It was time to get up and say goodbye. I don't think I have quite explained the charm of the gatehouse at Vernueil sur Avre; I should probably do so. The house is in a walled garden so it feels locked away, but it also has a view to the St Madeleine Church so it feels right in the middle of everything too. There is a downstairs with a kitchen and lounge room and then you go upstairs via the tiniest and steepest staircase you could ever imagine, with steps that squeal like kicked cats with every step you take. Myles, Paris and I have to duck as we ascend and descend. Zelda and Niccolo can scamper at will. Once upstairs, there are three bedrooms, Zelda and Niccolo are in one (the one with the TV and video that we have all spent many a long hour in), one with Paris in a bed with lots of flowers, and the other with Myles and I and a view of the church.
We packed up and squashed all our stuff into our diminshing luggage space. We thought about sending some stuff home, but the post office was packed to pussy's bow and our French probably wasn't up to it anyway. Our French isn't up to much. Actually. After the post office issue, we went off to the boulangerie which was closed. To buy our final pain au chocolat. But it was not possible.
As we left, someone tapped on the car window. We couldn't work out what he wanted. He went away. Then we did.
It wasn't a long drive to Paris; about a hour. It was a drive through more farmland. Everything is farmland in this part of the country (apparently). Then there was a forest. Then there was a tunnel. Then there was PARIS. Suddenly. No suburbs. No warning. Myles got immediate hot flashes because he hadn't filled the petrol tank and would be up for serious money when we returned the car. So we reprogramed Samantha to get us to a petrol station. Just to reinterate ... we were in Paris. And Sam was giving Myles directions like: 'bear right then turn left. Turn left then to a U turn.' We were all a little stressed. But there was a petrol station at the end of this horror. After the petrol station, we headed to the apartment. Hmmm. Equally stressful. We seriously considered abandoning the car and running away. But we toughed it out and found ourselves at the Rue de la Clef, outside a pub called 'The Local' and looking longingly at an apartment block that was apparently sealed tight. Myles parked illegally and we pushed the door with some force. Luckily all of the patrons at 'The Local' were tired and emotional so they didn't try to stop us. Then we looked again at the instructions. And found a way in. Myles left to drop the car at the Louvre (another story coming up) and we unpacked and made our way around the local area. We couldn't stray too far because Myles had no key, we had no phone so no way to communicate, and he had no idea what apartment number we were in. There were points of failure everywhere.
We did eventually link up which was exciting and kind of improbable.
Myles then told us about his adventures that involved driving to the Louvre and coming close to losing his mind, entering the carpark and driving around in endless and increasingly dizzying circles until someone took pity on him and asked him what he was doing. He was then directed to 'park anywhere' and go upstairs to Hertz. All well and good until he got upstairs and couldn't find Hertz. So he asked a policewoman. She was a little helpful. She was also on roller skates. That is his story and if anyone can confirm it, please send me a comment. Zelda thought that perhaps there were days that police officers were on roller skates, and days that they were on unicycles. We are hoping to see this phenomenon with our own eyes. We are returning to the Louvre tomorrow to establish the veracity of this story.
After dinner, we went for a walk. Dinner was early; about five o'clock and then we left the apartment. We walked up to the top of the local hill and discovered that this was where Ernest Hemmingway lived in his early days in Paris with Hadley and Jack. So that was fun. And then we walked down to the Seine and up to Notre Dame. There was a service in progress, it involved a young woman singing most of the service and then an older bloke saying a few things. It was quite unearthly I have to say. Notre Dame is extraordinary - even the complaining children were silenced by it.
After that, we continued our walk along the Seine until we sort of decided we had had enough, and it was raining a bit. So we wandered into the the heart of the Left Bank and found Boulevard St Germain which I figured would take us back to where we needed to go. As we walked, we (OK ... I) became increasingly aware of how anti Parisian we were - puffy jackets (the least sartorially snappy statement one might make), Paris in his flannel shirt and tracksuit pants (possibly illegal in Paris; I'm not sure), Zelda in ripped jeans (an offence) and Niccolo in pants that are too short (just negligent parenting I'm afraid). Myles and I looking shabby too. Oh dear. When I mentioned this to Paris, he got all bolshie and told me that I was messing with his self esteem. Bugger that. He has to toughen up.
We were back at the apartment at eight. That was three hours of walking and few complaints even from the youngest member of the family. I sent Myles into the nearest supermarket to get a bottle opener (funny how I assume that every wine bottle is a twist top; not true here. And no bottle opener in the apartment - what is the go with that?). Red wine at home. Myles and Paris watched a youtube video on the French Revolution. The kids did various things - drawing, writing, reading, cutting. I watched a Sherlock Holmes film. Then to bed. We had big plans for the morrow.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Monday, December 5, 2011
Verneuil sur Avre, day seven
It was time to really get down into the Loire Valley. Our attempt to see some serious chateaux a couple of days ago was really very poor, and we weren't going to be around these parts much longer. But it was a drive ...
Samantha guided us to the Chateau Chambord (over two hours). We had dragged the kids out of bed so we could get into the Loire in good time but as it was, we didn't really get there till close to 12 noon. Mornings are a mystery. The weather was not fantastic, but even with the deep grey skies, things were good.
We drove through farm land again, and then, rather suddenly, we drove into a forested park. I had been reading about Chambord - it was built by Francis (or Francois) I who liked all things architecture and hunting. Hence the two loves combined. The park turns out to be considerable; the various residents continued to expand it for their pleasure. That must have pleased the peasants no end. ('You can see why they had a Revolution', said Paris.)
The chateau itself is huge; out of control (or, in Paris's words, 'large and pointless'). Paris is not the only person who thought this about the Chateau Chambord. Francois himself didn't even see it properly completed and stayed only 18 times (at about three days per stay). A pretty huge sometimes holiday house.
Some fun facts about Chateau Chambord. The toilet paper was pink (I mean, contemporarily). There were no toilets in Francois time. Everyone hated Chambord. Francois spent hardly any time there, subsequent monarchs thought there were too many mosquitos in summer and too much cold in winter (indeed, we were there in winter and it was very chilly indeed). The monarchs kept trying to give it away to other people onto whom they wanted to bestow honour. These people hated it too. The revolutionaries thought they might knock it down but it turns out they got too busy killing one another to worry too much about provincial architecture, and then state got quite interested in it, and at some point acquired it for posterity. Well, we quite liked it, but we didn't have to live in it ...
