Post by Irish Stu on Aug 16, 2009 16:36:24 GMT -6
It's been a few years since I last took a vacation in Europe, so wanting to keep costs down this year we decided to head over to France for the week. We took the Sea France car ferry from Dover to Calais, which at 20 miles is the shortest crossing point between England and France, then began the 600 mile drive down to the Bordeaux region, remembering of course to drive my right hand drive car on the right, which I found is much harder then driving a rental car with the steering wheel on the correct side for the country you are in.
As we drove onto the cross-Channel car ferry :
What the Sat Nav tells you when you head out to sea. The arrival time on the screen was for our destination in France later that day as I had programmed the entire route across two countries :
Heading away from England as seen from the rear of the ferry :
Then a short walk to the front and you can see France :
Arriving in Calais :
France has some of the best motorways/freeways you will find anywhere in the world. They are very well maintained and are pretty much free from bumps and potholes. French drivers also (almost) make them a pleasure to drive on as their lane discipline is suberb... everyone stays in the right hand lane except to overtake. Then, when they do, they leave their left indicator on, presumably to say "I'm not staying in this lane" then return to the right lane as soon as possible. Also, it is very noticeable that nobody takes their time... the speed limit is 80mph and most vehicles travel at between 70mph and 80mph, so traffic moves fast and freely with few hold ups. French law requires all cars to carry a red warning triangle to put on the side of the road 30 metres behind the car, and fluorescent vests that the driver and passengers must put on before exiting the car, in the event that you have an accident or breakdown. These really are a good idea and we purchased ours on the ferry, along with the required converters to stick to my headlights to make the beams go to the right rather than the left so as not to dazzle drivers coming the other way. After going through the various possible lamp and bulb combinations listed for my car in the instructions I proudly stuck mine on in the correct positions at a service area before it got dark, only to find as night fell when we were nearing our destination on back roads that, judging by all the flashing and honking, I was dazzling every driver coming the other way whilst my efforts had also left me with virtually no light to see by myself.
The motorway took us around Le Mans. If we'd had the time it would have been cool to have taken a detour and driven on some of the public roads that are actually used in the famous 24 hour endurance race :
Our destination was La Jenny, a naturist resort about 30 miles west of the city of Bordeaux on France's Atlantic coast :
We arrived exhausted from the drive at about 11.30pm and headed straight for the bar and restaurant area to relax with a drink and take in our new surroundings before heading to bed. Nothing though prepared us for the beauty of the place that was revealed to us in the morning. Our accommodation, like all the others, was a chalet in a pine forest, with an open plan living, dining and eating area and a mezzanine floor above (more about that later) containing our bed :
We had planned to take our mountain bikes with us, but after trying out my new cycle carrier I didn't really like the feel of it on the back of the car and had no desire to undertake such a long drive with the worry of the bikes falling off, so we opted to leave them behind and rent bikes there. So the bike rental shack was our first port of call to see the bike rental boy, who was just taking a last drag from his Galois as we arrived, followed by the pool.
The cycle parking lot by the beach. I'd say by the afternoon there were a good two or three hundred bikes there every day :
No sooner had we walked through the gate to the pool and strolled a few yards than we found an irate Frenchman in our faces, and I understood enough of his angry French (and his hand gestures) that he was telling us we should have got naked *before* entering the pool area. Not a great way to greet us, especially if this had been our first experience of the nude thing, so I asked him "Do you want a smack in the teeth you cheese eating surrender monkey?!?!" in my head, but didn't know exactly how to say it in French, and felt that by the time I would have struggled to put it together with my limited grasp of the Gallic tongue the sentiment would have been lost... or that he would have guessed where the insult was going and punched me in the teeth before I could finish uttering it. So, shamefaced, we did as he instructed while he sloped off to suck on a Galois and bask in the glow of his victory over the hated English.
Our mornings were spent by the pool, after a cafe au lait at the poolside bar, followed by lunch which was usually one of the mega-salads on the menu, before heading to the beach for the afternoon on our bicycles. The beach was truly beautiful and stretched as far as the eye could see in both directions. It was also designated naturist as far as the eye could see in both directions, so long naked walks were possible. The beach is served by a naked ice cream vendor who pushes his cart through the sand in the heaviest populated area around the end of the wooden path that brings people to and from the beach over the sand dunes. It must be hard work so little wonder he is in such good shape, but the payoff seems to be the teenage girls who hang around flirting with him all day. One evening, as the hordes of nudists left the beach, we followed as his teenage volunteers struggled to push the cart for him up the steep path over the dunes while he followed behind, the remnants of a Galois dangling from his lips
Evening entertainment was always good, with bands and performers laid on. One night there was an excellent soul/blues band who did some awesome covers. Sue posted a picture of them on her Facebook when she got home only to be contacted by a friend of hers who saw it and said she knows one of them, an English guy, from their hometown. Small world!!
