EDIT 28/07/2019:
I tried to relink all my photos when Photobucket took held my pics hostage. I got to Day !! until I ran into difficulties. See final page for details.PrologueI had been toying with the idea of a trip around the Baltic for something completely different. But, my wife longed for another visit to Spain. I had two years of Spanish in school, and as bad as my Spanish is, it still makes a big difference to our visit. We have more fun in Spain, because I can ask questions and we’re willing to venture into places were English is not spoken.
Our last trip to the Costa Verde was 20 years ago. We thought we’d revisit a couple of our favourite places (Llanes, Luarca) as well as stopping in towns we hadn’t had time for before (San Sebastian, Oviedo, La Coruña). And, we wanted to see more of Brittany, so a three-week trip was planned. And, I mean PLANNED.
Our traditional modus operandi has been to roll into our destination before 5 pm, then find a place to stay. This allows for a certain flexibility, but we had been disappointed in the past by full hotels. In particular, we had wanted to stay in Chartres, but had to move on to Dreux (which was also full) and finally Evreux before finding a place to stay, late and tired.
This time, with the help of the internet, I spent three months organising our trip. Every hotel was booked in advance, located on Google maps (even Street View) and itineraries printed for my tank bag. Google maps were printed with restaurant locations marked on them. In addition to Google, I relied heavily on the Michelin, Trip Advisor and Rough Guide sites.
My new FJR had just 1,200 miles on it. I changed the oil and washed and waxed it.
London had been enjoying two weeks of blazing sun when I checked the forecast for the first three days of our trip.
Rain.
Posted on: 24-10-2010, 19:14:44
Day One. London to Vernon. 6 September 2010. 305 miles.Packing the night before and setting the alarm for 0430 allowed us to be on the road to Folkestone and the Channel Tunnel terminal by 0500. It was a dark, cool ride down the M20, but a pleasure to breeze through south London with so little traffic. We got through check-in with enough time to spare to allow our first continental breakfast. Surprisingly, the cappucino was pretty good.
As usual, the bikers were the last on the train and shared a carriage together. We were with a group of five forty-something Harley riders heading to eastern Austria for a biker’s meet they attend every year. The bikes ranged from full dressers with sat nav and chromium GB logos on the rear fender to a turbo-charged Fat Bob.
Le Shuttle 0700
Our destination was Vernon by lunchtime. We’ve been to France via the tunnel so many times, it’s a challenge to keep finding new first night stops. We’d never been to Giverny to see Monet’s garden and Joanna (the gorgeous blonde I travel with) is a keen gardener.
To get there with time left to view the garden required the Autoroute, so A16/A28 to exit 10 would still give us a bit of countryside to view. At Forges-les-Eaux I got lost.
My sat nav is a small compass I have taped to the map pocket on my tank bag. I print out the route with mileage between turns and it usually works pretty well. But, I missed my right on the D921 and had to stop for my first look at the map.
In the small town of La Feuillie, we stopped for petrol and coffee. The lady that ran the shop carefully filled my tank, then made our coffee. We relaxed in the sun and realised for the first time that we were in France.
In Lyon-la-Forét, we stopped for our first photograph.
I’ve been reading trip reports on this site for years. Orson really does set the standard. Fantastic shots, always with the bike in the shot and a fantastic, winding road in the background. Well, I tried on this trip. Honest. But... failed again.
Notarian, too. How do they do it? Do they actually turn around and go back for the shot? With a fully-loaded FJR and my wife on the back, it takes me a lot more than a whim to bother with an unnecessary u-turn! When the scenery turned nice, I’d try to sneak up on a shot, slowing... slowing... Nope! Past it! So, this is what you get:
Lyon-la-Forét
Actually, this looked like a pretty nice area for a stopover. It is surrounded by forest and rolling hills and Rouen is not far away if you need some culture. We contined on down to Les Andelys.
I went out of my way to travel through Les Andelys, because I read that the view of Richard the Lionheart’s Chateau Gaillard overlooking the river Seine was one of the touring highpoints of the area. A little white ruin on a hill is what I saw. Trashed 400 years ago during religious wars. And scaffolding.
We got to Vernon in good time. I crossed the bridge and drove directly to the hotel, knowing just what it looked like from Google’s Street View. Amazing.
Google also showed me that the train station was quite nearby the Hotel d’Evreux (€69.20 b&b). My excellent plan was to walk to the train station where there was sure to be a taxi rank and take a cab across the river to Giverny. Indeed, there was a clearly marked taxi rank in front of the station. But, no taxis.
We started walking, keeping an eye out for a taxi. I saw two. They were parked with no one in the vehicle. Clearly, all Vernon taxi drivers were taking lunch. We ended up walking to Giverny.
Turns out, it was a lovely walk, specially created to keep the Monet tourists off the highway. And there were plenty of us, even on a Monday in September. We got to the town in about an hour. I said lunch has to come first and, conveniently, a woman running an art gallery advised us that the best place to eat was the Ancien Hotel Baudy. She wasn’t wrong.
It wasn’t cheap, though.
I’m a 63-year-old with late onset diabetes and heart disease. I knew before the start of this trip that I had another angiogram to look forward to when we returned to London. I have already had a two-artery, five-stent angioplasty. I made up my mind before this trip started that I was not going to look at the right-hand column of the menu. Old habits are hard to break. I thought a €13.60 omelette had better be good...
Well, it was the best damn omelette I’ve ever eaten. It was stuffed with confit of duck and potatos and mushrooms and who knows what else. It was delicious! And the Cotes du Rhone was excellent, too. We were off to a flying start.
I was ready to face Monet. The whole town was geared to Monet and art, and very tourist-oriented. Every other doorway was another gallery.
Notice this guy’s sign is in English.
Behind the Hotel Baudy (which wasn’t a hotel at all, but a restaurant, just like the Hotel de Ville is not a place where you can get a room, unless you’re the mayor) was a studio, which looked like a set-up to me rather than a working studio. But, hey, if it’s free, it’s for me.