Famous for a double helix staircase (Zelda quite liked this, you can walk up each successive level seeing one another through the windows but never meeting), it has a central area which was weirdly pokey (real estate speak: what is wrong with me????!). Then there were wings all over the shop; easy to get lost. Francois himself only used the tiniest of areas, a couple of rooms in one of the wings. He thought it was cold too.
Too large as a hunting lodge all around. But amazing to look at.
It was raining when we left so we didn't walk around the gardens. We did look at the historical gift shop. I was seduced by the Eau du Chambord (a blackberry liqueur ... I think). I didn't buy it. More is the pity.
We headed for Chateau Cheverny. On the way, we looked for food. But it was Sunday and nothing much was open. The children began to get very crabby.
Chateau Cheverny was much more like a house, a proper hunting lodge for real (well, you know what I mean) people. We liked this one very much and were delighted to discover that while it had been in the same family for most of the last six centuries, there were two lapses. The first was when Diane de Poitiers claimed it while hers was being built in Anet (we tried to see this one, but it was closed for winter), and the second (and this is what we loved) was when the heirs to the chateau couldn't be bothered claiming it. How great is that? That is serious wealth. It was bought back by the ancestors of the current owners and all was well in the world. The current owners hang around the house rather creepily with hideously perfect photos of themselves and their children everywhere. Lots of portraits too of French royals, and the famous portrait of Louis XVI with the abnormally small head is here. Zelda began to get rather sulky at this point. I asked her why and she claimed it was because the French royals were not as mad and interesting as the English royals. It is tough to compete with a megolomanic who likes to behead his wives for fun. I need to dig up some over the top stories about French royals, it is clear.
The Chateau Cheverny also keeps one hundred French hounds, ready to hunt at the drop of a hat. They are all corralled in a kennel at the end of the property. You can see (or smell) why they are so far from the house. Noble looking beasts. They decided that Zelda looked like fine prey and all followed her to the far end of the kennel braying. She was spooked and flattered in equal measure.
There was serious rebellion afoot as there was no food to give the kids and it was now about 4pm. They hadn't eaten since a late breakfast and this was as close to deprevation as any of them had come for some time. Through the driving rain we surged and then, like a beacon in the gloom, Myles spied something called a Pat e Pain. It was a kind of fast food bakery. The kids wolfed down a pizza and some pastries. They were then able to sit in the car in some kind of civilised manner while we drove home.
Our last night in our little gate house. We all felt sad. The kids felt seriously sad as they had to make do with the food in the house. Cereal for dinner.
Samantha guided us to the Chateau Chambord (over two hours). We had dragged the kids out of bed so we could get into the Loire in good time but as it was, we didn't really get there till close to 12 noon. Mornings are a mystery. The weather was not fantastic, but even with the deep grey skies, things were good.
We drove through farm land again, and then, rather suddenly, we drove into a forested park. I had been reading about Chambord - it was built by Francis (or Francois) I who liked all things architecture and hunting. Hence the two loves combined. The park turns out to be considerable; the various residents continued to expand it for their pleasure. That must have pleased the peasants no end. ('You can see why they had a Revolution', said Paris.)
The chateau itself is huge; out of control (or, in Paris's words, 'large and pointless'). Paris is not the only person who thought this about the Chateau Chambord. Francois himself didn't even see it properly completed and stayed only 18 times (at about three days per stay). A pretty huge sometimes holiday house.
Some fun facts about Chateau Chambord. The toilet paper was pink (I mean, contemporarily). There were no toilets in Francois time. Everyone hated Chambord. Francois spent hardly any time there, subsequent monarchs thought there were too many mosquitos in summer and too much cold in winter (indeed, we were there in winter and it was very chilly indeed). The monarchs kept trying to give it away to other people onto whom they wanted to bestow honour. These people hated it too. The revolutionaries thought they might knock it down but it turns out they got too busy killing one another to worry too much about provincial architecture, and then state got quite interested in it, and at some point acquired it for posterity. Well, we quite liked it, but we didn't have to live in it ...
Famous for a double helix staircase (Zelda quite liked this, you can walk up each successive level seeing one another through the windows but never meeting), it has a central area which was weirdly pokey (real estate speak: what is wrong with me????!). Then there were wings all over the shop; easy to get lost. Francois himself only used the tiniest of areas, a couple of rooms in one of the wings. He thought it was cold too.
Too large as a hunting lodge all around. But amazing to look at.
It was raining when we left so we didn't walk around the gardens. We did look at the historical gift shop. I was seduced by the Eau du Chambord (a blackberry liqueur ... I think). I didn't buy it. More is the pity.
We headed for Chateau Cheverny. On the way, we looked for food. But it was Sunday and nothing much was open. The children began to get very crabby.
Chateau Cheverny was much more like a house, a proper hunting lodge for real (well, you know what I mean) people. We liked this one very much and were delighted to discover that while it had been in the same family for most of the last six centuries, there were two lapses. The first was when Diane de Poitiers claimed it while hers was being built in Anet (we tried to see this one, but it was closed for winter), and the second (and this is what we loved) was when the heirs to the chateau couldn't be bothered claiming it. How great is that? That is serious wealth. It was bought back by the ancestors of the current owners and all was well in the world. The current owners hang around the house rather creepily with hideously perfect photos of themselves and their children everywhere. Lots of portraits too of French royals, and the famous portrait of Louis XVI with the abnormally small head is here. Zelda began to get rather sulky at this point. I asked her why and she claimed it was because the French royals were not as mad and interesting as the English royals. It is tough to compete with a megolomanic who likes to behead his wives for fun. I need to dig up some over the top stories about French royals, it is clear.
The Chateau Cheverny also keeps one hundred French hounds, ready to hunt at the drop of a hat. They are all corralled in a kennel at the end of the property. You can see (or smell) why they are so far from the house. Noble looking beasts. They decided that Zelda looked like fine prey and all followed her to the far end of the kennel braying. She was spooked and flattered in equal measure.
There was serious rebellion afoot as there was no food to give the kids and it was now about 4pm. They hadn't eaten since a late breakfast and this was as close to deprevation as any of them had come for some time. Through the driving rain we surged and then, like a beacon in the gloom, Myles spied something called a Pat e Pain. It was a kind of fast food bakery. The kids wolfed down a pizza and some pastries. They were then able to sit in the car in some kind of civilised manner while we drove home.