Whilst the French adults drank, chain smoked their Galois, and enjoyed the nightly entertainment, their teenage offspring were having their own fun, hanging out in various gangs around the entertainment room, table football game, and tv lounge. The boys all had such sharp clothes combined with a Gallic slant on the James Dean attitude, and would occasionally come into the bar to dance. And boy could those dudes dance... with their attitudy look it was often like being at a West Side Story male cast member audition.
The resort draws guests from across Europe. The French were in the majority followed by Dutch and Belgians, then us Brits, and thankfully very few Germans followed by a smattering of other nationalities. There were even a couple of parties of Americans that we saw a few times. Our neighbours in our little cul-de-sac were a French family on one side and a Belgian couple on the other. Whenever we were 'home' this couple would be sat on their deck drinking red wine, except occasionally when we saw them at the bar, drinking red wine. Morning noon and night they had a bottle of red on the go... they must have been completely twatted each night by the time they eventually climbed up their ladder to go to bed... or did they manage to? And on that subject, on our last night we were packing to go home after returning from the bar and I was taking stuff down to our cases from the mezzanine. In my usual lazy style I was carrying as much as I could to save me making too making trips up and down, and on my very first trip, as I stepped onto the ladder, I missed my handhold... it all happened in slow motion as I fell backwards from almost the very top and eventually landed on my back on the floor below. I lay there, the clothes I had been carrying scattered around and on top of me, knowing that I had surely broken many bones if the pain I was in was anything to go by. But, as the pain began to ease I realised to my enormous relief that apart from a few bruises that would come up overnight I was unhurt, and that was mainly thanks to having had my fall broken by Sue's suitcase which I had just put on the couch which I had hit on the way down. Had it not been there I would instead have hit the couch's heavy wooden frame rather then crushing the corner of Sue's suitcase, and I have no doubt that I would have broken my back.
We made the long drive back to Calais the next morning, arriving at our hotel around nine pm. Rather then get a ferry back to England we had decided to spend the next day shopping at the huge Cité Europe Shopping Mall by the hotel. So next morning, refreshed from a good night's sleep in our fabulous room, we headed over to the mall for breakfast and shopping... and found that in our meticulous plans we had reckoned without one thing... as the security guard informed us as he pulled another Galois from his pack... it was closed, just as the whole of France is closed on Sundays!! We couldn't believe it!! What a monumental FUCK UP!!
So we packed up the car and headed to the ferry port, paid the £10 fee be put on an earlier crossing than stated on our tickets to the attendant on the entry gate as he took a few deep drags on his Galois, and went home.
More pictures :
We left La Jenny only once to drive to the nearest town Le Porge. Not much to see there other than typical French architecture :
La Porge's town hall :
The local cop's car :
The local place to see and be seen :
Our endless beach :
The latest in French beach chic, brought straight to you from this year's Paris Fashion week... toilet paper inserted in the ears :
Simon
As we drove onto the cross-Channel car ferry :
What the Sat Nav tells you when you head out to sea. The arrival time on the screen was for our destination in France later that day as I had programmed the entire route across two countries :
Heading away from England as seen from the rear of the ferry :
Then a short walk to the front and you can see France :
Arriving in Calais :
France has some of the best motorways/freeways you will find anywhere in the world. They are very well maintained and are pretty much free from bumps and potholes. French drivers also (almost) make them a pleasure to drive on as their lane discipline is suberb... everyone stays in the right hand lane except to overtake. Then, when they do, they leave their left indicator on, presumably to say "I'm not staying in this lane" then return to the right lane as soon as possible. Also, it is very noticeable that nobody takes their time... the speed limit is 80mph and most vehicles travel at between 70mph and 80mph, so traffic moves fast and freely with few hold ups. French law requires all cars to carry a red warning triangle to put on the side of the road 30 metres behind the car, and fluorescent vests that the driver and passengers must put on before exiting the car, in the event that you have an accident or breakdown. These really are a good idea and we purchased ours on the ferry, along with the required converters to stick to my headlights to make the beams go to the right rather than the left so as not to dazzle drivers coming the other way. After going through the various possible lamp and bulb combinations listed for my car in the instructions I proudly stuck mine on in the correct positions at a service area before it got dark, only to find as night fell when we were nearing our destination on back roads that, judging by all the flashing and honking, I was dazzling every driver coming the other way whilst my efforts had also left me with virtually no light to see by myself.
The motorway took us around Le Mans. If we'd had the time it would have been cool to have taken a detour and driven on some of the public roads that are actually used in the famous 24 hour endurance race :
Our destination was La Jenny, a naturist resort about 30 miles west of the city of Bordeaux on France's Atlantic coast :
We arrived exhausted from the drive at about 11.30pm and headed straight for the bar and restaurant area to relax with a drink and take in our new surroundings before heading to bed. Nothing though prepared us for the beauty of the place that was revealed to us in the morning. Our accommodation, like all the others, was a chalet in a pine forest, with an open plan living, dining and eating area and a mezzanine floor above (more about that later) containing our bed :
We had planned to take our mountain bikes with us, but after trying out my new cycle carrier I didn't really like the feel of it on the back of the car and had no desire to undertake such a long drive with the worry of the bikes falling off, so we opted to leave them behind and rent bikes there. So the bike rental shack was our first port of call to see the bike rental boy, who was just taking a last drag from his Galois as we arrived, followed by the pool.
