I had booked a 2:10 PM return ferry from Calais which is just over two hours from Neufchatel-en-Bray so we had no rush. After a leisurely packing (in the dry) we joined the exodus from the campsite, sailed along on a stiff favourable wind, and arrived at Calais ferry port at 11:45 AM.

“We’re a tad early – strong tail winds.”

“No problem, you can get on the next sailing at 1:10 PM.”

“Excellent! Thank you.”

Not only were we on an earlier ferry but we were first to load and were in pole position ready for the sprint to the port exit and into the manic English traffic. After an excellent lunch in Langan’s Brasserie on board, Beastie (our Honda) and Billy gamely blew off the Dutch Landrover opposition alongside on the grid and took the chequered flag at the first Dover roundabout in great style. (Apologies for the quality of the second picture – it’s a mobile phone effort.)

The rain started shortly after leaving Dover and got steadily worse as we drove towards the M25. It looked like winter again. Remembering the Wimbledon final but expecting little given the current weather conditions, Carol found the appropriate radio station but we got the British F1 Grand Prix where, it seemed, Lewis Hamilton was being just as successful at taking chequered flags as we had been. It was no longer raining at Silverstone.

Then, surprisingly, on came Wimbledon which had just begun after being delayed by rain. Now it didn’t seem to be raining at Wimbledon, either. It was certainly still thrashing down not far away in Kent on the M20 where we were.

Wind-up time: long delays on the northern anticlockwise JAM25 were being signed. To avoid them, we decided to head clockwise on the southern section of the M25 passing Gatwick and Heathrow.

More signs: parts of the M40 were closed. No problem, we don’t want that.

Yet more signs: long delays northbound on the M25 immediately after the M40 exit. Oh Lord, they’ve got us both ways.

Being between a rock and a hard place, we decided to sit it out on the M25 but were pleasantly surprised to discover that the announced long delays seemed to be long gone. Relief!

More signs: long delays exiting the M25 onto the M1. Arghh! Take me back to France.

At least the rain had stopped when we got Billy back into his field for a well-earned rest.

(Well, through it, actually, but then the pun wouldn’t work, would it?)

The rain held off for us to finish packing in the morning (we had begun yesterday evening because rain had been forecast) and we managed to get Billy out of the campsite without any damage. The campsite at Savonnières has some "interestingly" tight corners with very unfriendly metal posts on the inside of the curve. For the unwary, they work a little bit like a can opener on the sides of caravans.

Quite a few people called in yesterday afternoon; some will be weekenders but the campsites are definitely beginning to get busier so heading home is a less painful prospect than it might be, at least until we reach Dover when reality will set in.

Our route out took us along the north bank of La Loire and into Tours. The traffic was pleasantly light and the route through Tours was relatively straightforward. When we are around the area again, it looked like a town worthy of investigation. The most notable feature to me was a fascinating French approach to bus lanes which were in the centre of the roads thus being surrounded by the main traffic. Let’s see, bus empties out travelling public, travelling public has to cross a lane of city traffic to get to the safety of the pavement/sidewalk. Brilliant! I guess they had a reason for designing it that way but I can’t seem to think of it.

The forecast rain started shortly after leaving Tours and was basically with us all the way through most of the remaining four hours of our journey to Neufchatel-en-Bray in Normandy. The skies were black from horizon to horizon. It didn’t look like summer at all but more like winter. Towards Rouen, though, things brightened up and as we were pitching up in our splendidly run campsite, the sun shone so we had a very pleasant late lunch al fresco. This part of Normandy, Pays de Bray,  is dairy country (it has an appellation contrôlée cheese) so the grass is quite lush. Although we love the feel of warmer camping in the south, it was surprisingly pleasant to be able to pad around barefoot on lush green Normandy grass.

We had considered driving into Dieppe, about 20 km distant, to seek out a proper plateau de fruits de mer (as opposed to our DIY version back in La Tremblade) for our evening meal but, after five hours driving and with booty-shopping beckoning in the local Leclerc supermarket, ultimately neither of us could face more time in the car. It was a lovely evening, we had two pleasant neighbours (also homeward bound) and relaxation won hands down.

In Leclerc, Carol found us two good-looking slices of foie de veau (calve’s liver) to grill on George. (What else are they going to do with the male calves in dairy country?) Very experimental but very successful and a quite delicious last dinner in France.

