On to St. Malo!

It’s time to stop writing about Paris for awhile, tempting though it is to reminisce about our wonderful times and adventures in that extraordinary city. I realized when I showed some slides to friends the other night, that to some people, Paris is France, and France is Paris, so on we go!

Today you get to meet St. Malo. It’s a small city on the English Channel a few hours east of Mont San Michel and enough over the border from Normandy to be in Brittany. I really wanted to go all the way out to the westernmost edge of France and see Brest, but we couldn’t do everything, so St. Malo (pronounced quickly as Sanmalo with the accent on the o) had to represent all of Brittany.

The train dropped us off on a Friday afternoon practically in front of the old city walls. There were very few people around, and no hustle and bustle, or tourist bureau, or map of the city that I could see. The google map of the hotel location was all I had. However, as always happened, a few questions to bystanders sent us to the right city bus which took us about five miles to Rochebonne (good rock). Odd name, eh?

We were a couple of blocks from the ocean. Following the address numbers, we walked almost all the way to the beach past a few sleepy restaurants, before finding the hotel. “Wow,” I thought, “Well done, me!”

The room on the first floor (first floor above street level) was tiny but had a balcony with a fine view (see the pix). Toilet and shower down the hall and quite lovely. At least if they are down the hall, you don’t have to cope with bathroom noises.

At this point, Mary collapsed on the bed and went to sleep for two and a half days. We don’t know what she had, but it involved sleep, lots of it, and (thank goodness) no throwing up. Since 2.5 days was all I had allotted for St. Malo, Mary didn’t get to see much of it.

The tides here are long because the beach is almost flat, and it’s at the right angle with the Channel and the Atlantic Ocean, which kind of collide here. The tide can be 12 meters high, some of the highest in the entire world! In the mornings, walking along the quai, I would see puddles showing that the waves had struck during the night, but I never saw it myself.

Sometimes the water goes far far out, exposing more rocky outcrops which must have been deterrents for boats chasing the old-time pirates who found haven here.

At low tide the sand is hard, easy to walk on, and the beach area is enormous. Pretty unbroken shells abound. I saved a number to bring home and give to friends. They take up little room and add almost no weight to my backpack.

I got talking to a woman with a small poodle who seemed to think I could understand all her French. Flattering, but I had to listen very closely to get about half. She suggested that Mary and I hitchhike over to Concale or Houle, which are famous towns for huitre and coquilles (oysters, scallops, etc.). Since that’s not our favorite food, though it is for people around here, and since Mary was sick, I didn’t try to go there.

Winter, my friend said, is cold in St. Malo, but otherwise the weather is temperate. Certainly that first weekend of April was warm and envigorating. Families played together on the sand, the water being too cold for most. A soccer ball was kicked my way so I kicked it back, finding that harder to do than I expected. They shouted their thanks. Fathers, especially, seemed to enjoy having fun with their children. They played with an air of unconstrained joy.

I walked for hours and miles each day, and got to discover for myself how to “do” a supermarket, a pharmacy, restaurants, and a health food store. It’s not as much fun alone as when you are with someone else.

On Saturday I walked four of the five miles to the old city where I hoped to find a wheeled suitcase for Mary, since perhaps her heavy backpack wasn’t helping her health. I took the bus the final mile, then walked through the city, disappointed to find it chock full of tourist shops and hot dog stands. And tourists. Well, of course, that’s how it makes its living, from tourists (like me, except I didn’t find anything to buy).

Waiting for the bus to take me and my weary feet back to the hotel, I met Olivier and Cecile, two delightful young people with beautiful names (see the photo). Olivier gave me my first French kiss, the two-cheek kind. Another young man who joined in our conversation was not quite so gentile. He claimed that British food was far superior to French food. Yes, he was French, poor fellow.

Next time I will write of the remarkable Bretons, including their resilience in rebuilding their city after World Wars II.