St Malo
This is sort of where my writing journey began. After almost two years of failing to get my translation career off the ground, I started to self-publish blog posts in the hope I could at least show prospective clients that I could at least string a sentence together. Eventually, one or two people agreed that I could, namely the nice people at lingoo.com and the nice people at Headwater Holidays. So if you have an unfulfilled goal, the answer is indeed perseverance. Keep reading, keep writing, keep improving, keep on keeping on, and sooner or later someone will notice.
Here’s one of those blog posts about a pre-Christmas adventure we had in Brittany ↓
December 15th, traditionally the time of year not only when the SAD creeps in but also when I might just be at saturation point with the festivities. Whilst the Good Housekeepers of this world are twiddling homemade holly decs around the bannister, my focus is elsewhere … on a girly weekend in Saint Malo to be precise, my last French adventure of 2016. Cocktails? Shopping? Dinner? Late nights? Oh no – this is a girly weekend with a difference because there are only two of us – and one of us is nine.
Compounded by the festive frenzy that is the End of Term, Youngest’s excitement at the prospect of the overnight ferry experience is palpable but jars with my own state of fist-in-mouth angst which has been slowly but surely snowballing en route to Portsmouth. (Apparently cross-channel ferries don’t wait for people stuck in traffic.) We make it (just) and once firmly on board Brittany Ferries’ Bretagne, the mood quickly comes good for me too as I realise that not much has changed in this picture since I too was nine, en route to family holidays in France. Leaving the clanky steel steps behind and stepping on to the carpeted sweeping staircases, this becomes a kind of faux-cruise and floating-playground with the general deck-disorientation heightening the excitement. After the de rigueur inspection of the Boutique and an opportunity to stock up on Eiffel Tower magnets, we sample the delights of the self-service restaurant (why, even canteeny food is good in France) and head off to our cabine à deux. Comfortable? Not bad for le moins cher option. Cat swinging? Er, no.
To heighten the anticipation of our arrival, I (bottom bunk) tell Youngest (top bunk) that unlike some of France’s other transmanche ports (no offence Cherbourg, Le Havre et al – you do have other charms), one’s first sight of majestic Saint Malo is truly something to behold; its grandiose granite townhouses, so neatly encircled in weather-worn citadel ramparts the perfect model for a child’s fort or ultimate sandcastle. At this pre-sleep point, I could have added to the romance by describing the gentle swell lulling us to sleep but alas, the only thing that’s lapping here is the inner stew of Cellier des Dauphins rosé, entrecôte and Toblerone… bleurgh. Silly me.
Not much sleep later, we are subject to a communal alarm call - a subtly crescendo-ing Breton harp (‘Mesdames et Messieurs, nous vous informons que …’) and we rush to the deck to discover that one’s first sight of Saint Malo is not quite as arresting as described when it’s pitch black outside. A little patience however and daybreak turns out to be satisfyingly rewarding.
The sole objective of this trip is to enjoy some quality time with Youngest and opportunities for walking, talking and paying her some long-overdue intensive attention abound. With the weather looking favourable, we figure that a walk on the famous ramparts (a 1,754 metre circuit according to the leaflet we have picked up from the Tourist Office) is surely the best place to start. Interjected with statues, towers and portes, there is nothing monotonous about this walk and it is all the more pleasurable for having the ramparts almost to ourselves. (One of the merits of travelling out of season is that it really is magically silent, save for the gulls and the Breton flag a’flappin.) This really is the perfect activity both for adults who prattle on about fresh air and history and for the twenty first century child who documents every millisecond of life with a photo.
The walk is punctuated with many a satisfyingly vantage point, from the seaward (Dinard in one direction, the elongating Plage du Sillon in another, historic island forts ...) to the old town within these walls. Contemplating the maze-like layout of the town, my mind brings to life the characters of a recent captivating read All the Light we Cannot See by Anthony Doerr. The novel recalls a dark chapter in Saint Malo’s history when allied bombs almost wholly levelled the town in an attempt to obliterate this last of German strongholds. (Thankfully, after the war, the locals had sufficient pride, vision and patience to recreate the city almost exactly as it was before, so most of the townhouses you see are exact replicas). I vow to locate 4 Rue Vauborel later in the day.