The cycle parking lot by the beach. I'd say by the afternoon there were a good two or three hundred bikes there every day :
No sooner had we walked through the gate to the pool and strolled a few yards than we found an irate Frenchman in our faces, and I understood enough of his angry French (and his hand gestures) that he was telling us we should have got naked *before* entering the pool area. Not a great way to greet us, especially if this had been our first experience of the nude thing, so I asked him "Do you want a smack in the teeth you cheese eating surrender monkey?!?!" in my head, but didn't know exactly how to say it in French, and felt that by the time I would have struggled to put it together with my limited grasp of the Gallic tongue the sentiment would have been lost... or that he would have guessed where the insult was going and punched me in the teeth before I could finish uttering it. So, shamefaced, we did as he instructed while he sloped off to suck on a Galois and bask in the glow of his victory over the hated English.
Our mornings were spent by the pool, after a cafe au lait at the poolside bar, followed by lunch which was usually one of the mega-salads on the menu, before heading to the beach for the afternoon on our bicycles. The beach was truly beautiful and stretched as far as the eye could see in both directions. It was also designated naturist as far as the eye could see in both directions, so long naked walks were possible. The beach is served by a naked ice cream vendor who pushes his cart through the sand in the heaviest populated area around the end of the wooden path that brings people to and from the beach over the sand dunes. It must be hard work so little wonder he is in such good shape, but the payoff seems to be the teenage girls who hang around flirting with him all day. One evening, as the hordes of nudists left the beach, we followed as his teenage volunteers struggled to push the cart for him up the steep path over the dunes while he followed behind, the remnants of a Galois dangling from his lips
Evening entertainment was always good, with bands and performers laid on. One night there was an excellent soul/blues band who did some awesome covers. Sue posted a picture of them on her Facebook when she got home only to be contacted by a friend of hers who saw it and said she knows one of them, an English guy, from their hometown. Small world!!
Whilst the French adults drank, chain smoked their Galois, and enjoyed the nightly entertainment, their teenage offspring were having their own fun, hanging out in various gangs around the entertainment room, table football game, and tv lounge. The boys all had such sharp clothes combined with a Gallic slant on the James Dean attitude, and would occasionally come into the bar to dance. And boy could those dudes dance... with their attitudy look it was often like being at a West Side Story male cast member audition.
The resort draws guests from across Europe. The French were in the majority followed by Dutch and Belgians, then us Brits, and thankfully very few Germans followed by a smattering of other nationalities. There were even a couple of parties of Americans that we saw a few times. Our neighbours in our little cul-de-sac were a French family on one side and a Belgian couple on the other. Whenever we were 'home' this couple would be sat on their deck drinking red wine, except occasionally when we saw them at the bar, drinking red wine. Morning noon and night they had a bottle of red on the go... they must have been completely twatted each night by the time they eventually climbed up their ladder to go to bed... or did they manage to? And on that subject, on our last night we were packing to go home after returning from the bar and I was taking stuff down to our cases from the mezzanine. In my usual lazy style I was carrying as much as I could to save me making too making trips up and down, and on my very first trip, as I stepped onto the ladder, I missed my handhold... it all happened in slow motion as I fell backwards from almost the very top and eventually landed on my back on the floor below. I lay there, the clothes I had been carrying scattered around and on top of me, knowing that I had surely broken many bones if the pain I was in was anything to go by. But, as the pain began to ease I realised to my enormous relief that apart from a few bruises that would come up overnight I was unhurt, and that was mainly thanks to having had my fall broken by Sue's suitcase which I had just put on the couch which I had hit on the way down. Had it not been there I would instead have hit the couch's heavy wooden frame rather then crushing the corner of Sue's suitcase, and I have no doubt that I would have broken my back.
We made the long drive back to Calais the next morning, arriving at our hotel around nine pm. Rather then get a ferry back to England we had decided to spend the next day shopping at the huge Cité Europe Shopping Mall by the hotel. So next morning, refreshed from a good night's sleep in our fabulous room, we headed over to the mall for breakfast and shopping... and found that in our meticulous plans we had reckoned without one thing... as the security guard informed us as he pulled another Galois from his pack... it was closed, just as the whole of France is closed on Sundays!! We couldn't believe it!! What a monumental FUCK UP!!
So we packed up the car and headed to the ferry port, paid the £10 fee be put on an earlier crossing than stated on our tickets to the attendant on the entry gate as he took a few deep drags on his Galois, and went home.
More pictures :
We left La Jenny only once to drive to the nearest town Le Porge. Not much to see there other than typical French architecture :
La Porge's town hall :
The local cop's car :
The local place to see and be seen :
Our endless beach :
The latest in French beach chic, brought straight to you from this year's Paris Fashion week... toilet paper inserted in the ears :
Simon
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