Part 1. Azay sir Thuet
I am lured by the mystery and challenge of discovering new places as a solo traveling lady of advanced years. And I question my judgement at times . Firstly, there’s the prep. A countless and seemingly never-ending list of jobs which would normally be spread over a year or more – all to be ticked off in a few short weeks. Interspersed with packing and purchasing the bits and pieces deemed to be essential.
On my last European adventure, I had elected to take a largish Katmandu back pack – with the totally impossible idea of carrying it on my back. It was a pain in more ways than one . Difficult to wheel along old cobble stone streets , heavy, and cumbersome to manoeuvre on and off trains. Totally impractical, I sold it for what I paid for it pretty much.
So my departure date looms .
This trip almost twice as long as last year’s. Seven weeks and five countries – two continents. My constant worry in the lead up was luggage. Especially when my choice of destinations span the extremes of cold to hot . I have had Iceland on the bucket list for a while now and as I write this , I am on an Icelandic Air flight bound for Reykjavik, having travelled from Poitiers to Paris by train , cab from Gare Montparnasse to CDG, and then joining the throngs of Parisians escaping their hot, dry city for the annual summer vacation.
So more about luggage . A couple of sherpas would be handy. I had no choice but to pack the large Samsonite and with Iceland on the itinerary, all the winter gear . My ridiculously heavy Super Dry jacket that has served me well in Tasmania and Norway had to go in. The weighin on departure at Bne was 26kg – not that heavy for a young able bodied person but I was very happy to surrender it at the Singapore Airlines bag drop. But then , there’s the bloody hand luggage . I had every intention of making do with one back pack and a largish hand bag. No – make that two back pack thingies.
So we land at CDG T3 on time and then starts the waiting game at baggage collection. Having replaced the faulty AirTag in my old suitcase , I was looking forward to a cheerful message in the “find my” app telling me Angela’s luggage was at CDG T3. Instead , “Angela’s luggage 57 k away at an unknown location “. Great……..
I run through various scenarios in my mind whilst watching everyone’s suitcases obligingly roll on to the conveyer belt. I had my essential meds and electronic devices with me in the 2 back packs but anxiety does start to bubble away on the back of the random unknown airtag location. I note a woman of my vintage who is also waiting . In a broad Manchester brogue she asks me “So you come from Singapore then?” Well , yes but technically Brisbane . Could that mean my trusty Samsonite had found its way somewhere else in the vicinity of the airport? So we strike up a conversation as everyone else’s luggage is claimed and it turns out we are both on the same train later in the day to Poitiers! Well , she was catching a train from CDG and had to change at St Pierre des Corps whilst I, wary of the 26 kg (if it turned up) , was cabbing across Paris to Gare Montparnasse and the direct service .
No sooner had we laughed about the coincidental nature of our journey , than our suit cases – hers then mine followed one another on to the carousel! So we went our separate ways , and we did bump into one another on the platform at Poitiers as I wrestled the 26 kg into the minute lift that serves weaklings such as myself!
So off to Chez Wenn and time to chill out with Rick , Sara , Camilla and Louis the cat . We stock up on food , wine and gin at the E.Leclerc on the way home.
The wild fires that continue to rage in the south of France , particularly around Bordeaux, are international news. As used as I am to Australian droughts, I was shocked by the degree of damage on show as we drove the Roman Road from Poitiers to Azay. Trees dying, very little in the way of green of any sort. But the worst was yet to come . Rick and Sara have the most beautiful garden – a vast expanse with Rhododendrons, Peonies, Hydrangeas, wonderful and quite ancient apple and pear trees, Grape vines as well as a fabulous collection of Acers, roses,dahlias and iris. On all my previous visits, I have enjoyed very much, hours of labour, weeding, trimming, and planting. This time not a weed in sight, save for some droopy dandelions still hanging on in parts of the lawn.
There has been no rain for months , and none imminent . Sara tells me a long time village resident has likened this season to another quite like it – an age ago- no rain through summer at all , then the heavens opened in October. To compound the situation, Rick and Sara’s well which was the beneficiary of a new pump etc to access underground water , is quite literally dry. And there is now a ban on any form of hosing with drones apparently monitoring ban breakers. Much of the visible damage has been inflicted by the ghastly 40+ days which simply fried tender temperate foliage. I feel sure that most plants will recover but it is a very testing time .
So we decided to head to la merl- specifically La Rochelle where a long time friend of Rick’s has a holiday house – she is happy for special friends to just turn up and use it! It’s a pleasant drive – about 90 minutes. The swimming destination is actually Il de Le Re – one of the many islands that hug this section of French coastline . Getting to the Il is interesting – Le Pont de Re is an enormous structure that is apparently privately owned and commands a toll fee of 16 euro just to drive across ! Sara and Rick tell the story of a previous attempt to pay the enormous toll with une carte – only to not have it accepted . By this time , there were any number of cars queueing behind them . Backing out and crossing three lanes of queued traffic to access a cash toll was somewhat stressful.
So , forewarned this time , the toll gate was happy and we made our way to a car park for a walk around this fascinating and of course historical precinct. The Fort and its surrounds were constructed in 1626 under the reign of Louis XIII to consolidate royal power against the Protestants of La Rochelle.
Rick and I needed hydrating so a pit stop at one of the many cafes with a lovely harbour view was in order!
Such a popular destination for French families ‘en vacances’ – bicycles everywhere . I wish I could ride a bike properly.
So Rick had a plan that , at first , didn’t go to plan, which involved heading to a particular beach. La mer didn’t eventuate at first but fortunately all was well once we discovered La Couarde-sur-Mer. A beautiful stretch of not quite beach as bordered by a concrete wall. A google search tells me it is an anti-submersion marine defence structure boot to protect the village and low lying areas from rising sea levels etc. The water was amazing!
Our night at the fabulous beach house in La Rochelle was interrupted by a good old fashioned thunder storm. Despite reports from Azay that the village had also benefitted there was almost no evidence of precipitation. La Rochelle is a delight – so much history, ancient buildings that are all so clean , cafes , fabulous shops, and families enjoying a post storm milder summer day.
My final day with my wonderful hosts included a trip to Domaine de la Berthonniere – La cueillette, c’est ici!
I have never seen a market garden operation on this scale that encourages people to come – pick what they want – and pay for it obviously. Apart from the sheer size, the quality is without peer! What fun . I could do some serious preserving were I living nearby.
Sara often makes observations on the cultural aspects of the French. She and Rick have made Azay their home for some years now – yet were never made aware of the market garden until one of their friends happened to mention it just recently. And the French are socialist to the core – no one is allowed to earn an income from any endeavour whatsoever unless it is declared. Navigating their bureaucratic methods takes enormous amounts of patience . Sara has mastered so much French – yet there are copious numbers of Brits who have acquired their ‘house in France’ with a vision of some idyllic retreat , who simply refuse to learn the language at all .
Eccentricities aside, there is something quite unique about the French . Opening and closing hours , doing business and navigating the medical system etc requires lots of local knowledge . Yet all and sundry are welcomed into the country regardless of their ethnicity. As I write this there is a good deal of press about some 1000 minors who have walked across tidal flats from Morocco (apparently) . The coffee is appalling their steak is tough but the wine is cheap and la fromage delicieux !