With one revolution of the walls complete and any post-cabin lethargy now obliterated by the sea breeze, we head for sustenance and Youngest is drawn to the café with the interesting name. Something about the signage triggers my tourist-trap alarm bell (it’s got something of the West Country meadery about it) but I’m happily proven wrong. It turns out to be one of the highlights of the trip - a cavern-like interior with off-the-scale quirkiness in the form of wall-to-wall vintage dolls. Despite a nagging forewarning that my child may never sleep again, I can’t help but smile at the novelty elements (we enjoy our chocolats-chauds on swings, the beer taps are encased in dolls’ limbs) and I leave suspecting that I won’t ever again feel that I am on the set of a weird and wonderful French film.
A peruse of the shops is now in order (Youngest’s absolute favourite pastime) and we begin in charming Rue de l’Orme, recommended to us for the greatest concentration of all things boutiquey and artisanal. I seize the opportunity to force some vocab on the unsuspecting child and by the end of the rue, we have added many ‘-eries’ to her vocab bank (boucherie, boulangerie, poissonnerie …). There are indeed many independent and original commerces both here and in the surrounding streets, with festive adornments and illuminated Joyeux Noël signs adding to their kerb appeal and general allure. I tick off the last couple of Christmas offerings from my list – all gift-wrapped of course à la française.
The day is pleasantly rounded off with a very late lunch in Place Chateaubriand (named after Saint Malo’s most famous son – founder of Romanticism in French literature) and a trip to the Marché de Noël in the shadow of the château. The marché is small but convivial with locals stopping by for a vin chaud and a jolly Père Noël greeting the smalls. I am enjoying the level of festivities here, having long observed that Christmas celebrations in France appear to be more modestly and appropriately executed than chez nous.
We have the pleasure of staying with friends and thus we are lucky enough next day to be introduced to features that we would otherwise miss; the Intra-Muros walled town is only half the story. We take a lengthy stroll alongside the villas of the Plage du Sillon promenade, from the Rochebonne part of town back towards the walled town (passing the grand seawater therapy spa I make a mental note to come back one day with bigger girls). By complete contrast to yesterday and reminding me that the climate here is probably as unpredictable as in the UK, we are in the thickest fog I think I have ever experienced. Not a problem as I am in the process of sharing snippets that I have now gleaned on all things piratey and privateering and the fog adds an atmospheric touch to my storytelling.
A winter walk in neighbouring Saint Servan follows (apparently, the views would be fabulous were it not for the fog) and when the appetite kicks in, we are treated by our friends to crêpes (we are in Brittany – it has to be crêpes) and local cider served in mugs at La Caraque on the quayside. Youngest is courageous enough after a day in France to order our crêpes - en français.
From the learning point of view, Youngest has boosted her vocab no end and I am optimistic that she will remember the contexts and thus retain her new words. The additions are random but significant; She has learnt how to distinguish between si and oui, knows that the town is pronounced samma loh and not saynt marlow, knows that French counties are called départements (we are in the 35th – Ille et Vilaine - hence the title of this post) and loves saying n’importe-quoi (a sort of ‘what-ev-arr’) – with an exaggerated gallic emphasis on the ‘e’ (n’importe –er-quoi). I too am all the more fulfilled for knowing that a Malouin is not a baddy (as the linguistic stem might lead you to believe) but a resident of St Malo.
Alas, part of travelling is returning home and we sail back to Portsmouth on another overnighter, this time on the swisher Pont Aven. My heart sinks when I discover that this overnight crossing is also Christmas Cruise Party Night and I envisage corridor congering and the Slamming Cabin Door game. Tucked up in our cabin, either we are unaware of any into-the-night revellers or we are all high on Saint Malo sea air. We sleep like babies ... Joyeux Noël.