Our last night in our little gate house. We all felt sad. The kids felt seriously sad as they had to make do with the food in the house. Cereal for dinner.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Verneuil sur Avre, day six
Market day in town (it's Saturday). We wanted to stay and share the fun. So did about eight hours straight of rain. Oh well, can't complain. We have had a dream run to this point. The bells rang out as usual. This time, I was equal to them, and got up with them. It is still dark here at 7.30am (which might explain our sleeping issues - or perhaps we are just deep in the zone of not working). We messed around at home for a bit, and left the house at about ten to check out the market. Zelda and Niccolo discovered puddles almost immediately and were wet within seconds. The rest of us got wet incrementally. For such a wet day, the market was thriving. It was the Marche de Noel so I guess it was supposed to be a big deal. And it is clearly taken seriously by the locals (thick with elderly ladies and men and trolleys and umbrellas and hard bargains being done). Myles and I took the plunge on cheese. We bought a chevre (goat's cheese) that was grey with ash (couldn't ask the vendor why). He asked us (I think) if we wanted a wet cheese or a semi dry cheese. We went with the semi dry (demi sec? anyone?). Then we bought a neufchatel (from lait cru, very exciting). I always thought that neufchatel was more a cream cheese, but this was like a brie. The vendor here sold bread that was as large as a small bed. He carved off pieces as requested. As we did. Good bread too, a bit like sour dough (which we don't know how to ask for). Then we bought two roast chickens, a big plate of paella, and Paris wandered off into the market and bought himself two flannel shirts.
Many of the vendors sold just one thing - apples, oysters - but took it very seriously. And many, many varieties. We didn't buy any apples. We haven't had any luck with them. Not one crunchy apple since we have been here. Disappointing. I'm still keen to try some oysters but fear I will buy some and then find no way to open them. That would be sad.
We had also run out of butter, bread and dessert (the three major food groups for the children). The our 'local' boulangerie was empty for a wonder (the marche??) and the woman stood their patiently while we made fools of ourselves in front of the dessert cabinet. This time, we bought a whole tart. And lots of bread.
Lunch, we went a little French, was huge and a feast. I thought the children might explode. I thought I might. The goat's cheese was goaty, goaty, goaty. I could hear the goat baaing on my bread. But it you spread it very thin, and included some butter, it was really very good. The neufchatel oozed immediately onto the board and was so delicious, it was barely credible. Paris ate close to a whole baguette and most of the butter. The chicken was yum. And the tart. Holy hell. It makes me want to learn how to make good pastry.
Then the kids discovered a board game called The Game of Life. It is really just an enticement into capitalism (Payday! Buy an house! Have a midlife crisis! Retire!) but they got right into it. I had a game with them. Not surprisingly, I had a midlife crisis and changed from being a travel agent (see how true to life the game is?) to being an athelete (so realistic). Zelda was an artist on $20,000, Paris a doctor on $90,000 and Niccolo a rockstar on $80,000 (this was all quite random by the way). The object of the game is to get round the board in your car (it is American) accumulating spouses, children, houses, stocks, and so on until you retire. Then you add up what you have earned and bought, and the person with the most (big surprise) is the winner. Guess who won? To give Paris his credit, when Zelda was struggling to pay her taxes, he paid them for her, and helped her out on a house. (This was not in the rules, or part of the game. Being nice got you nothing.)
I didn't play the next few rounds, but they did. With bells on. Myles didn't chime in at all. Surprisingly perhaps.
We walked in the afternoon when we thought the rain might have abated. It hadn't, but too bad. Around the town in the rain (crazy tourists) looking at the little houses and the big houses, and the Christmas lights and the domestic lights. An old lady had her window wide open gazing at the rain and we waved to her. We watched the moat rise around us. We took a wrong turn. We were very wet when we returned.
Time to strip off, get under a warm rug and drink hot tea. Watch films (Best in Show, laughed like a drain).
Tomorrow we are headed deep into the Loire Valley (rain or shine) to see some chateaux. Proper chateaux that are open. Three hours in the car. The kids are stoked.
Many of the vendors sold just one thing - apples, oysters - but took it very seriously. And many, many varieties. We didn't buy any apples. We haven't had any luck with them. Not one crunchy apple since we have been here. Disappointing. I'm still keen to try some oysters but fear I will buy some and then find no way to open them. That would be sad.
We had also run out of butter, bread and dessert (the three major food groups for the children). The our 'local' boulangerie was empty for a wonder (the marche??) and the woman stood their patiently while we made fools of ourselves in front of the dessert cabinet. This time, we bought a whole tart. And lots of bread.
Lunch, we went a little French, was huge and a feast. I thought the children might explode. I thought I might. The goat's cheese was goaty, goaty, goaty. I could hear the goat baaing on my bread. But it you spread it very thin, and included some butter, it was really very good. The neufchatel oozed immediately onto the board and was so delicious, it was barely credible. Paris ate close to a whole baguette and most of the butter. The chicken was yum. And the tart. Holy hell. It makes me want to learn how to make good pastry.
Then the kids discovered a board game called The Game of Life. It is really just an enticement into capitalism (Payday! Buy an house! Have a midlife crisis! Retire!) but they got right into it. I had a game with them. Not surprisingly, I had a midlife crisis and changed from being a travel agent (see how true to life the game is?) to being an athelete (so realistic). Zelda was an artist on $20,000, Paris a doctor on $90,000 and Niccolo a rockstar on $80,000 (this was all quite random by the way). The object of the game is to get round the board in your car (it is American) accumulating spouses, children, houses, stocks, and so on until you retire. Then you add up what you have earned and bought, and the person with the most (big surprise) is the winner. Guess who won? To give Paris his credit, when Zelda was struggling to pay her taxes, he paid them for her, and helped her out on a house. (This was not in the rules, or part of the game. Being nice got you nothing.)
I didn't play the next few rounds, but they did. With bells on. Myles didn't chime in at all. Surprisingly perhaps.
We walked in the afternoon when we thought the rain might have abated. It hadn't, but too bad. Around the town in the rain (crazy tourists) looking at the little houses and the big houses, and the Christmas lights and the domestic lights. An old lady had her window wide open gazing at the rain and we waved to her. We watched the moat rise around us. We took a wrong turn. We were very wet when we returned.
Time to strip off, get under a warm rug and drink hot tea. Watch films (Best in Show, laughed like a drain).
Tomorrow we are headed deep into the Loire Valley (rain or shine) to see some chateaux. Proper chateaux that are open. Three hours in the car. The kids are stoked.