Monet’s garden wasn’t free. And, except for the pond with all the famous water lilies, a bit of a disappointment. I wouldn’t like to go there on an August Saturday. The crowds! Anyway, I owe you one shot:
We walked back through Giverny. It was a lovely looking village. All ivy-covered stone houses. You could see why Monet would choose to live there. We stepped over a discarded Edith Piaf CD and headed down toward the Seine. It was overcast and rain was on the way. Wildflowers had been planted along the river banks and the whole way back to the bridge there was just the two of us. A zig-zagging walk through Vernon took us past lots of lace curtains and window boxes.
Notre Dame. Ancient stained glass next to modern in windows that had been blown out during WWII.
I’m guessing Vernon is a pretty sleepy town at the best of times, and on Monday it was dead. All the restaurants that I fancied were closed, including our hotel restaurant. We settled on a brasserie, but were told they were closing. The only place open in town was the pizza joint up the road, we were told. It was starting to rain.
All through my pizza, I was remembering how good that confit of duck omelette had been.
Posted on: 24-10-2010, 19:19:39
Day Two. Vernon to Saint-Malo. 7 September. 234 miles.It rained heavily all night, but the sun was starting to break through Tuesday morning. The best thing about the Hotel d’Evreux was that I could see my bike through our room window. I could see I would likely need to take a towel to the seat. The hotel breakfast was standard fare and we quickly set off in the morning haze.
The green fields and chateaus were behind us quickly and rush hour in Évreux engulfed us. Conches-en-Ouche was not appearing on the road signs, so I guessed we wanted Caen and my compass confirmed the notion. As we approached 32 miles, I looked up and noticed a small signpost to “Les Conches”. The system was working and we were soon heading for Argentan.
In the forests southwest of Évreux, I had my first close call. We were moving along pretty quickly and I missed a badly signposted turn. At the next intersection, I pulled a u-turn. I had been the only other vehicle on the road, but as I accelerated back onto the highway, my rear view mirrors were full of Range Rover. I kept right, dropped a gear and accelerated as hard as I could. I got the obligatory honk and waved an apology, but reminded myself to be a bit more circumspect in future. Where the heck had he come from?
We arrived in Argentan in one piece.
As would be prove to be the norm, I missed the bypass and rode through the centre of town. It was time to stop for coffee, anyway.
The name rang a bell. Saving Private Ryan? Some war movie, anyway. I looked it up when I got home and this is what I found:
G.I.s with a Panther tank in Argentan
This is where we had our coffee:
Saint Germain marketplace
Argentan was bombed heavily on two separate occasions. This is from a doorway on the outside of the church:
As usual, we had driven around the bollards and parked in the marketplace. The beauty of touring in France and Spain (and Italy, but not on this occasion) is that you can park a motorcycle virtually anywhere. So, parking it in the market within sight of a cafe was a blessing, as you could just leave everything piled on the bike. The FJR (which hasn’t as yet earned a nickname) is just out of shot to the left.
We were in Domfront by lunchtime. I had street-viewed the town, predicting the time we would arrive. It looked like a dour working-class town. But, we parked on the main drag, then walked up the hill into the old town. It was nice. We had clear views of the surrounding countryside, a nice old castle ruin to visit, a look at the concrete church and my first tartine in Le Bistro St Julien.
A tartine is essentially an open-face grilled cheese sandwich with your choice of additions grilled on top of it. Mine had local ham, mushrooms, black pudding and onions with salad on the side. It was all I could eat. I also had my first Norman cider. It came in a ceramic bowl, rather than a glass and was delicious. Also, not too alcoholic.
Saint Julien, a 14th century church that was replaced in 1926 by a concrete structure.
The restaurant opposite. You can’t smoke in a French restaurant. The waitresses are standing outside for a smoke in the sun.
Le Bistro St. Julien, sharing the name of the street and the church, and specialising in tartines.
We were sitting outside in the sun. I was starting to get too hot in my black t-shirt and jeans when the sun disappeared behind a cloud and it got cold. Hmmm, better hot than cold, I thought.
We were back on the bike for the final stretch to Saint-Malo. The scenery was quite pleasant, and the farm villages had some pretty impressive buildings. But the run into our destination was spoilt by rain. I found an oak tree overhanging the roadside and we got our waterproofs on. Every RV and articulated lorry that I had passed during the last hour got by us again. The rain got heavier and so did the traffic as we entered the town.
My study paid off as I rode into the old town, left, right, right and stopped in front of the Hotel Quic en Groigne.
I needed a beer, so we were quickly unpacked, changed and back on the street – exploring under our umbrellas.
This town has more bars and restaurants than any other place I can think of. All of them busy.
Last shot of the night. I was holding an umbrella and trying to steady the camera in the wind and rain, so, blurry. We liked Saint-Malo.
Tipping in France (or, making a very short story really long)
Why do all that research on restaurants if you don’t use it? We stumbled upon our first choice, Le Bistro de Jean, which looked full. It was, but the nice woman said we could come tomorrow night. We made a reservation and set off to find a place that could take us on this Tuesday night. Inkjet maps are not the best idea on a rainy night. Mine got more and more blurry as the second, then the third restaurant we tracked down turned out to be closed.
Finally, L’Entre Deux Verres took us in. It was an agreeable place, but very busy and we waited quite a while before food finally ended up on our table. It was worth the wait. I had more oysters, which were lovely, but the lamb and bean cocotte that came in a marmite pot (these are all new words to me, too) was delicious. The glass of Beaujolais Village was so delicious, I had three and asked to see the bottle.
We finally get to the point:
When the bill came, I asked if service was included, because I definitely want to leave a tip. Sometimes the bill or the menu will say if service is included, but not here. The waiter said, no, service was not included on the bill. I left the man €10, about 12.5%
Two days later, in Quimper, I asked the waiter if service was included. He took pains to explain to me that, in France, no matter where you go, service is ALWAYS included. He said if you liked the service, a mention and a thank you would be appreciated. Which sort of takes the edge off my recommendation for L’Entre Deux Verres.
