Place: Normandy, France
Date: Wednesday, 25th August 2004
After a bountiful breakfast at the Ferme de l’Eglise, a 17th century working farm near the old city of Bayeux, Daphne and I drove towards the small town of Condé-sur-Vire, an unassuming little provincial town close to the city of Saint-Lô. We decided to stop for a breather in the airy town square, whose centrepiece was the late 12th century medieval church. The town was spotless, and it looked like a perfect tiny miniature-railway-model town. It was also dead lazy. No one seemed out and about, except for the occasional car passing by. There wasn’t much else to see, so we resumed our drive towards the Roches de Ham, a cliff-face that overlooked the picturesque Vire Valley.
The road out of town was flanked by huge swathes of the typical Norman farmland known as bocage. It consisted of relatively small fields framed either by trees or by thick hedges. Eventually, we found our way blocked by roadworks and we had to take a detour – a blind one, actually. I stopped the car by a group of houses to try to figure out where we were from the crumpled map. A tap on the window drew my attention, and I saw an elderly gentleman leaning down as if he wanted to talk to me. I lowered the glass pane and looked at him inquisitively.
“Do you need any help?” I figured out that he said, based on my rusty school French. He was lean and smart, and a pair of well-trimmed moustaches decked his upper lip. I tried to explain in broken French that we were headed for a ramble along the Roches de Ham.
He nodded and looked at the sky, raising his eyes as if to apologise for the dark grey clouds that had been gathering all morning. He introduced himself as Monsieur Pierre Bunel, and then offered to accompany us to show us the way. Daphne offered him the front seat and off we went. He led us to the car park in a matter of minutes. I then drove him back to his house. We shook hands, exchanged some friendly chitter-chatter (hoping I did not unwittingly say anything untoward) and drove back to the starting point of our walk.
Date: Wednesday, 25th August 2004
After a bountiful breakfast at the Ferme de l’Eglise, a 17th century working farm near the old city of Bayeux, Daphne and I drove towards the small town of Condé-sur-Vire, an unassuming little provincial town close to the city of Saint-Lô. We decided to stop for a breather in the airy town square, whose centrepiece was the late 12th century medieval church. The town was spotless, and it looked like a perfect tiny miniature-railway-model town. It was also dead lazy. No one seemed out and about, except for the occasional car passing by. There wasn’t much else to see, so we resumed our drive towards the Roches de Ham, a cliff-face that overlooked the picturesque Vire Valley.
The road out of town was flanked by huge swathes of the typical Norman farmland known as bocage. It consisted of relatively small fields framed either by trees or by thick hedges. Eventually, we found our way blocked by roadworks and we had to take a detour – a blind one, actually. I stopped the car by a group of houses to try to figure out where we were from the crumpled map. A tap on the window drew my attention, and I saw an elderly gentleman leaning down as if he wanted to talk to me. I lowered the glass pane and looked at him inquisitively.
“Do you need any help?” I figured out that he said, based on my rusty school French. He was lean and smart, and a pair of well-trimmed moustaches decked his upper lip. I tried to explain in broken French that we were headed for a ramble along the Roches de Ham.
He nodded and looked at the sky, raising his eyes as if to apologise for the dark grey clouds that had been gathering all morning. He introduced himself as Monsieur Pierre Bunel, and then offered to accompany us to show us the way. Daphne offered him the front seat and off we went. He led us to the car park in a matter of minutes. I then drove him back to his house. We shook hands, exchanged some friendly chitter-chatter (hoping I did not unwittingly say anything untoward) and drove back to the starting point of our walk.
The place was vacant, except for an elderly couple who had just arrived. The elderly lady with cotton-white hair smiled at us and her husband follow suit. She told us that they had come from Brittany, and that the Vire Valley was a splendid place for rambling. She had a fixed smile etched on her face and leaned heavily on her walking stick as she talked. Her husband was more reserved but his admiration for his wife was unmistakable.
After saying goodbye, we started walking uphill along a gentle slope, until we came to the cliff edge. The Roches de Ham were a hundred-and-five-metre cliff face that overlooked the River Vire and its lush valley. From the lofty vintage point, we observed the sprawl of chequered bocage country – a huge patchwork of hedge-framed fields. The cliff was a huge crescent-shaped wrinkle on an ironed-flat landscape. The sluggish River Vire curved beneath its shadow in its journey towards the sea.