Verneuil sur Avre, day five
Today we decided to take a small dip into the Loire Valley. We had a look around the web the night before and decided to go to the nearest chateaux and only really as far as Chartres. It was, in some ways, self preservation because the whole 'begin with a three hour drive' business hasn't quite worked for us so far.
What has gone our way, however, is the weather, and today was no exception. Following on from revolting weather (when we stayed in our little cottage), the day dawned like a golden lion stretching, and we set off in bright blue. I had (on the advice of the Loire Valley tourist website) designed a little tour. Hmmm.
We arrived in Anet at about ten in the morning and immediately found the chateau of Diane de Poitiers; a huge thing at the top of the town that has a ruddy great deer and two hunting dogs over the entry gate. Very exciting - out first chateau. So we sought out the tourist office to find out more. The lovely lady there, with watery eyes, told us (with the faintest look of surprise - perhaps she had never seen tourists before in December) that the chateau was closed to tourists until February when it opened only on the weekend. Damn. We walked around it (or tried to - very difficult) and then walked up to the gothic church (Paris was thrilled). Then we found a garden on the map and walked there. This too was closed, though there was no reasons given for this. It was not a great beginning (though great pain chocolat from the baker).
On to Dreux and the Royal Chapel. The countryside now changed from farm land to forest. I think I had read somewhere that Diane de Poitiers and her friends liked to hunt so that might explain the change. I was hoping for leaping deer at last. Alas ...
The Royal Chapel (or the Chapelle Royale) is a spectacular church set on the hill above Dreux (possibly the dreariest named town in the world). Up we went. To discover that this too was closed. Not only for winter, but pretty much the whole year - opened only really during the summer months. I doggedly took photos through the trees. We walked down the hill into Dreux to find the tourist office and get some decent information. Paris wacked his head on a sign. They are much shorter than him; the French. Or perhaps they have less hair and can see more. Before we found the tourist office, we found the local market which was lively and full of dead chickens and ducks with heads and legs (Zelda and I contemplated vegetarianism again, how squeamish are we?). A whole stall with oysters (all kinds, who knows what the differences were, and all still closed to the outside world). And then we were beguilded by a laneway that then took us into the centre of the town (and the tourist office). In there, a lovely young girl looked again with watery eyes at me, and apologised. 'But nothing is open here this time of the year. Except the town church.' 'Great,' I thought. 'That's not going to fly with the troops.' So I asked about the next site on my tour: Maintenon. 'Oh no,' she said. 'That too is shut.' She did give me a fat, shiny flyer for my troubles with all the sites we couldn't see in glossy colour and sent me on my way. The bells had just struck twelve and it was time to hurry home for lunch.
When I returned with my news, Paris looked darkly at the suggestion of the church, and then asked about lunch. 'Righto', I said. We found a boulangerie. I ordered (can you believe it?) and managed to get all the things that had been asked of me. We sat in the deserted square, albeit in sunshine, and ate. Our only companions were furtive children with large baguettes hurrying home across the square, and professional types striding passed, they too with baguettes, clearly having been held up at the office.
Ah the French lunch hour. How we love you.
So to Chartres then. We figured it was a large town. Maybe there would be things to see. Actually, it is a beautiful town with a soaring cathederal and glorious architecture everywhere. But we were a bit numb to see it. It is the problem of not having a clear destination. We were aimless and kinda slow. The French hate people who walk slow almost as much as they hate people who drive slow. We were close to being given notifications. In self defence, we went into a shop to buy water, and then walked around again. When it was looking dangerous for us again (slowness, Niccolo mistaking a post box for a bin ...), we slunk into a cafe to drink hot chocolate. We were surrounded by what looked like groovy, intellectual types, with cool hair and very thin cigarettes. But for all I know, they were discussing game shows.
So, having failed to find anything but churches open, we turned around with sorry tails and headed back home. On the way we did see a pink/burnt orange sunset (even Paris said: 'Pretty'), and two deer grazing at the edge of a woodland. They were not leaping, but still. I feel that at least one thing can be crossed off the list.
I cooked an approximation of a French stew (Niccolo had thirds, I think he might be craving protein). We watched a film called Bride Wars. It was as bad as the title clearly suggested.
Ding dong, sang the bells as I went out to lock our gate and door. Yes, I replied. Ding dong.
What has gone our way, however, is the weather, and today was no exception. Following on from revolting weather (when we stayed in our little cottage), the day dawned like a golden lion stretching, and we set off in bright blue. I had (on the advice of the Loire Valley tourist website) designed a little tour. Hmmm.
We arrived in Anet at about ten in the morning and immediately found the chateau of Diane de Poitiers; a huge thing at the top of the town that has a ruddy great deer and two hunting dogs over the entry gate. Very exciting - out first chateau. So we sought out the tourist office to find out more. The lovely lady there, with watery eyes, told us (with the faintest look of surprise - perhaps she had never seen tourists before in December) that the chateau was closed to tourists until February when it opened only on the weekend. Damn. We walked around it (or tried to - very difficult) and then walked up to the gothic church (Paris was thrilled). Then we found a garden on the map and walked there. This too was closed, though there was no reasons given for this. It was not a great beginning (though great pain chocolat from the baker).
On to Dreux and the Royal Chapel. The countryside now changed from farm land to forest. I think I had read somewhere that Diane de Poitiers and her friends liked to hunt so that might explain the change. I was hoping for leaping deer at last. Alas ...
The Royal Chapel (or the Chapelle Royale) is a spectacular church set on the hill above Dreux (possibly the dreariest named town in the world). Up we went. To discover that this too was closed. Not only for winter, but pretty much the whole year - opened only really during the summer months. I doggedly took photos through the trees. We walked down the hill into Dreux to find the tourist office and get some decent information. Paris wacked his head on a sign. They are much shorter than him; the French. Or perhaps they have less hair and can see more. Before we found the tourist office, we found the local market which was lively and full of dead chickens and ducks with heads and legs (Zelda and I contemplated vegetarianism again, how squeamish are we?). A whole stall with oysters (all kinds, who knows what the differences were, and all still closed to the outside world). And then we were beguilded by a laneway that then took us into the centre of the town (and the tourist office). In there, a lovely young girl looked again with watery eyes at me, and apologised. 'But nothing is open here this time of the year. Except the town church.' 'Great,' I thought. 'That's not going to fly with the troops.' So I asked about the next site on my tour: Maintenon. 'Oh no,' she said. 'That too is shut.' She did give me a fat, shiny flyer for my troubles with all the sites we couldn't see in glossy colour and sent me on my way. The bells had just struck twelve and it was time to hurry home for lunch.
