Dieppe to Rouen

Breakfast at 8.45 was later than what we wanted but even Yoni’s attempts at charming our landlady didn’t help. If anyone was going to succeed it was Yoni. We would greet her with a warm bon jour and would get a disinterested good morning in reply. Yoni, however, merely needed to smile and suddenly madame would blush like a schoolgirl and talk to us in almost Oxford English. Hmm, Yoni claims that this was his first time here but we had our doubts. At any rate, breakfast before 8.45 was not negotiable. We had a reasonably long drive ahead of us and wanted to get to Dieppe by midday for the Saturday market. Despite talk of leaving directly after breakfast, Phil had to complete one of his 3 daily showers and pack the mess that was his corner of the room into his suitcase, despite objections that there was no mess at all. To be honest, I felt for Garry and Yoni. Between my (supposed) snoring and Phil’s idiosyncrasies, choosing a room-mate was an unenviable task. A lose-lose situation.
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Today the gods of highways and transport conspired to prevent us from getting to the market on time. We'd been making reasonable time in covering the 150 km to Dieppe when our lack of understanding of the payment methods of the French highway system led us astray. When approaching a toll station we were never too sure through which gate to go and how we were meant to pay. A number of times we had angry French motorists swearing at us in a most profane tongue whilst we tried to work out if we were meant to pay with Euro coins when we only had notes, swipe the credit card, or take a ticket and pay later. Ultimately, what threw a spanner in the works was a toll lane that led the 4 unwitting Anglo-Saxon tourists onto the wrong road and the route back onto the correct highway had us going in the direction from which we came. Bad for our team. Taking the next off ramp didn’t allow us to double back but merely led us into a road that had no relation at all to Dieppe. After 45 minutes of ramps, highways, annoying GPS directions, useless maps and general bad temper, we arrived back at the original toll gate that led us astray in the first place, determined not to make the same mistake that would lead us to repeat another 45 minutes of purgatory. We got the gate right this time, made believe we were on a German autobahn and not a French highway and got to the outskirts of Dieppe by 11.30. A number of times over a number of blogs I have commented that an outlandish or unreal situation  that we found ourselves in was worthy of a Seinfeld scene. The highway mix-up was one such scene.

The outskirts of Dieppe reminded Phil of Geelong, which wasn’t  said as a compliment to this Norman town. As we progressed, however, urban uniformity turned into old world charm and by the time we reached the port area all thoughts of bland Australian cities had dissipated. All that remained was to find somewhere to park our car. The Peugeot's cute gadgets like a tele-prompter that would come up in front of the driver but that no-one else could see or a beeping device that told you how far you were from the car in front couldn't help us get a parking spot. Perhaps that's a feature that they should build into GPS systems...Satellite Parking Guidence, SPG...I'm going to patent that idea.

Back to Dieppe. Eventually we spilled out of the car at 11.50, just in time to see the stalls get packed up. We'd gotten used to relaxed back-country towns and were ill prepared for the Saturday market crush. Still, a major regional market can never be boring and the quality of even  commonplace items that you see in markets everywhere in the world have a panache that differentiates the French from the rest. Yoni was disappointing that his oyster stall had already packed it in so in consolation we found a local fish shop, bought a dozen, had them shucked on the spot and  found a bench to sit on in the port area to happily slurp our mollusks. It was irrelevant that just over 12 hours previously the two of us had demolished a seafood platter designed for four. Today was another day and another oyster. 

We continued walking around the old town, admiring the architecture and the atmosphere. Lunch beckoned and despite our reservations about eating at places that obviously cater for the tourists rather than the locals, we chose a restaurant that oozed with French charm (what, again?). This time the charm took the form of leadlight windows, belle epoque decor and padded booths. Little Toulouse-Lautrec could have used the place in one of his paintings.