Posted on: 24-10-2010, 19:28:26
Day Three. Saint-Malo.20 years ago, we caught a ferry from Saint-Malo to Portsmouth and spent a few hours in the old town. We thought it worth revisiting, so planned for two nights in the Hotel Quic en Groigne. We were assured a newly modernised double room, so imagine my surprise when the very nice receptionist walked us to the back of the hotel, past the breakfast room and out the back to show us Cabin No. 3.
Cabin No. 3, Hotel Quic en Groigne, Saint-Malo and the gorgeous blonde I travel with.
I wondered to myself if this is where they hid the bikers? (I had asked for a parking place for a moto when I booked the room.) Well, it turned out to be one of the best rooms of the trip. No sexual athletes in the room next door, because there was no next door. (I have no idea what happened to Cabins No. 1 & 2.) And the tin roof was fun during the nightly downpour. The bed was new and huge. The bathroom was brand new, the shower was powerful and the drains worked. Very un-French.
The garage where I parked the bike also caused momentary concern. It was under the hotel. The ramp down had to be a 45° drop with not much room for turning at the bottom, but caused no problem in the end. Launching myself up and out of the garage into a sea of pedestrians when we left turned out not to be the drama I had anticipated.
It was a perfect place to stay in the quiet end of the old town. And, after a night of pouring rain, Tuesday morning was sunny. We found a cafe for breakfast.
French music.
Every cafe plays music, usually louder than is absolutely necessary and definitely at all times. The French seem to have a fondness for electronic dance music that features manufactured sounds that mimic cute animals noises, then loop the shit out of them. I can imagine that the videos feature very attractive, gamine Carla Bruni lookalikes in very little clothing. The pap we were forced to listen to made me long for the Joe Le Taxi days.
The cafe was also typical in that there was one person running the whole place – a problem if the place was packed. Our guy had to run from the shop twice to buy bread and something else from his neighbours. He was very pleasant, and the orange juice and croissants were freshly made.
We explored the harbour. You have a ferry port, a yacht harbour and moorings for a fishing fleet. On the other side of the sea wall, we found what I will call a groin (a low wall or sturdy timber barrier built out into the sea from a beach to check erosion and drifting).
Saint-Malo Harbour
Sea wall groin and the gorgeous blonde I travel with
Sea wall groin, Saint-Malo
We walked back along the beach from the harbour to the town and explored the fort that was approachable when the tide is out. Reentering the town, I could not pass a stand on the sea wall that was offering oysters. Cancale is a couple miles to the east of Saint-Malo and is where the local oysters come from.
Cancale oysters
The coffee was undrinkable, the bread stale and the wine dank. The oysters were wonderful.
We took another circuit of the town walls. It was a beautiful, if blustery day. An American woman, taking photos of the old town, announced to anyone within earshot, “Everything is so freaking CUTE!” I could not disagree. Saint-Malo is a nice place. We watched a ferry set sail, noticed that the tidal swimming pool had been refilled.
Tidal swimming pool
It was lunchtime. We decided on, what else, seafood.
Typical Saint-Malo seafood restaurant
and through the 12x zoom on my Panasonic DMC-TZ7
I already had oysters, so we went for a tiered plate of crab, langostines and prawns. Jo had a couple glasses of Alsatian riesling and I stuck to dry Normandy cider, which went really well with the shellfish. We were in pig heaven, stuffing ourselves and baking in the sun.
A walk was called for and we found the cathedral.
Cathédrale Saint-Vincent de Saint-Malo
And walked by the swimming pool, which was busy now.
We’d enjoyed a beautiful, sunny day, but noticed the weather was closing in. By dinner time, we were carrying umbrellas again.
Dinner at the Bistro de Jean was worthy of a place you cannot get into without a reservation. Our hostess was happy to help me with my French, explained the specials in English and I proceeded to order too much.
The main course was a local sausage. It was huge and delicious but after the huge lunch I was struggling. This was going to continue to be a problem for me on this trip. I wanted to try everything. I ended up leaving half my food on more than one occasion.
Overdoing it led to another of our problems on this trip: snoring.
Joanna was not very happy with me the next morning...
Posted on: 24-10-2010, 19:36:42
Day Four. Saint-Malo to Quimper. 129 miles.The rain was coming down so heavily on Wednesday morning, I tried to take a picture of it out my cabin window. But, by the time we’d finished breakfast in the hotel, the rain had stopped. Still, we set off for Quimper in our waterproofs.
The bike purred in the cool air and we were soon lost somewhere south of Saint-Malo.
How had this happened? I’d studied the map before we left and followed the signs to Dinard. But, I confused Dinard and Dinan and ended up heading south earlier than I should have. We ended up doing more miles on the N176 instead of the rural miles that I’d planned for Joanna’s benefit. She doesn’t like the motorway, and who could blame her.
After a dull 83 miles through rolling countryside, we ended up having our coffee stop in Rostrenen. I couldn’t help but notice the relatively high number of alternative-looking types in the town. I wondered if it had anything to do with the music scene? I had read that there was a thriving traditional music industry in Brittany. So were all these people musicians, or was there a hippy commune outside of town? A long-haired biker sat down next to me. Conversation was difficult/brief but I learned he’d just returned from the Alps and the Pyrenees. Lots of rain, he said. Not encouraging, I thought.
We had time to kill before we could check into the Hotel Dupleix in Quimper at 3 pm earliest and not a lot of miles to cover today. We were encouraged to take a side trip to the fifteenth century Locronan by the Rough Guide. It is supposed to be one of the most beautiful rural villages in France. Roman Polanski covered the village’s streets in dirt to create an English village for the film Tess.