When I returned with my news, Paris looked darkly at the suggestion of the church, and then asked about lunch. 'Righto', I said. We found a boulangerie. I ordered (can you believe it?) and managed to get all the things that had been asked of me. We sat in the deserted square, albeit in sunshine, and ate. Our only companions were furtive children with large baguettes hurrying home across the square, and professional types striding passed, they too with baguettes, clearly having been held up at the office.
Ah the French lunch hour. How we love you.
So to Chartres then. We figured it was a large town. Maybe there would be things to see. Actually, it is a beautiful town with a soaring cathederal and glorious architecture everywhere. But we were a bit numb to see it. It is the problem of not having a clear destination. We were aimless and kinda slow. The French hate people who walk slow almost as much as they hate people who drive slow. We were close to being given notifications. In self defence, we went into a shop to buy water, and then walked around again. When it was looking dangerous for us again (slowness, Niccolo mistaking a post box for a bin ...), we slunk into a cafe to drink hot chocolate. We were surrounded by what looked like groovy, intellectual types, with cool hair and very thin cigarettes. But for all I know, they were discussing game shows.
So, having failed to find anything but churches open, we turned around with sorry tails and headed back home. On the way we did see a pink/burnt orange sunset (even Paris said: 'Pretty'), and two deer grazing at the edge of a woodland. They were not leaping, but still. I feel that at least one thing can be crossed off the list.
I cooked an approximation of a French stew (Niccolo had thirds, I think he might be craving protein). We watched a film called Bride Wars. It was as bad as the title clearly suggested.
Ding dong, sang the bells as I went out to lock our gate and door. Yes, I replied. Ding dong.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Verneuil sur Avre, day four
Rest day. Everyone was too tired from the couple of days we have spent on the road to get back in the car. So we decided that we would stay on our little cottage and enjoy the serenity. As luck would have it, it was also a day of rain, so sitting around in the heating and doing not very much had the weather in agreement.
No day can really begin without going to the boulangerie and getting all kinds of pastries and treats. The kids slept in and Myles and I wandered around the town and checked out the food shops. Verneuil sur Avre is not a big town, you can walk around it in about forty five minutes. But regardless, it has about seven very good bakeries and a couple of excellent butchers (they wrap the meat with such love ...) and some delis. All the town residents walk around with baguettes under their arms on their way home. It is hard to imagine Macleod (which is a bigger town that this one) being able to sustain this level of food options. But we think that buying rubbish bread from the supermarket is somehow OK. The kids are already speculating on how they are going to survive back in Australia without this option of bread at every turn. I can see why some many people have written so extensively about France and food. It is not only the food, but the attitude of the French people, and their committment to food and the eating it. The kids still can't get over the fact that pretty much everything closes down between 12 and 2 while the population goes home to lunch properly with their familes. Paris is at the point that he now clock watches - warning us that the shops will close soon, and what will we eat then? You have to admire the dedication. Perhaps he is secretly French.
After the kids finally woke, we insisted that they dress (they were preparing for a day in pajamas) and that we go for a walk. There are two tourist walks; one is a moat walk and the other a history walk. We decided on the moat walk because it was a hour (the other was two hours) and the rain was coming down with some intent. It was very pretty, walking along an old moat which is now really just a funny stream that circles the town. At one point, we stopped and I speculated that perhaps, on a hot day (NOT the one we were currently experiencing), it would be a nice stream to dandle the feet in; to paddle. Just as I was doing this (not actually paddling or anything), an old bloke came along and joined us. 'Poisson', he said. Myles decided that he was telling us the moat was poison. 'It's poisoned,' he told the kids. But they (and I) had watched The Little Mermaid often enough to know that our friend (Pierre? Etienne? Claude?) was speaking of fish. 'Oh oui,' Claude assured us. And with his hands, showed us the size of fish you might expect. We then had a chat that was really all done through mime. Claude walked with us around the moat and the kids discovered that part of the walk was a kind of exercise regime with equipment and signs with demonstrations of what to do. Some of them made no sense. While Paris demonstated the exercise based on what he could discern from the signs, the rest of us fell about laughing.
The rain continued to fall upon us. Claude showed us his watch (one o'clock, mon dieu!) and departed for his lunch (and more wine). We cut short the walk a little because we were wet and Paris predicted that at this late hour, even the last opening boulangerie would be shutting its doors. Turned out, this was indeed the case, and Madame was in the throes of shutting down while Monseiur the Baker was putting on his coat and heading out the door. We caught them just in time to buy a series of savory tarts and some biscuits. That was as far as our day went. In the moments after we returned home, the kids were in their pajamas and selecting movies to watch for the afternoon. I insisted we clean the house a little (OK, they agreed glumly). Then it was a marathon of film while the rain fell and Myles and I websurfed and hung out.
Then Monseiur Paris ('David, please') arrive to do the garden. In the rain. He was completely charming and told us all kinds of stories about this and that. But we had to go. We had incurred another parking fine (this time, only seventeen euros and no wheel clamping) and Myles, who is prompt in this regard, wanted to walk up to the police station and pay the thing. David told us where we had to go. When we got there, the police officer looked genuinely shocked that we were there to pay a fine (even had some trouble working out what he had to do), and had no change for our twenty euro note. Perhaps no one pays their fines. And certainly not on the day they are issued. Those English, they are crazy.
We had a wet and misty walk in the early evening looking at all the Christmas lights. And then, to the local charcuterie for dinner. I think you might never have to cook really in France. You can go into the charcuterie and buy fresh salads, and pies, and sausages, and all kinds of things. The kids couldn't wolf down the sausages fast enough. The beetroot salad challenged them a little, as it the two kinds of cabbage but with bread, butter and sausage, there can be few complaints at the table.
This life is what I was born to ...
No day can really begin without going to the boulangerie and getting all kinds of pastries and treats. The kids slept in and Myles and I wandered around the town and checked out the food shops. Verneuil sur Avre is not a big town, you can walk around it in about forty five minutes. But regardless, it has about seven very good bakeries and a couple of excellent butchers (they wrap the meat with such love ...) and some delis. All the town residents walk around with baguettes under their arms on their way home. It is hard to imagine Macleod (which is a bigger town that this one) being able to sustain this level of food options. But we think that buying rubbish bread from the supermarket is somehow OK. The kids are already speculating on how they are going to survive back in Australia without this option of bread at every turn. I can see why some many people have written so extensively about France and food. It is not only the food, but the attitude of the French people, and their committment to food and the eating it. The kids still can't get over the fact that pretty much everything closes down between 12 and 2 while the population goes home to lunch properly with their familes. Paris is at the point that he now clock watches - warning us that the shops will close soon, and what will we eat then? You have to admire the dedication. Perhaps he is secretly French.