We thought we’d seen the château at Azay-le-Rideau more years ago than we care to remember. I suppose I should have said more years ago than we could remember since, when we actually got to Azay-le-Rideau this morning, the château that we had seen way back then was clearly not Azay-le-Rideau. I told you there’s a château around nearly every corner, here. I wonder where that one about 20 years ago was?

Azay-le-Rideau lies on the river Indre. Like the Cher, the Indre is another tributary of the Loire. The three rivers flow together just west of Tours. Whilst the rivers themselves are reasonably attractive, it’s the châteaux scattered liberally between these three rivers that do most to make this area interesting.

We reverted to cheapskate mode, avoided the entrance fee and peered at the chateau through the gate. It looked as though we’d just have got a lot of converging verticals anyway. It looked as there were no interesting outside photographic subjects to play with – no more fancy gardens as with Villandry.

We returned for an experimental lunch. Yesterday, having finally found a supermarket in a suburb of Tours after a painstaking search, we couldn’t resist buying some burger patties made from 100% viande de lapin (rabbit meat). Here was a potentially untold source of riches that McDonalds has yet to exploit – McBunny burger! How could we resist? We’d decided to accompany it with our aristocratic broad beans from the splendid gardens of the château de Villandry. McBunny and McBeans – what a feast! Presumably the bread is rabbit shaped because it’s made from doe. 🙂

We had intended to visit Amboise in the afternoon and try to find the Leonardo da Vinci museum there. Ultimately, we couldn’t face the journey and preferred another more relaxing pedal along the Loire cycle track. Our notional target was a 16th century water mill. We made it, of course, after all our intense training but it was relatively dull, as was the weather, so we just pedalled a little further before returning in some gentle rain.

Tomorrow, we head north to Neufchâtel-en-Bray in Normandy for our last night in La Belle France.

We came here to Savonnières mainly to see the supposedly spectacular formal gardens at the château de Villandry. We set off in the morning to cycle the two or three miles to Villandry hoping to beat the crowds that might arrive for the afternoon. Our 600 cycling miles scrolled passed on way – notional target of 100 miles a week achieved, yeah! Naturally, there were already a lot of visitors but it was surprisingly uncrowded in the gardens themselves. Maybe they were all inside the chateau itself. In our normal cheapskate fashion, we went for the gardens-only ticket (€6.00 each- very reasonable).

I’m not the world’s greatest fan of gardens, especially those which are extremely formal. I always think Mother Nature tends to do a much more enjoyable job. However, the extreme precision of the garden layouts at the chateau de Villandry are, I must confess, very impressive. It isn’t the kind of garden that you’d fire up the charcoal in then relax by cracking a few beers while it burns up, but it is undeniably very enjoyable to look at. It makes for a very interesting photographic subject. Don’t touch anything, though, it looks as though it just may break.

Villandry, the last of the great châteaux built near La Loire, was completed in about 1536. It is still privately owned by the descendents of one Dr Joachim Carvallo who bought it in 1906 to save it from destruction. He recreated the very formal gardens that exist now following the styles used by the original plantings. There is an ornamental garden depicting various types of love (so says the guide), a kitchen garden (which is also very ornamental even though vegetables are involved – so say I), a water garden with fish the size of whales, a medicinal herb garden and a maze. The strongest visual impact comes from the geometric designs of both the ornamental and kitchen gardens.

I know statistics can rapidly get boring but some just have to be repeated to give an idea of the scale of the effort involved in the upkeep of this place. Surrounding the garden are 1,260 lime trees which take four gardeners four months just to prune. There are 52 km of box hedging. 250,000 flower and vegetable plants are raised and planted out every year. All the weeding must be manual because, apparently, the box hedges which surround every plot have very delicate roots.

The vegetables are harvested and many are left out for the public to help themselves. There is no price, they just ask for a voluntary contribution for the gardeners. Planting is kept very authentic; there are no potatoes, for example, since, in 1536 no one had invented Americans or potatoes. 🙂 (With humble apologies to native Americans.) We grabbed a Euro’s worth of broad beans.

It was great – I enjoyed it much more than I thought I would.

Terrific, we awoke to rain which soon got quite heavy. I detest packing up in the rain, especially the awning which, owing the late evening disturbances, was still up and saturated. However, pack we did, wet we got and the road we hit (all very Yoda).

We’d really wanted to stay where we were until the last minute but, discretion being the better part of valour when it comes to possible tussles with Irish navvies, we decided to visit a new part of La Loire where Carol wanted to visit some supposedly impressive gardens at the château de Villandry. We headed for Savonnières close to the confluence of le Cher and La Loire.