We parked up next to a Harley on the outskirts and walked into the village after finally stripping off our waterproofs for the day. The village was now a monument to tourism and twee was the only word that sprang to mind. We had a galette in the pictured restaurant. Normandy is famous for crepes (sweet) and galettes (savory). Ours came neatly folded into a square, made of whole wheat flower and containing basically a ham and egg breakfast in a pancake. It was good.
Locronan, Brittany
Locronan. It was warming up.
Still with time to kill and needing petrol, we headed west to Douarnenez, a harbour town. It was a nice ride through lovely countryside in the sun. The town was pleasant enough, but our feet never touched the ground until we found a petrol station.
So, in a lousy petrol station, on day 4 of a 22-day trip, my main credit card was refused.
I was once in a fancy restaurant in Orvieto with not enough cash to pay for our meal. I had three credit cards refused before the fourth finally coughed up. So I was not lacking for plastic on this trip. But I had made sure to notify all my credit card companies and banks that I would be abroad. I paid cash.
We got to Hotel Dupleix, Quimper, at 3 pm. I was offered garage parking, but as they didn’t mind that I’d parked in front of their entrance, I left the bike there. We had our first decent hotel room view of the trip.
Cathédrale Saint-Corentin de Quimper (and the FJR) from our hotel window
Cathédrale Saint-Corentin de Quimper
Cathédrale Saint-Corentin de Quimper
Quimper Old Town
Cathedral Square, the Museum of Fine Arts and a very nice Jules Verne carousel.
The old town was clustered at the base of the cathedral, intersected by canals. Quimper makes a large feature of flower boxes everywhere and the attractive centre was very busy. We enjoyed a drink in the cathedral square and did some people watching, then went to find a restaurant.
The best sounding place from my research turned out to be no longer there. Back and forth we walked before finally deciding that L’Jardin de l’Odet was now a pizza joint. We walked back to Restaurant Erwan (which appears on Google maps) but decided it was too early to eat, so popped in to the bar across the street for a couple.
Turned out to be an Irish pub. We immediately noticed what a wonderful change the music was from the electronic French “music” we’d been listening to for the past three days. And Brittany shares the Celtic music history of Ireland and Galicia in Spain. The instruments and music are very similar. So, we were in an Irish pub listening to Breton music. Nice.
I started with a local cider, but notice a couple of locals nursing their pints of Guinness. I ordered a Guinness, which was poured correctly and arrived at my table some time later. It didn’t taste as good as London Guinness and I found out why the locals were taking so long over their pints. €5.50.
Dinner in the Restaurant Erwan was very good. The decor was diabolical. Orange? Lots of garish orange? We didn’t comment on the original artwork, either, in case they had been painted by a friend of our very excellent waiter. This was the chap that explained French tipping etiquette to me. Definitely eat in the Erwan, but wear dark sunglasses.
We took a stroll through a super little garden behind the theatre, watched the huge grey mullet in the canal (not good for eating said our waiter) and enjoyed a beautiful sunset before hitting the sack.
Posted on: 24-10-2010, 19:44:56
Day Five. Quimper to La Rochelle. 10 September. 288 miles.Breakfast in the Hotel Dupleix proved why the reason I only have breakfast in a hotel is if we want to make a fast getaway and it’s inconvenient to go out. I’ll bet they don’t drink their own coffee. The dispensing machines are... well, enough said.
We were very quickly out of town and on the N165 heading southeast. I hoped Joanna would not notice the signs to Carnac. I mean, once you’ve hugged the monoliths at Stonehenge... besides, I’d seen pictures on the internet.
We were at Nantes by coffee time, so I plowed on into town. I knew there was an old town/cathedral near the river, so we followed the river to a likely spot. I circled the one way systems a couple of times before I decided on a cafe. We parked ten feet from our table. You’ve got to love motorcycles.
Coffee finished, we left town and realised we’d missed the best part. Oh, well. Nantes was never going to be more than a pit stop. I wanted to get back to La Rochelle.
Jo and I had spent a wonderful evening there many years ago. A plateau de fruits de mer by at the harbour side while we watched a sailboat fashion show to the electronic strains of Jean Michel Jarre. Spotlights picked up each yacht, catamaran and trimaran as it entered through the harbour walls, did a pirouette and sailed out. The French know how to do a fashion show.
I planned for two nights in a nice, quiet hotel. Too many holiday nights have been spoiled by shouts from the street below. On Google maps, I found a likely place on the other side of a park from the old town and paid the price three months in advance. Checking the hotel’s website the day before we left London, I saw that we’d saved about €60.
With a nice park in front of the hotel, they put us in a room overlooking the car park. Well, it wasn’t the worst view we’d have on this trip and at least I got a good look at my bike. And, it was very quiet a night. Even with air conditioning, my wife insists on sleeping with the window open. “Ooo... stuffy!”
View from our room in the Novotel, La Rochelle.
It was a nice room. We were getting used to this. The last night of our previous trip to Dubrovnik, we stayed in a four-star hotel in Dijon. His and her’s white terrycloth bathrobes were a nice touch. I thought, why wait until the last night? Like I said, one could get used to this.
We decided to avail ourselves of the hotel laundry. We will wash underwear (I even pack a tiny clothes line and pegs) but jeans are a problem and I’d been wearing my bike gear since Monday. We sent a couple pairs of jeans, t-shirts and a dress shirt. €24. Hey, the high life ain’t cheap!
Changed and refreshed, we hit La Rochelle. Having to walk through the park to get into the old town turned out to be a nice touch. The town, itself, was not as glamorous as I’d remembered, hence this is my first photo:
Bronze on the harbour wall, La Rochelle
The town was, however, very lively and fun. I’d made sure to arrange a Friday and Saturday night there and we went in search of a restaurant I’d read about on the beach. They were booked for Friday and Saturday night, but we could have Saturday lunch. Done!
There was some sort of French television shindig going on around the harbour. Two of the places on my list were closed for private parties. Marquees had been set up along the harbour with groups of fans clamouring for autographs. It was party time.