After the kids finally woke, we insisted that they dress (they were preparing for a day in pajamas) and that we go for a walk. There are two tourist walks; one is a moat walk and the other a history walk. We decided on the moat walk because it was a hour (the other was two hours) and the rain was coming down with some intent. It was very pretty, walking along an old moat which is now really just a funny stream that circles the town. At one point, we stopped and I speculated that perhaps, on a hot day (NOT the one we were currently experiencing), it would be a nice stream to dandle the feet in; to paddle. Just as I was doing this (not actually paddling or anything), an old bloke came along and joined us. 'Poisson', he said. Myles decided that he was telling us the moat was poison. 'It's poisoned,' he told the kids. But they (and I) had watched The Little Mermaid often enough to know that our friend (Pierre? Etienne? Claude?) was speaking of fish. 'Oh oui,' Claude assured us. And with his hands, showed us the size of fish you might expect. We then had a chat that was really all done through mime. Claude walked with us around the moat and the kids discovered that part of the walk was a kind of exercise regime with equipment and signs with demonstrations of what to do. Some of them made no sense. While Paris demonstated the exercise based on what he could discern from the signs, the rest of us fell about laughing.
The rain continued to fall upon us. Claude showed us his watch (one o'clock, mon dieu!) and departed for his lunch (and more wine). We cut short the walk a little because we were wet and Paris predicted that at this late hour, even the last opening boulangerie would be shutting its doors. Turned out, this was indeed the case, and Madame was in the throes of shutting down while Monseiur the Baker was putting on his coat and heading out the door. We caught them just in time to buy a series of savory tarts and some biscuits. That was as far as our day went. In the moments after we returned home, the kids were in their pajamas and selecting movies to watch for the afternoon. I insisted we clean the house a little (OK, they agreed glumly). Then it was a marathon of film while the rain fell and Myles and I websurfed and hung out.
Then Monseiur Paris ('David, please') arrive to do the garden. In the rain. He was completely charming and told us all kinds of stories about this and that. But we had to go. We had incurred another parking fine (this time, only seventeen euros and no wheel clamping) and Myles, who is prompt in this regard, wanted to walk up to the police station and pay the thing. David told us where we had to go. When we got there, the police officer looked genuinely shocked that we were there to pay a fine (even had some trouble working out what he had to do), and had no change for our twenty euro note. Perhaps no one pays their fines. And certainly not on the day they are issued. Those English, they are crazy.
We had a wet and misty walk in the early evening looking at all the Christmas lights. And then, to the local charcuterie for dinner. I think you might never have to cook really in France. You can go into the charcuterie and buy fresh salads, and pies, and sausages, and all kinds of things. The kids couldn't wolf down the sausages fast enough. The beetroot salad challenged them a little, as it the two kinds of cabbage but with bread, butter and sausage, there can be few complaints at the table.
This life is what I was born to ...
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Verneuil sur Avre, day three
D-Day. Well, sort of. This was the day that Myles was going to see Omaha Beach if he had to drive through the bocage tank-like. But it didn't, in the end, need to be that dramatic. And since it was vaguely in the same direction, we decided to drive to Mont Saint Michel first, and then drive to Omaha Beach. So far, so good.
We dragged the troops out of bed relatively early but still struggled to get on the road before nine thirty (as before ... how will I ever go to work? I am beginning to have doubts that one can feed a family adequately and go to work. Or clean the house and go to work. Hmmm). And discovered that Mont Saint Michel was three hours away. 'How much do you really want to see this?' asked Myles with a furrow in his brow. 'Well, very much ...'
Again, through the Normandy countryside. Again lovely and peppered with animals feasting on green grass, fattening themselves up for further feasting. We tried to listen to Disco music which didn't quite work. So then I discovered a station called Nostalgie which plays a variety of music that includes Serge Gainboroughesque French songs that appears to be about love and the seaside and are sung by French versions of Dean Martin or Astrid Gilberto, and eighties songs from the English speaking world like Billie Jean and Mamma Mia. It was a happy time.
Mont Saint Michel suddenly drifted up through our car windows as we were driving through some more green grazing land. It is very other worldy, like a dreamy kind of mythical castle that appears and disappears on the tides of the clouds. And that feeling doesn't appear to disperse as you come closer. If anything, it becomes more strange and compelling.
We parked. We were assured that our car would not be washed away today. And then in we went. It is like a village at the bottom with houses and shops in tiny laneways. Zelda beamed at me and said 'It's just like the Tower of London, only chipper.' Indeed. Lots of shops selling striped tops, and then lots of restaurants claiming to be Mere Poulard. I think, from terrible memory, that Mere Poulard was famous for her omelette sometime in the early part of the twentieth century. Elizabeth David writes about her. Omelettes, happily, were on the menu, though we didn't stop to eat. Up and up we climbed through the street, and at every turn, as gaps between the buildings opened, the landscape below us become more and more alien and remote. We were above it all - and sailing into the sunset with a thousand Japanese tourists, some stylish French tourists and a rather portly English couple who buddied up with us at one point.
To go into the Abbey, which is at the top of the mountain, you pay a fee. But, rather wonderfully, children are free (in the interests of education??). And the notion of a child here was someone under 18. This is not the case in most places. And it is very hard to argue that Paris is under 12. As much as we would like to.
And again you climb, up stairs and through alleyways. And again, you suddenly find yourself in a small square with the whole of Normandy spread out on one side and the Channel on the other.
Into the church we went. I have had to ration churches because of frank rebellion from some of the children, but even they had to gasp at this one. Soaring into the sky, and as it is in the sky anyway, it is a marvel. Niccolo was swinging something around and threatening to cartwheel. I had to explain that this was a sacred space to some and he needed to respect that. After that, he took the whole thing very seriously (as he will when you give him those kinds of directions). We then walked into the cloister where the monks circled in endless (or bottomless?) contemplation. This cloiser is walled and has a garden in the middle, but one wall opens to the sea (at what feels like about a mile elevation). It has glass, but I'm not sure this was always the case. Apparently this was an unfinished part of the abbey. It was rather unsettling. Into the refectory where they ate, and then downstairs into the reception rooms for royalty. This room was huge and contained two enormous fireplaces that you could walk right into, and see out of the chimmney. We all liked this very much. There was some restoration working going on, one man who was up on a scaffold literally cutting a piece of stone by hand.