It rained for most of our four hour journey. Having packed in the rain, I was fearing setting up in yet more rain but, fortunately, it ceased and we set up in the dry.

Once we were settled, we went out to investigate the local area. There is only the Loire à velo cycle track between us and the river Cher. Wandering up the track towards Savonnières, we discovered several old wooden boats. Close by, an exhibit has a partially built boat showing several of the construction stages. The boats are "faithful reconstructions" of medieval craft used for various tasks (e.g. transport, fishing) and particular in design to the river Cher.

We didn’t want to finish our trip feeling unsettled by itinerants. Let’s hope we’ll feel more comfortable here.

Having been invaded by a swarm of Irish itinerants yesterday, I went down into St. Gervais to check out the local camping municipal site. As is often the case, it was somewhat basic but we don’t mind that. There was also a barrier and la guardienne was utterly charming and seemed to be related to a doberman, which is exactly what is needed when policing a campsite. Everyone else on the site was French, which we also quite like. We hitched up and moved.

Everything was going swimmingly. We had a bike ride in the afternoon through the lanes to Fromentine on the coast just by the bridge over to Île de Noirmoutier. We stopped swimming and started sinking sometime around 8:30 PM. Noise erupted as four of the Irish itinerant vans from which we had just fled swooped into the campsite choosing pitches that surrounded Billy and began to set up camp. This was becoming a recurring nightmare.

I have to say that, intimidating though they may be, they are very efficient at what they do. The towing vehicles and vans pull into a site at reasonably high speed and, before anyone draws breath, somehow the women and children (usually four per van) are on the ground like paratroopers. The drivers select pitches instantly and reverse expertly straight back into them, no juggling, no shuffling, all very smooth. Out come the electricity cables and they hook up. It’s all very efficient, in the same way that Hitler’s blitzkrieg was. Unlike Hitler, the same efficiency applies when they leave. They are hitched and driving out in the blink of an eye.

Madame Doberman had gone for the day but there was a contact number. I couldn’t make it work. I asked a Frenchman to try but he had no more success. One of our French neighbours had already asked me what was going on so I explained. His face fell. He eventually got through to the authorities explaining that the camping municipal had suffered un invasion des Irlandaises (an Irish invasion). Apparently the barrier, which had looked reassuring to us, does not get locked in case there’s a fire and a need to evacuate fast.

Unfortunately, les Irlandaises had seen me attempting to phone and they expressed their displeasure at my actions in no uncertain terms. Eventually the authorities turned up in the form of someone from la mairie (the town hall) and Madame Doberman. Les Irlandaises decided that there was “too much heat”, hitched up and left but not before their apparent ring-leader had blown his stack and threatened yours truly with physical violence. Essentially, I suspect that they lose their rag if their intimidation tactics don’t work. About two minutes after les Irlandaises had left, three gendarmes arrived. It’s good to know that it’s not only our police who arrive too late from too far away.

The French were great; very supportive. Half a dozen or so were hanging around together discussing the events of the evening in that typically animated Gallic way. We hung around with them listening and joining in where we could until gone midnight. Madame Doberman was profuse in her apologies to me. No need, it really wasn’t her fault. The barrier was eventually chained against a re-invasion and Madame has left the key with one of the French campers.

Les Irlandaises are not far away; we’re sure they are working around here. In case there is any substance to the threat, we’re off again tomorrow.

We’ve been here near St. Gervais for three nights now and today seemed to be giving us a stunning blue sky. Neither of us is in any way a sailor but, given a daily shift of an hour or so between high tides, we reckoned the tide might be flooding the Passage du Gois (a submersible road) some time around 11:00 AM. Having cycled across it at basse mer (low tide) three days ago, we were keen to see what it looked like as the sea swallowed it. The channel itself looked very flat so we thought the advance of the water might be quite fast. It seems people do get caught out and stuck, too. We set off à bicyclette at about 10:30 AM.

The warning lights were flashing as we approached the crossing. We had timed it perfectly; the previous low tide had been just before 9:00 AM. The comforting message, "danger area, rising tide", scrolled by in three languages (French, English, German). This was clearly quite a popular spectacle as quite a few people, including other nutters on bikes, gathered to watch the road disappear. Traffic was still crossing unhindered but eventually, as two 4x4s came across, through binoculars we saw spray starting to appear from their wheels. A couple of cars started crossing from our side, got almost half way, thought better of it, did an about turn, and returned. Very sensible! We had a feeling people liked to play chicken with the tide and be the last to cross but that may just be fanciful.