We went in search of a fourth choice. Les Flots on the harbour had a table outside for us. It was getting quite cool, but the heat lamps worked well. Our meal was excellent, but Les Flots was truely taking the piss with their wine list. I didn’t see anything for less than €25 and prices shot up astronomically from there. I told the sommelier what we were eating and asked for a recommendation between €30-€40. He sold me a Colombard at the top of my range that was decidedly average. Oh, well, the brochette of veal sweetbreads with local langoustines was excellent.
Walking off dinner took us into the bustling bar area north of the harbour. I have no idea which bar we were in, but it was packed with locals and one of the earthier types started chatting up Joanna. He offered her something from a bottle he had in a bag, which (to my amazement) she drank. My wife was rolling. Jo said buy the man a drink, so I offered him a fiver. To my surprise, he returned from the bar with my change. I really was just a spectator here.
Anyway, we escaped with our lives and Jo finally decided she was ready for bed. We slept the sleep of the dead.
Posted on: 24-10-2010, 19:47:34
Day Six. La Rochelle. 11 September.We were a little bit worse for wear Saturday morning as we set out for another day of fun.
Exploring away from the harbour for the first time, we stumbled into Cathédrale Saint-Louis de la Rochelle and had breakfast in a little family-run cafe, the bashful son serving us on a non-school day.
Cathédral Saint-Louis de la Rochelle
Then, we found one of the trip’s high points for me, the Saturday market. There was a large indoor market surrounded by temporary outdoor market stalls. The range and quality of produce was a marvelous sight. It made our local supermarket look like a corner shop. Local cheeses, sausages and fruit and vegetables I’d never seen before, like flat peaches. Cuts of meat and types of fresh fish you would never see in a British market. It was certainly whetting my appetite for lunch.
Saturday market, La Rochelle
It was getting quite hot, so we made a detour back to the hotel on the way to the restaurant to change into something more suitable.
When I made the reservation the night before, I was wearing the finest apparel that motorcycle touring allows. Now, as I stood before the maitre’d of the Restaurant Richard et Christopher Coutanceau, I had on my loudest Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts and flip-flops. “I hope I’m not over dressed,” I asked the man. He was not that amused by my irony. “I suppose as it’s lunchtime...” he said. (I was not that bothered, frankly. I figured that if they turned us away, they’d be saving me a lot of money.)
Anyway, when I was sat at the table with the table cloth covering my partial nudity, I felt not too out of place. This was a very posh place. They handed us English menus. We paused for a second to admire the panoramic view of La Rochelle harbour and take in the rest of the restaurant.
One large table was a party of television people, we guessed. They were passing around a MacBook Air and having a Skype conversation with the face we could see on the screen. They were a bit loud. Between us and the sea sat a foursome. The older chap knew his wine and was giving the younger chap the benefit of his vast knowledge. Another foursome featured husband and wife and mom and pop. Pop was a dead ringer for Judd Hirsch. To our left sat a very posh, elderly couple. She had some sort of lap dog making a fuss at her feet. We never saw it.
Service was professional and brusque. I turned down the wine list, saying we had too much to drink the night before, thereby saving us a fortune, and we ordered from the cheapest menu. €55. I had not yet tired of oysters, having gone the summer without one. This is what I got:
Medley d’huitres, Restaurant Coutanceau
They were probably from the Ile de Ré oyster beds, five miles to the west. There were little clams and small shrimps hidden in the froth. Pretentious? You bet! Delicious? Yeah. My glass of white was very carefully poured at the table, lest I get one drop more than 125 ml (€8). It, too, was delicious.
Not pretty, but delicious, meat and veg
I swooned over my steak as I watched the drama unfold at the wine connoisseur’s table. They all had red wine glasses the size of goldfish bowls in front of them. The older chap called for the sommelier. They had a lengthy discussion and another bottle of red was produced. New table, new glasses, new bottle cradle. Bottle uncorked and allowed to breath. Satisfied, the old bottle was taken away. I was dying to have a taste of the discarded wine and know what it cost. My glass of red was very nice.
Unfortunately, Joanna was not enjoying herself as much as I was. She said her food was very nice, but she was uncomfortable with the ambiance. A bit overwhelming, sitting among these wealthy French people and besuited staff.
We took a long walk along the shoreline, checking out the nude sunbathers. Well, I was. I mean, what are dark sunglasses for? Exhausted, we headed back to the Novotel for a nap.
Dinner at Chez Fred was an anticlimax. It was a bit disappointing and we were tired. Too much fun, too much food. We were going to have to learn to pace ourselves. I even took a blood sugar reading to see how much damage I was doing to myself. I was relieved to see a normal result. All the walking was doing me a favour.
I was looking forward to getting on the bike again.
La Rochelle towers from the aquarium.
La Rochelle, Quai Duperré
Posted on: 24-10-2010, 19:52:04
Day Seven. La Rochelle to San Sebastian. 12 September. 265 miles.I stopped to pay my bill on the way out of the Novotel La Rochelle. Even though I had prepaid for my room, it cost me €54.70 to leave. Laundry, breakfast and an ill-advised stop at the bar on Friday night. Nevermind, we were on our way to sunny Spain!
First, we had to negotiate a few autoroute toll plazas. What a palaver. Jo and I were getting into a routine: I would roll up to the pay window and hit the kill switch, leaving the bike in gear while Jo handed the ticket to the collector. I remove my gloves and hand them to Jo, fish the money out of my wallet, put the change back in my pocket, fire the bike up and head to the curb to rearrange everything so as not to hold up the traffic behind me. It was a nuisance, but worked pretty well. It was much more difficult in rainy weather wearing waterproofs. Man, what a pain that is, having to shove wet fingers back into gloves...
One toll plaza in near Bordeaux we had to go through twice. I would look for the symbol that showed a toll booth attendant, rather than a credit card or automatic change machine. Bikes pay less than cars, but unless you get an attendant, how do they know? At Bordeaux, there is no attendant. Cards only. And the sign on the toll booth says “Cars. Bordeaux. €33.” WTF?! And you get no receipt, so I had no clue what I had just paid. I had to look at my statement when I got back home to find I’d paid £6.14.