After lunch it  was down to the sea-shore. I won't call it a beach because a beach in my mind is sand that runs into the sea. At Dieppe there isn't a grain of sand to be seen. Instead the shore consists of dark round rocks about the size of a child's fist. Walking over them makes a clunking, clicking sound that is only interrupted by the sound of the water washing over the rocks. The receding water makes a sound reminiscent of a fizzy drink being poured over cracking ice. Very weird. The shore is backed by white cliffs as far as the horizon, this being the French equivalent of the White Cliffs of Dover just across the strait. We clunked along the shore for about half an hour, sat down for a while to appreciate the view and returned to town.

As we returned we passed the preparation area  for cars participating in the Dieppe Grand Prix. Let's not get too over-enthused here. The cars were all of an older, small engined variety, decked out with the obligatory safety cages and shiny wheels. The small engines had been bored out to make lots of noise but the racing seemed to consist of each each individual car driving up onto a starting podium then ripping around Dieppe one at a time on a time trial. The Monaco F1 Grand Prix it 'aint. We continued walking up the boardwalk , past the public baths which included a hot water pool and spa that we intended to try out later on, continuing as far as the docks.

Above the shore and the town stands a very imposing castle which looked like a fun place to explore, so that was our next stop. Castles are usually built on top of a hill overlooking the town below in order to look imposing, or foreboding even, in the eyes of the commoners.  From the top the lord can get a good view of his subjects below. A good view of his subjects also means a good view over the landscape. The view from the top over the old parts of Dieppe, the sea and the grass commons that stretched between the shore and the houses was very pretty. Nice place to build a house (or a castle). The castle has been turned into the Dieppe Museum of Art and being the cultural sort of tourists we are, were happy to fork over a few euro to see the exhibits and the castle as well. The museum is deceptively large, each room holding a collection from a different era or style. There was a  room of ancient Egyptian artifacts, another featuring local artists including the venerable monsieur Boudin from Honfluer, a room of impressionist paintings by unknowns such as Monet, Renoir and Pissaro and even a very interesting room of montaged photographs of Arab women in full garb at the beach. (We called this the Gaza room, though the subjects were far too happy looking to be from Gaza). I would heartily recommend a visit by anyone engaged in tourist activities whilst in Dieppe.

After this bout of culture, we decided to take a drive along the coast and though the hills to the neighboring towns. The next town along was a pretty little place, akin to the many pretty little places that we'd been driving through these past few days, with one important added feature. An oyster hut, which consisted of a large workroom downstairs where the oysters were sorted according to type and size and prepared for market and the upstairs where there was a restaurant, of sorts, that shucked and served these same oysters on demand. These French take their oysters very seriously. The Americans have their Pizza Hut, the Normans have an Oyster Hut. Says something, no? I know which fast food I'll take.
Just as Yoni had an ulterior motive yesterday in bringing us to Trouville, today he also had a thinly veiled excuse to bring us to this particular place. Yes, food related (of course), but no, not oyster related. There is a patisserie here in this unnamed village that Yoni claims has the best lemon tarts that he's ever eaten, though he's too scared to actually say that in the presence of his wife, Sigal, for fear of retribution. We bought a tart each and restrained ourselves just long enough in order to find an appropriate place to devour the heavenly pastry. We found such a place, on a grassy knoll overlooking the most magnificent cemetery that I can remember seeing. This cemetery with a small adjoining church sat on a cliff-top overlooking the entire coast. The ultimate resting place. As for the tart, given the surroundings, it gave new meaning to the term "to die for". We were sworn to silence, not allowing Sigal to know that she had serious competition in the lemon tart making stakes.