We sat on a nearby bench to soak up the view as well as the watery drizzle that finally had caught up with us. Undaunted, we were intent on going about our ramble. The light rain turned the landscape into a diffuse watercolour.
We walked further uphill and through sheer luck we stumbled upon a small, ivy-covered creperie with a terrace overlooking the idyllic valley. There were several empty chairs and tables sparkling with accumulated gem-droplets. It would have made a splendid vintage point to enjoy the valley view while sipping a nice warm coffee, we speculated. Daphne shivered, so instinctively we stepped into the inviting stuffy warmth of the little shop. It was choked with people, all huddled on the benches. The din they made sounded extraordinarily loud after the silence of the outdoors. The place was comfortably warm, and smelt of a strange mixture of chocolate, sweat, coffee and tobacco. It was a pleasant smell.
After saying goodbye, we started walking uphill along a gentle slope, until we came to the cliff edge. The Roches de Ham were a hundred-and-five-metre cliff face that overlooked the River Vire and its lush valley. From the lofty vintage point, we observed the sprawl of chequered bocage country – a huge patchwork of hedge-framed fields. The cliff was a huge crescent-shaped wrinkle on an ironed-flat landscape. The sluggish River Vire curved beneath its shadow in its journey towards the sea.
We sat on a nearby bench to soak up the view as well as the watery drizzle that finally had caught up with us. Undaunted, we were intent on going about our ramble. The light rain turned the landscape into a diffuse watercolour.
We walked further uphill and through sheer luck we stumbled upon a small, ivy-covered creperie with a terrace overlooking the idyllic valley. There were several empty chairs and tables sparkling with accumulated gem-droplets. It would have made a splendid vintage point to enjoy the valley view while sipping a nice warm coffee, we speculated. Daphne shivered, so instinctively we stepped into the inviting stuffy warmth of the little shop. It was choked with people, all huddled on the benches. The din they made sounded extraordinarily loud after the silence of the outdoors. The place was comfortably warm, and smelt of a strange mixture of chocolate, sweat, coffee and tobacco. It was a pleasant smell.
Feeling adventurous to the point of foolhardiness, we ordered two coffees to be taken outside. ‘Dehors’ was the actual word I used. I could see a couple of men nearby, who had overheard my order, sniggering and raising their eyebrows at me. The impassive lady told us that she would bring our order at the table.
The wind outside bit us hard after the indoor warmth. We wiped the chairs with tissues – a futile gesture – and sat down, squinting our eyes towards the valley below. The lady brought us two steaming bowls of coffee and scuttled back to her warm, dry den. Our cold, eager hands wrapped around the bowls of coffee. We looked at each other, silently celebrating our bravado; our victory over the elements.
Then, a deluge of huge drops pelted us from the sky, cutting us down to size. We ran inside the café drenched to the skin. As we opened the door we were greeted by a roar of laughter and a ragged applause. ‘Dehors!’ someone shouted, and it was followed by another uproar. A gentleman motioned us to his table and moved aside to make space on the bench. He then went to the counter and returned with two tumblers containing some kind of liquor. ‘This will raise your spirits,’ he said with a smile.
The wind outside bit us hard after the indoor warmth. We wiped the chairs with tissues – a futile gesture – and sat down, squinting our eyes towards the valley below. The lady brought us two steaming bowls of coffee and scuttled back to her warm, dry den. Our cold, eager hands wrapped around the bowls of coffee. We looked at each other, silently celebrating our bravado; our victory over the elements.
Then, a deluge of huge drops pelted us from the sky, cutting us down to size. We ran inside the café drenched to the skin. As we opened the door we were greeted by a roar of laughter and a ragged applause. ‘Dehors!’ someone shouted, and it was followed by another uproar. A gentleman motioned us to his table and moved aside to make space on the bench. He then went to the counter and returned with two tumblers containing some kind of liquor. ‘This will raise your spirits,’ he said with a smile.
It was our first taste of Calvados, the traditional Norman distilled drink made from local apples. People came to chat with us, teasing us about the notorious Norman weather. The Calvados put us in a better mood and loosened our tongues. The people of Normandy turned out to be quite a friendly and jocular lot, and we spent more than two hours chatting and telling jokes, while outside the rain went wild.
Needless to say, we had to postpone our ramble along the Vire to a more propitious day.
Needless to say, we had to postpone our ramble along the Vire to a more propitious day.