Anyway, we didn’t quite get to Spain before it was time for lunch and we were near Bayonne.
Disappointly, we had to park almost 30 feet away from our table on this occasion:
Parking in Bayonne.
After a delicious salade gourmande and a petit Kronnenbourg we were soon crossing the border. We had spent a lunch hour in San Sebastian 20 years ago and were determined to return. I planned for two nights in the Hotel Amara Plaza, rivaling La Rochelle as the most expensive stop on our trip.
We rode straight to it and were quickly ensconced in air-conditioned luxury. And what a view!
The view from our hotel room, San Sebastian.
Actually, it wasn’t that bad. You could see the river and a bunch of building sites. The best thing about the hotel, aside from the tranquil luxury, was that it afforded us a much needed walk to and from the fun bits. We were soon exploring along with the other tourists on this Sunday afternoon.
Looking toward Mount Urgull, San Sebastian
We were heading to the Old Quarter and the lure of the pintxo (tapas) bars. I was fully expecting this to be the high point of our trip. Instead, we found the low point.
ETA, the Basque separatist group had just declared a cease fire and were planning to engage in political action rather than militant action. Basque groups from all over the region had decended upon the old town in their colours and were having a piss up in the streets. This photo does not begin to show how congested the streets were.
Calle Mayor, San Sebastian
What you can’t see in the photo is the ground, which was COVERED in litter. Plastic bags, discarded food containers, broken glass (and me in flip-flops). They had been having fun all day and turned the charming old quarter into a SH*T HOLE. We made a bee-line for the river to get the heck outta Dodge. The area we were heading into was called, ominously, Gros.
Well, Gros was cleaner, but the weather that had been deteriorating all day finally burst into a thunder shower and further dampened my spirits. I was not a happy camper. Plus, I could not locate Alona Berri, the number one pintxos bar on my list. In fact, hardly anything was open on this Sunday.
We found a working class, neighbourhood bar and they had nice looking tapas spread the length of the bar. Now we’re talking. Thinking this was our lot for the night, we had more to eat than we should, watching Independence Day on the telly behind the bar. Venturing back outside, we saw that the town was starting to open up! Places that had been shuttered a moment before were now glowing in neon. We’d stuffed ourselves only to find that the top places were only feet away from us. Hmmm...
Bar Bergara across the street had very attractive-looking inventions on their counter. You might even say, irresistable. And I started getting into the red wine, where previously I had been sticking to beer. I never had a bad drop of red in Spain. And the price was generally cheaper than France.
Having learned our lesson in La Rochelle, we called it a night before we got too greedy and took the long walk back to our hotel in the rain.
Posted on: 24-10-2010, 19:55:03
Day Eight. San Sebastian. MondayMonday morning, we walked to the street via the hotel cafeteria. Somehow, the smoke was easier to tolerate in the evening than first thing in the morning. Everybody smokes. Everywhere. It’s like watching Mad Men. Even France makes you stand on the street if you need a cigarette. Oh, well, when in Spain. In the old town the day before, we’d bought ourselves a couple of cigars, just waiting for the opportune time to smoke them. Not yet...
On the Playa de la Concha, we found a cafe overlooking the beach. Tractors had cleaned and dragged the beach overnight. It looked beautiful. Several people were having a morning swim as we watched from our table. I asked the enthusiastic Spanish waitress for revueltos (scrambled eggs). She recommended a dish she said was very nice and brought me a typical English fry up.
Breakfast on the Playa de la Concha, San Sebastian
Then we were off for an afternoon of culture. Joanna wanted to go to the Museo Chillida-Leku. Eduardo Chillida was a Spanish sculptor who had an entire park laid out on the outskirts of San Sebastian. We just had to figure out how to get there. A cabbie at the hotel said it would be about €20. Jo wanted to take the bus. Which bus? What direction? When do we get off? Will the driver take cash? Jeeze, I can really work myself up into a state. In the end, it was easy and cost €2.70, which was a bargain considering the length of the trip.
The museum was wonderful, helped no end by the gorgeous day we were enjoying. Chillida spaced out his sculptures over a few acres of hilly, grassy countryside and put the smaller stuff in a beautiful house in the middle of the grounds. You were actually encouraged to touch the work outside. They said it helped the metal age. Photographing the large pieces, you could create art of your own. It was a very nice experience, and I’m not big on museums.
Museo Chillida-Leku
Outside
Inside
Museo Chillida-Leku Gallery
Playa de la Concha looking toward the Town Hall (left), San Sebastian
There has never been a reported case of skin cancer in San Sebastian
The bus dropped us off in town where we started and we walked toward the old quarter. It was lunchtime, and I wanted to see if the pintxo bar centre had been cleaned up from yesterday’s festivities. Well, it was spotless. Kudos to the city cleaning crews. You could not find a fag end on the pavement. Confidence restored, we found Bar La Cepa. You have to be looking for this place. It’s attractiveness is not going to draw you in.
Bar La Cepa (left), San Sebastian
Jo does not eat red meat, so I got myself a 1/2 portion of Jabugo ham and we shared pimientos de Gernika and a Spanish tortilla made with bacalao (salt cod). Everything was delicious. I asked the waitress what a speciality of the house might be and she recommended something I couldn’t understand. ‘Ees berry good!” Okay, bring it on! I thought. “Bueno!” I said.
It turned out to be huge wild mushrooms, sliced and sauted in garlic. They were absolutely delicious. The friendly French woman next to us had big eyes for our mushrooms, so Jo offered her a taste. Delicious, she agreed. They were sort of slimey in a Chinese manner. Wonderful. The thrill lost a little edge when I got the bill. The hongos a la plancha were €20. Wow!