Then a few people on bikes started riding down towards the advancing water, presumably just to watch. Well, why not indeed. Clearly the water wasn’t about to outrun us so we joined them. The water seemed to be flowing in one direction, right to left, which I imagine is because of the throttling effect of the narrow channel to the left of the Île de Noirmoutier. There’s no real reason this should be any more fascinating than simply watching the tide rise, I suppose, but it is a fascinating spectacle watching a road disappear.

Our stunning blue sky was continuing so we set off again after a relaxing lunch for some more contrast and, perhaps, some local oysters. This time the contrast was windmills, modern wind generators versus the old 1703 flour mill, Le Petit Moulin de Châteauneuf, which we had seen yesterday. There is a "parc éolion" of eight very large wind generators right on the coast that we can see from our pitch.

We could see these windmills were large but cycling directly beneath them was awesome. Each of the triple blades was 40 metres long. One revolution was taking approximately three seconds by my reckoning and the tips made what was, to me, a delightfully soft swishing sound as they descended towards us and passed. Now I’ve calculated the tip speed of the blades (anorak!), I’m not surprised that they swished; they were doing about 300 kph. I was completely captivated.

On our way back we found one of two or three oyster shacks open that proclaimed dégustation (tasting) but it had neither tables nor chairs. Brilliant! Opposite, however, by a sluice gate/lock, was a small bar/restaurant that did seafood and had tables and chairs so we sat and shared a dozen local oysters washed down with a glass of muscadet. These oysters were noticeably saltier than those we had tasted a few weeks ago at La Tremblade. We much preferred the ones from La Tremblade.

Our brilliant day came to a disappointing end in the evening. The new and, I assume, inexperienced campsite owner, has let a travelling troop of British-registered Irish itinerants set up camp – five or six twin-axled vans swarming with rug-rats and satellite dishes. They’ve even got a steam-roller on a trailer! Peace, quiet and, more crucially, the feeling of security disappeared instantly. These folks are deliberately intimidating. I think everybody who can will be moving off tomorrow – we certainly are.

The new owner is going to have to learn not to let such people onto his site. It’s a pity – we’d probably have come back here.

One of our neighbours on the campsite told us where there is a stork nest in the vicinity. It could just be seen through binoculars from our pitch but there is a track passing close by it so, after breakfast we pedalled off to have a look. The nest, an unkempt pile of sticks that must be six feet across on a platform, contained two chicks.

The term "chick" feels a little odd applied to something this large. While we were watching, an adult 747 suddenly appeared over some nearby trees, casually flew in, landed neatly on the pile of sticks and started feeding the two 737s with yummy regurgitated food. This was a seriously large bird. White storks are a metre long with a wingspan of two metres. The so-called chicks were not much smaller and must be almost ready to fledge. Having fed the kids, the parent glided down into the surrounding field and stood on a roll of hay. There was no more activity so we moved on to the next activity.

Since this is a marsh area, many of the roads are dead-ends. Our stork hunt had taken us part way down one such so we decided to investigate it further. As we were cycling beside some of the water channels, small brown, furry things rushed off the bank and into the water. They proved very difficult to see properly. Eventually, patience and silence paid off and we captured one on film (well, on pixels, anyway). I think they are water voles, but don’t quote me.

Our afternoon bike ride took us to a wonderful old windmill. Le Petit Moulin de Châteauneuf was built in 1703 and has been operated by the same family grinding corn since the late 1700s. In a rare moment of extravagance, we coughed up the modest entrance fee for a guided tour in pretty fast French. I think we followed most of it, though. Well-worn wooden gear wheels turn the grinding stone, chain-operated metal gears are used for turning the windmill sails into the wind. The sails themselves are louvred to allow for varying wind strengths. The very worn, three hundred year old wooden stairs are a tad precarious but it was all very atmospheric and well worth the visit.

The route back took us past more white stork nests built on specially erected platforms. There was an observation deck quite close to one of the nests, this one containing three 737s, together with a board displaying some life history information. Much of the information comes from a yearly ringing operation. Surprisingly, they can live for up to 60 years.

This place had everything today: sun, countryside and in Challans about 10 miles away, a Leclerc supermarket and a McDonalds with McWiFi. First we went to McDonalds to publish a couple of blog postings (two espressos but no McTasteless McChicken with McYankee sauce this time), then next door to a brilliant Leclerc supermarket to do three days’ shopping.