Back in Dieppe, we were preparing ourselves for a dip in the hot pools at the public baths as a reward for all the hard work we'd put in during the previous three and a half days. Being late afternoon already, by the time we got to the pools they were closed. Oh well. Next time.
We could well and truly put a vee next to Dieppe and now it was time to move on to Rouen where we were spending the night.
Rouen is a big city and the capital of Upper Normandy.  It is also one of the oldest cities in Normandy and as such the streets in the old town are narrow and the houses bunched up together. We had the next day to explore Rouen. Tonight we had only one thing on our minds...La Couronne, France's oldest restaurant, established in 1345. (http://www.lacouronne.com.fr/) It is a famous, traditional French restaurant. On every available wall there were photos of the rich and famous who had eaten here over the years, from Hollywood and French movie stars to U.S. presidents and other world leaders to sporting icons. If the average non-celebrity guests like us were meant to be impressed, then it worked. We had an older Woody Allen and a young and extremely beautiful  Brigitte Bardot watching over us at dinner. We offered ourselves as potential wall-photos but they politely declined. Don't know why.
And what a dinner. The restaurant's specialty is pressed duck, where apparently the chef takes a whole duck and puts it through a medieval torture device, creating a special dish. It's a dish for 2 people and unfortunately I didn't have a partner to share it with me, so I compromised with the double duck special...first course of duck liver terrine followed by cannard de l'orange. As if this wasn't rich enough, the cheese platter and dessert raised my cholesterol by another few points.
We declined coffee, preferring to walk our meal off a bit and find a cafe along the way. Saturday night is party night and the streets of old town Rouen were really jumping, full of young revelers, loud music and good vibes. Unbeknownst to us, there is a by-law in Rouen dating from 1726 that prohibits the sale of caffeine based drinks on Saturday nights after the hour of 10 p.m. We walked past tens of places with signs advertising "cafe-bar" but not one of them was willing to serve us coffee. Most of the proprietors looked at us as if we were insane or stupid or both, it being plainly obvious that at this hour you don't drink coffee. Obviously the "cafe" part is for the day and the "bar" part is for night and ne'er the twain shall meet. Just like breakfast at 8.45, rules are rules and there's no breaking them.
Not to worry. We weren't going to let a minor letdown like this spoil another great day.

Calvados to the coast

If I finished the previous day with words of enchantment, then we started the next day along the same lines. Breakfast was served from 8.45 and not a minute earlier. In order not to waste too many minutes of daylight our tour director had us standing in a row at 8 a.m, walking shoes on foot and sturdy walking stick in hand, ready for our daily constitutional, though the magic forest  behind our lodgings. Left right, left right, down the path we strode. And it really was enchanted. The trees were tall and in full foliage, wholly shading the area below. Even though we hadn't seen any evidence of recent rain in any of the area that we'd driven through yesterday, the path was a little slippery . There was a small swamp below the path. The air too was damp, but not dank. It was fresh and smelt of green, as if all the trees had exhaled oxygen together just for us to breath it in. In this natural forest, the trees were sprinkled randomly, the way nature meant them to be, with ferns and bush covering the ground. At a certain point the wild forest was tamed and these same trees were now planted in neat, exact  rows. They were still very tall and shady but stood like soldiers standing in formation waiting for inspection.. In the middle of the forest, in the middle of no-where, was a small cabin,. We couldn't resist the temptation and decided to have a peak in, like little boys in a movie, about to discover a rotten corpse or a stash of counterfeit euros. As the door creaked open, all we saw was a plastic chair and a mattress. Boring.  It was getting close to the designated breakfast hour (or 3/4 hour) so we headed back to camp. We at least felt that we could justify the calories of a  good hearty breakfast, not that we'd bothered justifying any of the thousands of calories we'd consumed in the previous 48 hours.