Then through a labyrinth of rooms, some with huge columns to hold up the church above, some old ossaries (with no bones), some chapels, and then covered staircases that seemed to go nowhere but would suddenly open into another room.
We exited into the historical gift shop (everyone's favourite part of any tour). Niccolo painstakingly surveyed the shelves, finally deciding on a castle that is made from paper (that is; you put it together yourself). Zelda chose a notebook that closed with a jewel. I bought a book about winter in Mont Saint Michel.
We went back into the little laneways with the intention of eating, but found ourselves back on the causeway with no food in our bellies. I wanted to walk on what looked like sandbanks that reached out from the back of Mont Saint Michel, but it turned out to be mud, and you couldn't do it anyway. Some school children were trying, but it looked like it might not end well.
We settled for a drive back into the town and eating baguettes.
We programed Sam for Omaha and off we went.
The day was incredibly clear and sunny (I haven't mentioned this yet, but it was like the clearest autumn day ever), but cold. Perfect to wander along Omaha Beach, saturated in history and blood but remarkably domestic and beautiful; the kind of beach you would want to come back to on a hot day and spend digging sand castles and swimming. For Myles, this place was moving and important. (A bit like me and my trenches - enough already.) The kids just ran about in the water and got very cold.
As it approached five o'clock and the sun was disappearing (and the temperature was dropping) we drove to the American cemetary. It was about to close, but we were able to walk around for about twenty minutes. The white, marble crosses stretched out as far as your eye can see are confronting, and they sit above another beach equally as glorious as Omaha.
Then American soldiers who man the place came out to chivvy us along and get us back into our car. Well, it was almost dark by this time.
The long drive home. It was long, we didn't return to Verneuil sur Avre until eight at night. But although exhausted, we were all pretty chuffed.
Oh, and on a food note. There were signs at Mont Saint Michel about pre-sale lamb. I seem to remember this from Elizabeth David, something about the salt content in the grass in Normandy which makes for particular lamb. I wish we had stopped to eat it. I wish I could remember what it was exactlly. Perhaps some one could enlighten me.
We dragged the troops out of bed relatively early but still struggled to get on the road before nine thirty (as before ... how will I ever go to work? I am beginning to have doubts that one can feed a family adequately and go to work. Or clean the house and go to work. Hmmm). And discovered that Mont Saint Michel was three hours away. 'How much do you really want to see this?' asked Myles with a furrow in his brow. 'Well, very much ...'
Again, through the Normandy countryside. Again lovely and peppered with animals feasting on green grass, fattening themselves up for further feasting. We tried to listen to Disco music which didn't quite work. So then I discovered a station called Nostalgie which plays a variety of music that includes Serge Gainboroughesque French songs that appears to be about love and the seaside and are sung by French versions of Dean Martin or Astrid Gilberto, and eighties songs from the English speaking world like Billie Jean and Mamma Mia. It was a happy time.
Mont Saint Michel suddenly drifted up through our car windows as we were driving through some more green grazing land. It is very other worldy, like a dreamy kind of mythical castle that appears and disappears on the tides of the clouds. And that feeling doesn't appear to disperse as you come closer. If anything, it becomes more strange and compelling.
We parked. We were assured that our car would not be washed away today. And then in we went. It is like a village at the bottom with houses and shops in tiny laneways. Zelda beamed at me and said 'It's just like the Tower of London, only chipper.' Indeed. Lots of shops selling striped tops, and then lots of restaurants claiming to be Mere Poulard. I think, from terrible memory, that Mere Poulard was famous for her omelette sometime in the early part of the twentieth century. Elizabeth David writes about her. Omelettes, happily, were on the menu, though we didn't stop to eat. Up and up we climbed through the street, and at every turn, as gaps between the buildings opened, the landscape below us become more and more alien and remote. We were above it all - and sailing into the sunset with a thousand Japanese tourists, some stylish French tourists and a rather portly English couple who buddied up with us at one point.
To go into the Abbey, which is at the top of the mountain, you pay a fee. But, rather wonderfully, children are free (in the interests of education??). And the notion of a child here was someone under 18. This is not the case in most places. And it is very hard to argue that Paris is under 12. As much as we would like to.
And again you climb, up stairs and through alleyways. And again, you suddenly find yourself in a small square with the whole of Normandy spread out on one side and the Channel on the other.
Into the church we went. I have had to ration churches because of frank rebellion from some of the children, but even they had to gasp at this one. Soaring into the sky, and as it is in the sky anyway, it is a marvel. Niccolo was swinging something around and threatening to cartwheel. I had to explain that this was a sacred space to some and he needed to respect that. After that, he took the whole thing very seriously (as he will when you give him those kinds of directions). We then walked into the cloister where the monks circled in endless (or bottomless?) contemplation. This cloiser is walled and has a garden in the middle, but one wall opens to the sea (at what feels like about a mile elevation). It has glass, but I'm not sure this was always the case. Apparently this was an unfinished part of the abbey. It was rather unsettling. Into the refectory where they ate, and then downstairs into the reception rooms for royalty. This room was huge and contained two enormous fireplaces that you could walk right into, and see out of the chimmney. We all liked this very much. There was some restoration working going on, one man who was up on a scaffold literally cutting a piece of stone by hand.
Then through a labyrinth of rooms, some with huge columns to hold up the church above, some old ossaries (with no bones), some chapels, and then covered staircases that seemed to go nowhere but would suddenly open into another room.
We exited into the historical gift shop (everyone's favourite part of any tour). Niccolo painstakingly surveyed the shelves, finally deciding on a castle that is made from paper (that is; you put it together yourself). Zelda chose a notebook that closed with a jewel. I bought a book about winter in Mont Saint Michel.
We went back into the little laneways with the intention of eating, but found ourselves back on the causeway with no food in our bellies. I wanted to walk on what looked like sandbanks that reached out from the back of Mont Saint Michel, but it turned out to be mud, and you couldn't do it anyway. Some school children were trying, but it looked like it might not end well.
We settled for a drive back into the town and eating baguettes.
We programed Sam for Omaha and off we went.
The day was incredibly clear and sunny (I haven't mentioned this yet, but it was like the clearest autumn day ever), but cold. Perfect to wander along Omaha Beach, saturated in history and blood but remarkably domestic and beautiful; the kind of beach you would want to come back to on a hot day and spend digging sand castles and swimming. For Myles, this place was moving and important. (A bit like me and my trenches - enough already.) The kids just ran about in the water and got very cold.
