Goodbye Venterol. Thursday 17th September, 2009.

I had a heavy heart as we closed the door to our little French village home in Venterol. What an experience this had been. So many times we had wandered the streets of small villages, hearing dulled voices from deep inside the walls of the village homes, I had always wondered who lived there and what it was like inside. Now I know, they are people like you and I, mostly living simple and uncomplicated lives. More often than not they have a deep respect for, and an intimate connection to the land and the things it offers them.

AJ and I ate our last breakfast on our beloved terrace. The hills and the valley below were covered in white mist and all was quiet around us, we too were quiet. Our lives stood still for a brief moment as we drank in the changes that each new day delivered. We reflected on our time in France, sharing our happy memories, memories that money could never buy, the best ones were mostly of the simple things just like the moment we were in.

JR and I shed a tear or two as the bags were loaded into the car and we paused for a photo at the front door that was peeling with old paint. Tomorrow would be our last day in France and with the turn of the key in the door at Venterol, our last home-exchange in France, a country we have grown to love.

We drove the autoroute to Marseille. We had a perfect run and drove straight to the Europcar depo at the airport without one wrong turn. We handed back the keys and not 50 metres away was the shuttle bus taking us directly to Gare St Charles, beside which, we had booked a hotel room just for tonight allowing us to catch our 6.30 train in the morning.

We were checked into our cheap and cheerful hotel, Hotel Windsor which I would not hesitate to recommend. Cheap as chips and clean as clean and run by the most lovely family, middle eastern I think. We had hauled the remnants from the fridge for a picnic lunch and after we stopped to buy a baguette or two, we settled in for a great picnic in front of Marseille's Hotel de Ville.

The Tourism Office were wonderful giving us passes to the open top bus to allow us to become acquainted with the city. The busy port is the focus of the city but my favourite part was the bus ride along the coastline of blue water as far as the eye could see, it was lovely. We hopped off the bus at an old fishing village where it seemed time had stood still. Little boats bobbed in the clear water and locals sun bathed along the water’s edge.

We wandered the old town but could not find its heart although according to the map we were right in it, it just lacked something and to my eye was not beautiful, some of the newer architecture was unsightly and did not seem to fit a city like Marseille, but there it was anyway.
I had tried to book into the restaurant that chef from La Mirande had recommended for Bouillabaisse but it was fully booked, a solution was found and I ended up dining at another, owned by a Chef who is the president of the Bouillabaisse charter, where restaurants must adhere to making this very special fish soup using only traditional methods of both cooking and serving, to enable them to be part a part of. It was a unique experience with much pomp and ceremony, beginning with the croutons, raw garlic cloves to rub on them and a pimento and garlic spiced rouille to smear on top. Once this is done you float the laden croutons in the soup and enjoy. The soup finished, the six varieties of fish are cut up in front of you and blanketed in more of the same soup. It is a huge endeavour to eat a Bouillabaisse to completion, I was nowhere near completion. Chef visited my table for a chat educating me on the traditions of this special dish.

My boys are not great lovers of seafood and at 58 euro a pop (double it for Aussie dollars), they both enjoyed a more casual dinner of pizza, coke and beer a few doors away. Before they left, JR and I visited the Bouillabaisse kitchen to take some photos, it was good of chef to accommodate us like he did, he was very generous and spoiled us with many treats, even though the boys weren’t dining in the restaurant, they were given small courses of summer truffle shaved on croutons and drizzled with balsamic glaze, and little glasses of potato and truffle soup. My meal finished with more little courses, all were a delight. My evening ended with a silver tray of delicate petit fours of anise macaroons, strawberry tartlets and fruit jellies.

The grand finale was the centrepiece on my table catching alight. There I was sitting on my own, trying not to make a scene and be the noisy Aussie in the room, it was impossible. As the fire spread and the flames leapt higher, I had no choice but to yell for help. It came quickly and I escaped my Bouillabaisse experience unsinged. What a laugh and yet another funny predicament to add to the others we have accumulated on our year of adventure.

Watching The Catch Come In. Friday 12th June 2009.