Our B+B was located in the region of Normandy, in the district of Basse Normandy, in the department of Pays D'auge, in the canton of Calvados. Who ever said that the French were formalistic and regimental? What was important for the purposes of Friday morning, 6th May, was that we were in Calvados and we were about to embark on the route de cider, which basically meant driving around the local countryside trying to find small local producers of calvados and cider. So there we were at 9.30 a.m. at the estate of monsieur  Huet on the outskirts of Cambremer, getting a fascinating explanation of the differences in grades of calvados, ranging from the lowly fine  (which indeed was fine to my untrained taste-buds) which is matured only 2 years in the cask to the cordon or which stays over 30 years in its barrel before you get a chance to buy it. Of course, tastings accompanied the explanations. It's an interesting experience sipping  a range of 40% alcohol brandies at 9.30 in the morning, washed  down with some 5% apple cider. We tottered out from monsieur Huet's establishment with a small bottle of 8 y.o.vieille reserve and a bottle of cider under arm. Next stop, Caves du Manoir de Grandouet, which was even more rustic and picturesque. There wasn't much of a tour to do here but the nice girl suggested we sit down and watch the video. In French only. Funnily enough, it was very interesting, watching this home made video, undoubtedly shot by monsieur Grandouet's 8 year-old grand-daughter, of tractors shaking apple trees in a variety of ways. I'm not sure what an independent observer would have made of these 4 idiots, mindlessly gawking at a video about apple tree shaking, in a language they didn't understand, but it wouldn't surprise me if he'd put a hurried phone call through to the district inspector of mental health. Anyway, it was quaint for about ten minutes, but that was enough apple shaking for us. We didn't even get to see a solitary apple get crushed, juiced and calvadosed. The cider that we tasted, however,  was equally as good as our jolly friend's in Liverot from the day before and 2 bottles were bought in preparation for today's picnic lunch.

The next stop, Coquainvilliers, was significant only for us noticing a poster announcing that today there was La Fete de Fromage in neighbouring Pont L'Eveque. So after a quick stroll through the botanical gardens, Presbyterian church (a rarity in Catholic France) and the large Boulard calvados still, which is  one of the more famous calvados brands internationally, we headed off to Pont L'Eveque. When it comes down to it, if you're ever in this corner of Normandy and chance to visit Coquainvilliers... don't. Continue on to Pont L'Eveque, which, cheese fete or not, is much more interesting. It's a charming town, substantially larger than the hamlets that we'd been driving through in the area. Whilst we didn't hear very many languages other than French, it had a touristy feel to it, the streets and cafes full of people lounging in a manner that suggested that they weren't working. And who wants to work when the alternative is the Pont L'Eveque fete de fromage?
Pont L'Eveque is one of a number of famous cheeses that originate in Norman villages, that also include Neufchatel, Boursin, Liverot, and of course Camembert. We found them all here at the fair, as well as all the other usual suspects...wines from regions all around France, local cider and calvados, sausages and meat products and lots of other tasty stuff. We split up, checking out different stalls at our own pace. We'd bump into each other randomly, perhaps check out a few things together and would continue on, exploring by ourselves. At one point Yoni and I met at a stall selling Corsican meat products. The vendor was eating a baguette stuffed with something that looked good so Yoni trotted off to get a baguette that we too could fill. Apparently Corsican horse sausage is regarded as a delicacy, and to be honest, I can understand why. It was a great forshpeizer before lunch.

When you're walking around a cheese fair in Normandy in a town that has a stream with good shade and grass-lined banks running through the middle, the hardest decisions that you have to make is which sausage, what cheese and who's cider do you buy for your picnic. Our car was parked at the entrance to the town so whilst I walked back in order to fetch the car and bring it closer to our picnic spot the others sought out a patisserie that is reputedly famous for its quality products. With picnic hamper in hand, including some almond and vanilla cream pastries for desert, we set out to find the ideal spot. The only remaining question was which place was better, yesterday's picnic table on the hill or today's grass patch on the banks of the stream. What would you prefer?
Blame the affects of the copious quantities of alcohol that we'd consumed on the cider route and the wine tastings at the fair, or the large amount of food in our expanded stomachs, or the sun drenched river banks and soft grass, or even the holiday frame of mind...it doesn't matter. As if under a spell set by the wicked witch of Normandy, the 4 of us promptly fell asleep under the tree on the riverbank immediately after finishing lunch. I was the first to awaken from siesta and sat there amused at the sight of the 3 unconscious sleeping beauties. Occasionally locals would walk past with bemused looks, not quite knowing what to make of these decrepit tourists. Eventually the others rolled over, rubbed their eyes and devoured the pastries that we were too full to eat before our shloof.