We walked off the bill strolling around Mount Urgull and headed back to the hotel for a nap to get ready for our last night in pintxos heaven. This was one of the mistakes I made in my trip planning. I should have allowed at least three nights in San Sebastian and included a weekend. I would, however, have to find a cheaper place to stay. I could do a week here, easy. Bring lots of sun block and get some use out of the beaches. Limit myself to one pintxo per bar... no, that’s impossible.
Anyway, we went back to Gros for our last night, because Jo had a bridge she fancied walking across. Hey, as good a reason as any! There were lots of others out for their evening promenade as we made our way to the beach.
Evening promenade, Gros, San Sebastian
We watched the surfers in the setting sun.
Gros, San Sebastian
And we had our best meal in San Sebastian in Mil Catas. This place won the last pintxos championship for one of their creations. In fact, when doing my research, I had noticed a chap on the internet who offered guided tours of the pintxo bars in San Sebastian. He was at Mil Catas, dropping off a group of tourists on their final stop.
The best thing we had, and everything was first class, was a tomato salad. It was like I had never tasted a tomato before. What is the rubbish we buy in the supermarket? I had razor clams, ox tail, something that translates as ‘Roasted egg yolk and crisps Irati’ that was a little bit of heaven, scallops and langostines. Everything was treated in a special way, nothing was obvious, but nothing was pretentious, either. Just bloody good.
If I could return to just one place, it would be Mil Catas.
Posted on: 24-10-2010, 19:58:58
Day Nine. San Sebastian to Las Arenas de Cabrales. 189 miles.We had breakfast in the hotel cafeteria, much cheaper than eating in the hotel breakfast room and the orange juice was still fresh squeezed. Wondering if I could squeeze past the barrier in the underground car park proved moot when I found parking included on my hotel bill. I brought the bike up to the hotel entrance and we were packed and on the motorway in no time, headed toward the Picos de Europa.
We had 143 miles of slab to do before we got to the nice bit. Cabezon de la Sal was just off the A8 and we looked for a likely spot for lunch. Giving the Irish bar a miss, we settled on an authentic-looking place. We sat in the sun on the terrace, the first customers. I explained to the lad that we wanted to eat. Much discussion in bad English and even worse Spanish ensued until he could make me understand that until 1:30, we had to eat inside. It was 1 pm, so inside we trooped.
The music was too loud and there were televisions on every wall. We found the quietest corner we could and the waitress eventually discovered us. She was great, running the place by herself. She pushed another table over to us when she realised we’d taken up all the space with our gear. Then, piled way too much food on our table. (Top tip: if you like the same food as your partner in Spain, just order for one as there’s plenty for two on the plate.) Unfortunately, Jo and I eat different things. I left half my pulpo a la Gallega.
Back on the road, the scenery started to get interesting. The Picos are not very high compared to other European ranges, but dramatic nevertheless. We were headed for Carmona, a small village where we’d enjoyed a wonderful meal in a beautiful old hotel smack dab in the middle of nowhere.
We reached Carmona and didn’t really recognise the place. We even back tracked to San Pedro to see if that was the place we’d been, but the cobbles, inclines and deadends defeated me and we retreated back to the CA-182. I asked for cider in the Posada El Puente (Carmona) and was disappointed when it came in a store bottle instead of being “the real thing”.
Back on the road and remembering the quest for a “proper biking photograph” I stopped for a couple of feeble attempts:
CA-182 near Carmona, Picos de Europa
CA-182 (before Carmona) and the bikey girl I travel with
All of this made a very pleasant change from the city life we’d enjoyed up until now. Still, I was glad I chose the larger Las Arenas de Cabrales to spend three nights in and not Carmona. I guess I’m just a city boy at heart. We were in our room in Hotel Naranjo de Bulnes and showered by 3 pm.
The view from our room, Las Arenas de Cabrales.
We went to check out the town. There was a small square off the town’s main drag where you could sit quietly. We sat outside the Sidrería Calluenga and ordered the regional specialities: sidra y queso de Cabrales. Cabrales cheese is made from a combination of cow and goat milk and aged in the local limestone caves. It is a very pungent, tangy blue cheese. A little goes a long way, and we got a brick of it.
The local cider was €2 for a 750 ml bottle. At first, it seems a bargain. However, in order to avoid a stunning headache the next day, you must “break” the cider. To do this, you hold a large glass at arm’s length down by your knee at a 45° angle. Then, you hold the bottle as high as you dare and start to pour. The cider hits the inside of the glass and is aerated so that it’s drinkable. Even waiters that do it for you tend to leave much of the contents of the bottle on the ground.
The table next to me had a contraption on top of the bottle that spritzed the cider into a glass, saving the aggro. Less authentic, maybe, but you got a lot more in your glass!
The sidra was real pucker up gear, very tart. Okay, I can check sidra y queso de Cabrales off my list.
Riding into town along the AS-114, we followed the River Cares. It’s a beautiful ride, the temptation being to enjoy the bends instead of sightseeing. We noticed a cafe on the river just before reaching Arenas and decided to walk back to it. But, as we left town, walking along the highway became more and more risky, especially as it was getting darker.
After maybe three miles, we gave up and stopped into a family-oriented place on the outskirts of Arenas. We got smiles, beers and free tapas. The children were playing in the adjacent field. We probably should have stayed longer, but I wanted to get back into town before dark.
Dinner was in a busy restaurant on the main drag. The bar was watching football and the tables were busy with card players. Jo had roasted peppers covered with slices of manchego cheese and I had thin strips of veal with gravy and fried potatos. Delicious and to bed.
Posted on: 24-10-2010, 20:00:45
Day Ten. Las Arenas de Cabrales. Wednesday.Wednesday was shaping up to be a beautiful day. We did one of the side trips on my list for our stay in Arenas. We rode up the AS-264 to Poncebos, where you park and take the new funicular up the mountain to Bulnes.
