With the same population as the UK and twice the area, the land is laced together by a fascinating culture. Thirteen languages became one, yet the people's commitment to this once fragmented country and its culture is powerful. We love the sprawling agricultural expanses and dramatic landscapes, so I'm pining like an unrequited lover as I book our holiday. We chose Brittany this time. Not having been to the north west before, we're lured by that mythical Breton image of rugged, hardy French folk, fighting nature's elements and controlling Parisian governance.
The drive from Glasgow to Plymouth for the sea crossing is a road-work strewn, tailback-littered nightmare. The experience is made all the more miserable by some drivers forgetting cars are lethal weapons. I'd thought of buying a dash-cam before setting off, but resisted the urge to spend. I'm already beginning to regret the parsimony. However, we reach the channel coast in one piece and with more than enough time for fish and chips before alighting the ferry.
After two interminably slow hours staring longingly at the neighbouring line of Harley Davidson motorbikes, I accidentally push the new cars 'emergency' button and a voice crackles from the speakers. I sheepishly apologise; he remotely deactivates the alarm. Now that should have been enough to get me thinking, for I'm more intuitive than intelligent, but no: today is intuition deafness day, long to be remembered.
We're ushered forward and parked by the lift. Loading a ferry is quite a task and nowadays usually left to a computer to sort. The cabin is spacious and comfortable, although the ship is hardly on the calm sea crossing long enough to warrant my undressing on the narrow bunkbed. Or so I think. After six hours peacefully dreaming, one quick look around the sleep deprived faces in the morning cafe queue suggests differently.
The road trip from the port of Roscoff, to Lannion, near our base for the week, is short and sweet. We make a stop at Plestin les Garve to soak up the fabulous coastal imagery and watch two women wet-suit-walk far out in the pretty bay's shallow waters.
It's still early when we arrive in the main town, so after a compulsory visit to the boulangerie for croissant - enjoyed along with a coffee nearby - we visit the helpful tourist information centre before heading for our gite.
The Gites en Tregor, a converted barn and houses not far from nearby village of Ploubezre, is well appointed and comfortable. Run by Clara and Martin Cronin, who bought the place in 2007 then converted it for holiday use, the user-friendly set-up is near the pretty Chapel de Kerfons, a 15th century church built by the local landlord. It's well worth the short walk and is open during the summer months.
After settling in, we prepare a rough plan for the week’s activities. With only six nights here, we don't intend to waste time. There are a few local attractions, so we set about enjoying each day as it arrives. Or at least so we thought. Exploring the area on Sunday and Monday is fun. The weather is mid 20's centigrade and quite comfortable. Although I'm beginning to tire of the constant driving to and fro between the pretty coastal towns, we carry on as planned and on Tuesday set out smiling to visit the Grand Isle.
But the smiles soon begin to dissipate. Discovering that the isle, just off the coast, is not quite so accessible as the tourist office suggested, we try to decide on an alternative sortie. As we discuss the alternatives, an elderly French gentleman forgets to brake while reversing. The bump leaves no real damage, and he even says 'sorry' in English, but I'm growing an uncomfortable feeling that the week's script is still in unedited format. Then, to compound the nagging foreboding, as we leave the town through its narrow winding streets, a driver is approaching us at speed on the wrong side of the road, her astonished friend screaming and gesticulating. Braking, we watch, hearts in mouths, as she scrapes past our bonnet with millimetres to spare. Is someone trying to tell me something?
We retreat to the nearby port of Perros-Guirec and enjoy a wonderful lunch, soon forgetting the careless antics of fellow road users.
There, we meet a pleasant English couple visiting the area in their motorhome. They've two dogs with them, and since our own two are in kennels and sorely missed, we soon get chatting. Funnily enough, the man tells me he hates being away from home for more than a couple of days at a time and I find myself agreeing. The feeling that I've seen enough, overstayed my welcome, and may be chancing my luck nags on, but I ignore it. Besides, we've a planned visit to Versailles on the Saturday, with accommodation and tickets already booked. It's a fabulous place, yet we've passed-by the historic palace many times over the years. It really is a must visit location and I'm not letting the opportunity pass us by again.
Wednesday is treated as R&R to restore our enthusiasm. We fire our Kindles and I try to get my head around a Le Carre novel that's been lurking, unfinished, for months and soon find myself engrossed. It's a hot day and shelter out of the searing sun does us good. Our holidaying neighbours from the next door gite invite us for an early evening drink, so we join the pair outside, on the terrace overlooking rolling farmland, complete with a donkey and horses. Life's funny, isn't it? I mean, coincidences abound.
Our hosts, Meg and Norman, are Australian, from Melbourne. However, as we chat it's revealed that they had holidayed in Saint Sabine, in the Dordogne, in 2011. They were no more than 10k from our French home at that time. They'd even loved dining in Chez Edith, our favourite Sunday lunch spot and may even have once been there on the same Sunday, for both of them remembered the place bedecked in Rugby World Cup bunting for the France match!
Meg and Norman
Refreshed, Thursday sees us back on the go. It's market day in Lannion. We love the weekly French markets from our years in Villereal. Fairs like these are always worth a browse, for you never know what you'll find relative to local taste and culture. However, that smile from earlier in the week is fading again as we try to find the impossible - a parking space.
After 30 minutes of fruitless crisscrossing the bustling streets, we give up, frustrated. Taking the wrong turn off at a roundabout, we find ourselves heading back toward Perros-Guirec - again. But, after much discussion, finally decide to take comfort from lunch in one of the port's many restaurants. And with that decision made, fate takes its final, brutal slash at dissolving our determined resolve to smile.
