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.