campsite on the Ile d’Or (an island in the Loire) is only 20 minutes walk from town, and at this time of the year it’s a delight, as well as a bargain at less than €20 a night. 

There are twice as many English vans here as we’ve seen for the whole trip. Mostly they’re executive motorhomes that cost more than a decent flat. These beasts must be a joy to travel in, especially for experienced coach and HGV drivers, although personally I find ArchieVan quite big enough. 

The tourist towns like Amboise are sanitised versions of France, the human interest and real life is elsewhere. That said it feels like a holiday to be here. Everything is easy. There are great restaurants to gaze at, drool dripping from the corners of our mouths. 

And there’s Caveau des Vignerons d’Amboise. From what I understand this amazing bar is an outlet for the local wine producers. It’s open for just a few hours every day. And it’s staffed by knowledgeable patient people who will talk you through a few local wines and let you try a couple before you buy by the glass, or bottle. It’s in a prime position embedded in the chateau walls. Wonderful. And I have never paid more than €5 a glass for really special wines. 

The review. 

This is something I ponder frequently. 

Having written the above I read a few reviews of the place I have just praised and was surprised to see a few one star ratings. 

I read the reviews. 

There’s a common thread to the complaints. 

Wait for it!

“They speak to you in French!”

I can’t respond to that without a string of expletives. 

“They’re rude!”

Well. I’m afraid that goes with the territory. What’s rude in wherever you’re from could be just the way in this place. You have to laugh (in your head) at the surly approach of so many French businesses. 

Surely one star is the mark for the place that poisons you and doesn’t care when you tell them?

I’m even more baffled when folk give the one star insult to a natural feature. I’ve seen people mark down a mountain. 

Easy to offer reviews were a wonderful thing at first (circa 2010), but shouldn’t be relied upon today. Nothing worth its salt can please everyone. 

Recent ruins.

A pee stop brought so much more than just relief. 

Les Trois Moutiers is one of those French villages that the main road rips right through. 

Off to each side of the D347 is peace and quiet, there’s a huge tranquil pond (closed on Tuesdays. How can a pond by closed?), a smart church, a couple of cafés. 

Ruin no.1.

Then, right on the main road there’s Fleuriste. 

We had to build our own story of this beautiful house. 

At the side there’s an intriguing glasshouse, curved both ways, it must have cost a fortune to build. M et Mme Le Charles grew exotics there that the chateau owner bought for party installations. 

There’s the beautiful sign over the door (you’ll need to zoom in). It’s classic French symmetry, nine windows, three each floor, one of them the central door with intricate lead detail. 

Behind, coach houses create a large courtyard for shade during the harsh summer heat. 

But beyond these rays of hope there’s decay. No one has lived here, loved here, for a decade or more. It was on the market for so long after the old people died. 

Eventually, only last year, the family cleared everything out. Locked the door. 

And abandoned it. 

I love it. My restoring mind immediately started on a wild journey. 

But not on this road. 

Ruin no.2. 

OK, so Fleuriste was a personal flight of fancy. 

How about a similar concept, but involving 28,000 dreamers? 

Introducing Le Chateau Mothe-Chandeniers. 

We’ll call it Mothe for brevity. 

Mothe developed from a medieval chateau into a stunning gothic jewel when its then owner largely rebuilt the house in the 1870s. 

It’s utterly beautiful. Surrounded by moats. It shows its history by retaining elements of its various historic incarnations. 

It’s small by chateaux standards. Just 40 rooms(!). A scale that we can get our heads around. 

But. 

It was devastated by fire in 1932. 

It has remained a mecca for romantics for nearly a century with photographers and artists camping out to capture its faces in changing light. 

In 2017 an ambitious project was set up to save the house, make it safe, and open it for visitors.  Future plans include restoring elements to their former glory such as the magnificent stone staircase and the clock tower. 

Crowdfunding brought donations from almost 28,000 people around the world. Although the €6m target is a long way off it feels possible. 

Today it is captivating, even with nothing more than making safe happening so far. 

If you are anywhere in the west Loire region I recommend a detour via Mothe. 

Paul Jolly. Vaudelnay.

We wouldn’t have discovered Mothe at all had it not been for Paul Jolly. 

Last June we fell upon the Saumur winery as somewhere to park for the night, then joined a generous and convivial tasting. 

A name counts for a lot, and every time a bottle of his wine is opened we reminisce on the stay. 

This time the route back to Roscoff was determined by a stop off to top up. 

It’s a simple farmhouse winery. Tastings take place in a massive barn, guarded by the Jolly brothers’s three huge dogs. The wine isn’t amazing, but it’s the experience, and the name. 

I’m sure we’ll be back again. 

Vaudelnay. 

The small village of Vaudelnay has two wineries, Paul Jolly at one end, the other in the middle. There’s a post office and a great little community shop that sells all you need. 

It’s a village on the up. 

The butter white tuffa stone is used for every house, from the tiny cottages to the mini-chateaux. And now the streets are being repaved in a brick of similar hue. The effect is memorable and hopefully they’ll soon have a cafe as well. 

Just one more beautiful place – Josselin. 

How have we missed this place in the past? Josselin ticks all the tourists boxes. A river. A chateau. Gorgeous half timbered houses. Gardens. Restaurants. Van parking. Fabulous Saturday market.

We only have one night. We have to eat, drink, sleep, go to the market, clear out and head for Roscoff. There’s a lot to pack in. The great shame is that at the moment we can’t home any animal products, so no cheeses, no saucisson, just wine. There’s nothing for it, rotisserie chicken in a seeded farmhouse baguette for breakfast then. A perfect finish to a short but enjoyable tour of our favorite country.

Perhaps because it’s France, perhaps because the scarcity of days remaining ensures we wring the max out of every one, but this last week has felt truly special. There has been huge variety from the mountainous border town of Briançon, through the real life of smaller towns, and the touristic splendor of Amboise and Josselin. I’m not sure France is having an easy time right now, but it feels a lot better than the UK.

I hope to be back next week with a summary of The Three Islands Tour, and hopefully life back in St Just, a bit more than just the mowing!