AS-264 to Poncebos. Obligatory bike shot
And just over the guard rail
Bulnes is a tiny hamlet of 20 inhabitants. In 2001, a funicular was completed, so instead of a 2.5 hour slog up the mountain, you could ride through a 2.2 kilometer tunnel up 400 meters in 7 minutes. Suddenly, Bulnes was full of young families and pensioners, including Joanna and I. The idea was to ride the funicular up the mountain, then walk down. A lot of people have the same idea, hence the fare structure: €15.80 one way, €18.90 return.
This turned out to be the single best day of the trip.
When we reached the car park at Poncebos, cars were being turned away. Full at 10:30 on a chilly Wednesday morning. But right in front, there was an empty motorcycle bay. We got stripped for action, filling our previously empty panniers with gear, and joined the queue for the ride up.
As we waited for the funicular, we realised we were freezing and hoped the day would warm up quick.
A lot of fuss was made by environmentalists before the funicular was finished. But, you wouldn’t know the funicular was there, except for the terminals at the top and bottom of the run. This is the view you got:
The view from the Poncebos to Bulnes Funicular
The main transformation was Bulnes, which was now a tourist hot spot. Bored girls sitting in giftshops and bored girls waiting on tables, where before there had been hardy mountaineers huddled over tins of Sterno.
The walk from the funicular to the village. I’m guessing these three bought roundtrip tickets.
The Bar Bulnes (white umbrellas), Bulnes hamlet
Well, for a city guy who was facing angioplasty upon his return to reality, I thought Bulnes was perfect. We had an hour to kill before lunch, so we walked out of the village towards the trail to the Jou de Cabrones Refuge. We followed an Alsatian up the path that looked just like our dear departed Bess and found a couple Spaniards listening to an old guy who they said was a native of Bulnes.
A native of Bulnes
I missed much, but could understand that he was telling them that the ruined fort/church in Bulnes had been there longer than the harbour villages on the coast. And he said something about the war, which I took to mean the Civil War. Mainly, I wondered what it must be like to be walking up and down that mountain for 70+ years.
We caught up again with the Spanish couple, who were sharing a laugh over the Cabrones Refuge sign. I could see the man was pleased that I knew what the joke was about, but I was more interested in the map bug:
The Jou de Cabrones Refuge map bug (more later)
The route home, but after lunch
Lunch in Bar Bulnes
Walking back to Bar Bulnes, I noticed cows and snails. They were on the menu, so that’s what I had: a filet of veal, pan-fried with potatos, and caracoles, snails cooked in oil and paprika. Dipping the veal in the snail juice made for a delicious mouthful. I felt sorry for Joanna with her mountainous plateful of patatas bravas, but she won’t eat veal or snails.
Walking off lunch
We really needed the walk back down the mountain. I won’t boor you with the hundreds of photos I took. I even took a photo of the signpost, which said the walk to Poncebos would take one hour. It took us two and a half, but we stopped often to admire the scenery, the animal life and and the variety of flowers. I’ll just show you these, which are either seed bugs or fire bugs, but not the same as the map bug.
Fire bugs? Seed bugs?
The walk turned out to be fairly strenuous. There were quite a few uphill climbs in what was meant to be a descent. I was extremely pleased to see the bar they had thoughtfully built at our destination.
The car park overflow.
I took the long way home as we continued to enjoy the fine day. We rode east to Sotres, then turned around when the road became a track.
Near Sotres, Picos de Europa
We were back in Las Arenas by 6 pm. We parked the bike, walked to the hotel and it started to rain.
Posted on: 24-10-2010, 20:07:57
Day Eleven. Las Arenas to Llanes and Ribadesella.
The view from our room
Notice the angle of the window above. This was the reason that I got doused with water at 4 am. It started raining heavily and I was laying beneath the open window. Rude! I spent the rest of the night trying to avoid the wet patch.
The view that greeted us in the morning caused mixed emotions. While we weren’t too thrilled about the day’s prospects, we were grateful that we’d chosen yesterday to go up the mountain, which we could no longer see.
View from our room. Not a day for mountain climbing
We went out for breakfast and it looked like the day might be brightening, so we decided to take a trip to Llanes, one of our favourite, picturesque harbour towns from 20 years ago.
This was another item to check off our list of things to do on this trip. Last night, I’d checked off another: fabada. This is a regional speciality and I had enjoyed a fabulous version of it on my last trip. We tried a different restaurant than the previous night, opting for the one across the street. Two sisters and a husband seemed to be running the place and the service and atmosphere were wonderful. The fabada was not. Could have been from a tin. Didn’t even keep the receipt, so I can’t warn you off the place. Oh, well.
Llanes was another disappointment. After a 23-mile ride along wet roads in patchy fog and light rain through what would have otherwise been excellent scenery, we rode into the construction zone that used to be Llanes. The roads were dug up or barricaded, deviations almost everywhere and there was no water in the harbour. It was being rebuilt. Still, there were large groups of wandering tourists struggling to stay out of the roads while searching for the holiday they had booked from a glossy brochure.
I put a foot down long enough to take a photograph of a vacant sandy beach, then we got the heck outta town. Ribadesella was another 20 miles along the coast to the west. Llanes may well be worth visiting in another 20 years.
Ribadesella was much better. We rode along the harbour’s edge to a dead end parking area and stripped off our waterproofs. Then we followed a path leading to a fort overlooking the harbour and overcast views out to sea.
Ribadesella, Asturias
We walked the length of the harbour (to the bridge you can see in the photo above) working up an appetite in the process.
Ribadesella Harbour
The harbour was lined with restaurants, cafes and bars, all serving fresh fish. In the end, we chose the first restaurant we’d seen, closest to the bike. It may well have been the most expensive restaurant on the seafront. I checked another item off my list: navajas (razor clams).
Langostino y navajas, Ribadesella
Jo had merluza, filets of hake in a parsley sauce with langostines. Our meals were excellent, so I paid the bill happily. We were in a pretty cheerful mood as we got back into all our gear and headed back into the