Here’s a glaring example of one of the differences between English and French supermarkets. In Challans, not an enormous town, in addition to the usual wide variety of fish, we had live crabs crawling all over the counter (€3.50 per Kg), live langoustines twitching at the customers, and cart loads of moules de boulots (mussels) that customers eagerly shovelled into large bags to have weighed, priced and sealed. It is quite normal in France to see live lobsters and crabs on supermarket fish counters. Live crustaceans are as rare as hens’ teeth in England – I’ve certainly never seen anything live in a supermarket. In Challans, the fish counter is more than 50 feet long and had four staff who were constantly busy using a numbered ticket serving system. The prawn section on this counter was the size of an entire fish counter in England (assuming that there is one at all). We bought some white tuna to slather in mustard and barbecue for dinner (the mustard keeps the fish moist) together with some excellent prawns to munch with aioli and bread for lunch.

We went off to cycle around some more of the oyster producing coast after lunch. We saw lots of polders (dykes) keeping the sea out of the reclaimed land, and lots of oyster industry but they seem strangely reticent to sell their delicious bivalves; we saw no restaurants or tasting shacks in this area – not one. This part of the coast seemed to be purely business.

What we did see, though, were lots of water channels with many fishing nets and shacks. I can’t imagine what they might be seeking to catch in these streams but there is clearly something worth considerable effort. The bird life was an interesting mixture, too. Apart from scaring up a hen harrier that I cycled within 10 feet of, we saw a suspected marsh harrier. One more sizeable body of water entertained us with some stilts in the company of a couple of black swan cygnets. (What are black swans doing here?)

At last, having driven by stork nests, without being able to get a decent view, on our journey up to Damvix from La Palmyre, we got to see a stork strutting through a recently harvested field. It was some distance away but at least we could watch it through binoculars. There are apparently nesting platforms built for the storks in this area so we will have to investigate further.

Our bike ride broke our 500 miles barrier. If it weren’t for all this French food, I might have lost some weight.

It was definitely time to leave the land of nothing but beaches. There are good cycle paths here but all they really do is connect all the beaches. Clearly, what one is supposed to do cycle to one’s chosen beach, lie in the sun all day having the occasional dip in the sea to cool off, then cycle back rubbing the abrasive sand well into one’s backside. Definitely not us!

Carol had found another marsh area just a little way up the coast by an island, the Île de Noirmoutier. There was a suitable sounding campsite run by a Brit near St. Gervais, too, so we thought we’d give that a try. After a last trip into La Tranche-sur-Mer to buy bread and a postcard of the embarrassingly stranded cargo vessel on the beach at Les Sables d’Olonne, we set off on what turned out to another lengthy trip of 50 miles. The campsite looked great with very generous pitches so, without further ado, we got Billy set up in his new home ready for lunch.

The farm on which we are camped lies between two march areas, one to the north and one to the south. We set out for an initial exploratory trek a bicyclette and were quickly in some much more interesting countryside. The first sign we saw was for a farm selling foie gras but I think we’ll give that a miss ‘cos this is another primarily oyster farming area.

The map showed an interesting road over to the Île de Noirmoutier called the Passage du Gois. What made it sound interesting was the note on the map that says "route practicable a basse mer" (road passable at low tide). That was just begging to be investigated.

We cycled through Beauvoir-sur-Mer first. The draining of the marsh areas along this coast have led to some apparent anomalies. There are a number of towns, such as Beauvoir-sur-Mer, which are no longer sur mer (by the sea) but a few kilometres inland. There are even "ports" which no longer have a port.

Excitement increased as we approached the Passage du Gois. A wonderfully practical road sign depicted a car submerged in water accompanied by the dire warning, "risk of drowning". Terrific!

At the beginning of the road itself is a board showing the time of the next low tide. The crossing, about 5 kilometres, is practical for 90 minutes either side of low tide. In a brilliant stroke of luck, we had arrived at 5:30 PM, 45 minutes before low tide. What a wonderful sight. Not only was traffic streaming across, but people were driving out into the middle of the causeway, parking, and digging for clams. There were dozens of them (people, not clams). The French practice of fanatically harvesting a source of free food is so indicative of a nation with a passionate interest in gastronomy. 

Given the timing, we just had to cycle over to the Île de Noirmoutier and back again. The underwater road was built between 1935 and 1939 of diamond-shaped paving slabs. Some of these remain and give the bikes and, therefore, ones backside, a serious pounding. Some sections have been replaced by tarmac and these provide a blessed relief to the vibro-massage provided by the paving slabs.

This place is great. What a difference 50 miles can make.