I have an aversion to being a tourist. This is plainly ridiculous, since I love experiencing places and cultures that I have never seen, i.e. being a tourist. Yet I hate going to places where I hear as much English as the local language. I always prefer to go to places that the locals go, like local cheese fairs, rather than the well trodden tourist venues.  One of the joys of this part of France is that we heard so little English and for that matter, not a lot of other non-French languages. Pont L'Aveque and Honfluer, our next stop, were fine examples of French tourist towns for the French. The marina is the hub of Honfluer, where restaurants, coffee bars and souvenir stands surround the boats gently bobbing in the water. The scene looks straight out of a Renoir painting. Or more correctly, a Eugene Louis Boudin painting. Whilst not amongst the most famous of the Impressionists, there are numerous plaques around the town showing a particular piece of work that he painted at the exact position that the plaque was located. According to Wikipedia, many of the early, more famous Impressionists also painted here with Boudin and even were part of what was called The Honfluer School . In any case, it is very picturesque. We left the marina area and walked around the town, passing through the botanical gardens and stopping briefly to watch a game of boules. We almost felt French.

Our last stop for the day was Trouville. How many charming places can we take in one day? And each one different from the other. Hats off to our tour guide. Trouville is grand, on a grand scale. Kennebunkport done French. The downtown is a long seaside strip of shops and restaurants, sort of Bondi Beach with class. There's a small seafood market of about 10 stalls but as has been said, size doesn't always matter, it's what you you do with it. And here, they do just fine. 10 different types of oysters, prawns ranging in size and color from whopper to midget, lobsters, bugs, crabs,urchins, cockles and of course fish. I sit here, my mouth watering at the memory (and the memory of dinner, but more of that a bit later).

Once you move away from the strip you pass the casino and marina. We wanted to have a look in the casino but the bouncer at the door looked down his nose and demanded that we present ID...perhaps he suspected we were under age!!! More likely over age. Once we were refused entrance to the casino we had no choice but walk along the boardwalk. Life's tough.  Like everything else about this town, the boardwalk is classy, with sand and surf on one side and enormous mansions on the other. But these mansions are not ostentatious nouveau-riche show pieces but old stately homes that I'm going to retire to when I inherit a billion dollars. We took it easy, walking at a relaxed  pace, watching more locals play boules and admired the grandeur of the architecture.

You might be able to tell that I liked Trouville (and Honfluer and Pont L'Aveque and everything else). So did Yoni, who spent a day here last October. But if truth be said, there was only one real reason why Yoni brought us here to Trouville. To have a partner (me) in tackling the humongous seafood pyramid at a choice downtown restaurant. He's been dreaming of it since he missed his opportunity last time he was here. I can't understand why anyone would dream of a meal where the chef goes out and raids the seafood market across the road and builds a pyramid consisting of 10 oysters (5 pairs, each of a different variety), a dozen jumbo prawns, 2 crabs, about 50 sea snails, coquille-St-Jacques and other cockle shells, a cup of shrimps and maybe I forgot something. The waiter set the table, bringing us a range of instruments of torture designed to crack, pick and peel what was about to be set in front of us. And crack, pick and peel we did. To the end. We finished it all, except for a few solitary sea-snails and the tiny shrimps.  Even the waiter was impressed. It truly was a meal to remember.

 

So as Garry and Phil wheeled Yoni and I back to the car, we reflected on this day which was both hectic and relaxing, from calvados tasting to cheese fairs to quaint seaside resorts to grand seafood restaurants and lots in between. And great company.