We headed out early today to explore some traditional fishing villages of Bretagne. The fun began on the way when we stopped for petrol. We filled up and drove to the booth to pay. You put your cash in a little dished area while sitting in your car, the lady pulls the money through to her side and ‘voila’ off you go. John had not put the money in far enough for it to be pulled through and the lady was trying to explain from behind her glassed booth. Well, John could not understand what she needed, he knew he had placed the right money there. Booth Lady became exasperated at first, but the longer the car rocked with belly laugh after belly laugh courtesy of Julie, AJ and I, she began to smile and to see the funny side of silly tourists without a handle on the language. I have not laughed so long in ages and boy do I love a good laugh. You should have seen the line of cars behind us by the time we got ourselves sorted out!

Next problem, we seem to have a slow leak in one of the tyres but after a few stops along the way JR is happy it is holding its own as we put it through its paces. Onward we go.

Our first stop is at a typical little village on the coast of Bretagne called Kerity. Kerity was once in the centre of the maritime routes of Western Europe. The weather is not so good today and the tide is out showing the ocean’s sandy and emerald green, weedy bottom. We are lucky the rain subsides while we have a car boot picnic of baguette, garlic laced cheese, coloummiers, tomato, peppered pork and lettuce - almost worthy of the 'picnic from hell' tag. We finish with a sweet wedge of buttery Gateau Breton pur Burre.

Marc, a local sailor is heading out to his sailing boat in his dinghy and stops for a chat, another delightful encounter. He is rugged up against the wet and cold with gum-booted feet. His salt and pepper hair is topped with a peaked cap and frames his smiling face, “Give me your email address and I’ll send you some photos of Kerity on a sunny day” he offers, he is proud of his little home town.

He shares his local knowledge and tells us to head to the village of St-Guenole at 4pm to see the fishing fleet returning from sea with their rich bounty. It was the highlight of the day. Boat after boat arrived at the pier, heavy with tattered nets of green and orange. Every boat was laden with langoustines, squid, sole, lobster, crabs, rays, mackerel and so much more. We watched bins filled with the sea’s offerings get hoisted from the boat’s decks onto the pier, stacked onto trolleys and wheeled into the seafood auction while gulls squawked overhead.








A little fast talking secured us all a seat inside the auction with stony-faced buyers solemnly concentrating on what was being offered. They communicated on phones beside their seats to the men with the money, and whoever was the first to press his button bought the catch. The boys out the back were happy to show us one of the stars of the day, a 2.6 kg lobster, a female we are told.

What an experience, between chance meetings with charming strangers on the pier, to side splitting laughter, our time in St-Guenole was an utter delight. Gosh you make me laugh Bugs!



A little further south is St-Pierre. The main street is lined on one side with huts of green, blue and earth, manned by grandmotherly women with crochet hooks in hands, working away. They sell their hand crocheted doyleys, gloves, place mats etc to the brim-filled tourist busses who pass this way. One of the old dears must be 80 is she is a day and began to crochet when she was just a girl of twelve. It is nice to see handmade works of art being created before your eyes, they have an authenticity about them mass produced things lack. Good on you ladies!

South again is Port du Guilvinec, the largest port of the area where all the tourists go. It comes complete with a high up viewing platform where visitors can watch the boats being unloaded but at a distance, much more controlled and clinical compared to the excited melee we have returned from with fishermen, locals, market traders and the occasional tourist happily mingling together, each playing their part in the daily spectacle. In the main street there is a little chocolatier with a window filled with round nougat creations cut into generous wedges, in flavours of caramel, butter and salt, pistachio, and almond; the sight alone makes us drool.



We end our day at the town of Concarneau whose old ramparts encourage anyone considering just passing through to stop. We wander through the ramparts to a charming little street lined with restaurants and cafes but there is no one about and everything is closed for the night. Julie and I are mesmerised by the sight of a guy with hair in golden dreadlocks, standing in a small, timber boat, pulling himself along a thick rope to reach his bigger boat. We stand, quietly watching, snapping photos and enjoying the scenery. As he walks past us to leave, we swivel our heads to enjoy one last look. Behind us stood his lady and she was a little unhappy at the obvious pleasure we had received from her partner’s lengthy floorshow. Oops and pardon Mademoiselle!

We don’t have much choice but to dine at a bar/restaurant in the main square, it was average at best but did the job and got us on our way home. We were all so tired, AJ constantly chatted to JR to keep him wide awake, I could tell what he was doing and it made me smile to think how thoughtful he was being when I am sure all he wanted to do was to close his tired eyes.