As it approached five o'clock and the sun was disappearing (and the temperature was dropping) we drove to the American cemetary. It was about to close, but we were able to walk around for about twenty minutes. The white, marble crosses stretched out as far as your eye can see are confronting, and they sit above another beach equally as glorious as Omaha.
Then American soldiers who man the place came out to chivvy us along and get us back into our car. Well, it was almost dark by this time.
The long drive home. It was long, we didn't return to Verneuil sur Avre until eight at night. But although exhausted, we were all pretty chuffed.
Verneuil sur Avre, day two
Turns out, we can't get up at a normal hour anymore. Initially, we couldn't sleep past three in the morning so we saw much of England by the light of dawn. But here, in France, we can't get up before nine (I can't imagine how on earth I'm ever going to work again, but that is something to think about for another day ... another, other day, way down the track). Which means that today, we didn't leave the house until after ten thirty on our way to Caen and the D-Day memorial (or, in French, Jour-J ... I have adopted this version). Caen is quite a long way from us (we are a decent way from most things ...) so off we drove into the Normandy countryside. It is particularly beautiful I have to say, lots of cows grazing around, awaiting their day of doom. Sheep, and shaggy, shaggy horses. And, of course, the invisible leaping deer ... everywhere. Caen is a lovely town and we arrived at about 12.30. We were looking for the tourist office and parked, according to the signs, in the carpark nearest to this mythical office. Sadly, we exited the carpark the wrong way and ended up walking around Caen (which is beautiful) following these signs telling us about the tourist office. After at least three quarters of an hour, we found the tourist office, about one hundred metres from the carpark (but in the opposite direction). By the time we got there, it was closed for lunch. This reminded the children that it was lunchtime. So we wandered into the streets of Caen in search of fuel. The kids are beguilded, as we all are, by the bakeries and we ended up eating unbelievably good rolls filled with chicken, tuna or ham, depending on tastes. All the people behind every shop counter we have ever walked into are infailingly patient and kind, giving us all kinds of help with our purchases. Myles says the commence opens the door to the desire to communicate. Perhaps he is right. I choose to believe that everyone is just nice. And the jackets are funny enough to break the ice ...
Finally, the tourist office opened and we got the map to the memorial. Samantha had no idea what we were talking about when we plugged the address into her system, so we resorted to the old school technology of a map and me reading it. There was much driving up and done streets and grinding of teeth until we found the place.
It is a huge building that put me in the mind of the National Gallery of Victoria - stark and clean lines. Outside is the sculpture of the gun with a knot tied in it (Non-violence, it is called). Niccolo loved it.
Inside, you tour pretty much the lead up to, and the sequence of, World War II. It was too complex for Niccolo and Zelda (I tried to explain as we went, but it was pretty tough going). Paris was utterly enthralled - he came out ages after the rest of us were sitting in the recovery chairs at the end of the exhibit. Walking through the rooms, I was stopped by a bloke who was guiding some Japanese tourists through (he was clearly French), who warned me that some of the rooms would be overwhelming for the kids. (How many language did he speak??) He was right - as you would imagine. And not only the holocaust rooms, but the partsian rooms as well, and the extent of the violence in the civilian population.
I still have this feeling that the trenches were one of the worst moments in human history (I'm talking here about World War I), but the violence of World War I does appear to be confined to some level. The violence and the destruction were terrible, but confined. But World War II ('total war') penetrated the bedrooms, and the lounge rooms of everyone - and what could happen to people (some times by accident, sometimes because of affiliations, and so on) was unbelievable. Niccolo and Zelda watched a film about the Battle of Britain, which was a little removed in terms of violence but they thought was very interesting, particularly about what happened to the children.
After we left that part of the memorial (after Paris took his time to leave), we went into the section about D-Day (Jour-J ... remember?) and read all about that. Again, this was an amazing exhibit with incredible artefacts and information. We were pretty exhausted by this time - museums can destroy you. And it was late - about 4pm when we left. Myles was still intent upon going to the beaches themselves, but it turned out it was another hour up the road, and it would be close to dark when we arrived. So we turned tail and came home.
It was sausages and bread and wine for dinner and, for the kids, a marathon of film. They have not seen film in English for about three nights and were clearly starved for it.
We resolved to return to the D-Day beaches the next day.
Finally, the tourist office opened and we got the map to the memorial. Samantha had no idea what we were talking about when we plugged the address into her system, so we resorted to the old school technology of a map and me reading it. There was much driving up and done streets and grinding of teeth until we found the place.
It is a huge building that put me in the mind of the National Gallery of Victoria - stark and clean lines. Outside is the sculpture of the gun with a knot tied in it (Non-violence, it is called). Niccolo loved it.
Inside, you tour pretty much the lead up to, and the sequence of, World War II. It was too complex for Niccolo and Zelda (I tried to explain as we went, but it was pretty tough going). Paris was utterly enthralled - he came out ages after the rest of us were sitting in the recovery chairs at the end of the exhibit. Walking through the rooms, I was stopped by a bloke who was guiding some Japanese tourists through (he was clearly French), who warned me that some of the rooms would be overwhelming for the kids. (How many language did he speak??) He was right - as you would imagine. And not only the holocaust rooms, but the partsian rooms as well, and the extent of the violence in the civilian population.
I still have this feeling that the trenches were one of the worst moments in human history (I'm talking here about World War I), but the violence of World War I does appear to be confined to some level. The violence and the destruction were terrible, but confined. But World War II ('total war') penetrated the bedrooms, and the lounge rooms of everyone - and what could happen to people (some times by accident, sometimes because of affiliations, and so on) was unbelievable. Niccolo and Zelda watched a film about the Battle of Britain, which was a little removed in terms of violence but they thought was very interesting, particularly about what happened to the children.
After we left that part of the memorial (after Paris took his time to leave), we went into the section about D-Day (Jour-J ... remember?) and read all about that. Again, this was an amazing exhibit with incredible artefacts and information. We were pretty exhausted by this time - museums can destroy you. And it was late - about 4pm when we left. Myles was still intent upon going to the beaches themselves, but it turned out it was another hour up the road, and it would be close to dark when we arrived. So we turned tail and came home.
It was sausages and bread and wine for dinner and, for the kids, a marathon of film. They have not seen film in English for about three nights and were clearly starved for it.
We resolved to return to the D-Day beaches the next day.
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