As we drive toward the picturesque harbour on a steep, tree-lined bend, two motorcycles appear, coming up toward us. Now I love motorcycles, however the rider of one of this pair doesn't love cars - or life - for he's leant over, looking down toward his left foot-peg. The BMW tourer, as it turns out to be, begins veering toward us. He looks up; I slam on the brakes, but all too late. Even though both vehicles were travelling slowly, it's no more than a second or two before a crunching bang fills our ears and talcum-filled airbags shield us from injury.
The world's gone dark. Questions leap through the nightmare: Is my wife okay? Is anyone else hurt? Will I ever see another Scots roll with crispy bacon on it? Will Bolton Wanderers win on Saturday?
Pulling the airbag from my face, reality returns. A horrible, car-wrecked reality. After making sure we're both fine, we get out to assess what's happened. I hear voices. Was the bang that bad? Now, many of us have cars linked to the emergency services, and trust me, it's not an expensive gimmick, for, as if from nowhere, a reassuring voice fills my shocked ears to ask if we're alright. Surreal? Emergency services are on the way, it says. Stunned, I offer thanks, and turn to inhale fresh air away from the talc cloud.
It turns out the car can't be driven - unless you like three-wheelers - for the front passenger side alloy has been dislodged and rests at a crazy angle. The wing's caved-in, accordion style, and the door looks like it's been hit by a bus. The nearly new BMW 1 Series will need more than an aspirin to recover from its injuries. On the other hand, the motorcyclist and his touring steed are literally undamaged. Apart from scraped paintwork and - perhaps - the rider's ego, for his wife, on pillion, will have witnessed his stupidity - all seems fine as they chat with the gendarme.
The paramedics are on the scene in minutes. After being checked over, I'm breathalysed by the beefy, baguette wielding gendarme (I kid you not!) and ordered to get my frame to the nearest Renault garage to where they've hauled the damaged car on a loader. Once there, we will have to reach an agreement with the biker before being allowed on our way. But, despite an - 'it's only 500m,' from the Pompier - we wearily travel nearly 2k and still can't find the place.
The stout gendarme offers us a lift. Our worldly chattels are duly piled into the small police car, his young femme gendarme colleague nursing the baguette, we make slow progress toward the garage. I use the time to explain (in fluent Gallic shrugs, helped by flexible eyebrows) what actually happened, but he's not interested. Either I'm not shrugging expansively enough, or my eyebrows aren't convincingly synchronized, for he seems deaf to my fractured French explanation. No one was injured, he explains, and there are no witnesses. It's 'tout a tout' in his view and we were both 'on' the white line therefor share the blame. My eyebrows summersault as my shoulders sag: It wasn't our fault, honest!, says my thoughts, while I avoid remonstrating with the words, 'bollocks, officer!'
After two hours sorting out papers, chatting to the insurance company, and avoiding an assault on a 60-something French biker in denial, whose face gets a metre too close, I'm put on to RAC European rescue. A coordinator, called Natalie, who's voice is about to become my favourite sound of the week, begins the process of getting us safely home. Meanwhile, my wife has been patiently dealing with our geriatric Hells Angels and the beefy gendarme.
Papers signed off, a taxi arrives and takes us back to the gite. We're stunned, but still very much in control. After a debate with 'the voice' about the size of vehicle - with an automatic gearbox, please - required, another taxi takes us to Morlais airport car hire, where a Peugeot 508 awaits. Although the place closes at 8pm, the friendly taxi driver manages to get us there safely with minutes to spare. He even waits until certain the right car is available before leaving. More points to Natalie, the voice. She hasn't been able to find the car with adapted controls, but we didn't expect a miracle. Besides, my wife has already set her mind to the task ahead, while I've rearranged hotels and the Chunnel crossing for a day earlier than planned. Versailles will wait.
After driving through the dark for 30 km in a left hand drive vehicle, and following French sat nav instructions on narrow back roads, she needed few prompts as to the location of the verge, or the murderously high French kerbs before getting us back to the gite.
In the morning we've risen at the crack of dawn. My wife has the car packed, gite tidied, and we're ready to say farewell to our fine hosts before setting off for the 635km drive to Calais. We've two cars arranged; one French, for driving to Dover, and another to get us from there up to Glasgow.
We chat easily on the journey, for the roads aren't too busy and the rolling pastoral countryside becomes more familiar as we approach Rouen. The voice has arranged for us to be allowed to take the French car across via the Chunnel, for it's impossible to carry all our belongings from a ferry.
The drive through the UK changes little; roadworks, accidents and traffic jams galore, but we get home safely. The following morning, we drop the hire car off at Glasgow Airport, breathe a sigh of relief and collect our dogs from the local kennels. We're barely in the house an hour when the calm, reassuring voice of the efficient Natalie from the RAC calls to check we're home and safe. She signs us off. We sign off on driving abroad. Ever again.
Okay, so I'm joking, but it does make me think. Having had a home in France, we've driven roads there for many years and never had a problem. However, after chatting to the insurers, I discover accident investigations are too expensive to conduct unless there's an injury, even in the UK. So guess what? Yes, you got it first time - I bought that bloody dash-cam after all! It's expensive, but then honesty can sometimes be hard to find and lies are very costly.
PS: The car returned from the body shop on 11/11/16, nine weeks later.
Rob’s novels are:
Lamont - Moon's Rising
Link: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00YZNE2JS
THE FACTOR: A Detective Lamont Novel
Link: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B018YNIY66
The final part the trilogy is due out early next year, although Detective Lamont will live on.
