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.
.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.
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.
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.
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