In which we go to the seaside. Or, What I Did In My Holidays
In August, all right-minded French citizens head for the coast, usually all at the same time. We decided this year to award ourselves a small holiday and do likewise.

Now, if you look at this map you can see that the easiest way to get from Gueret (our nearest railway station) to the sea would be to go to Limoges and then proceed in a straightish line due west, via Angouleme, to Royan, the renowned Atlantic bathing place which the RAF flattened in 1945 (allegedly it was all a terrible mistake), but which has since been reconstructed as a splendid holiday resort, and is warmly recommended by our local grocer Jean-Luc. However, as is well known, the SNCF have a distinct aversion for doing anything as simple as going from right to left (or indeed left to right), so this trip was not as straightforward as it should have been: in particular (despite the existence of the line shown above) there is no train from Limoges to Angouleme which does not grind to a premature halt at a station in the middle of nowhere called Saillat-Chassenon: I hypothesize that this is because said halt is the last one in the Haute Vienne, so presumably if the train were to continue it would need to be co-financed by the neighbouring department of Poitou-Charentes. There does appear to be an intermittent bus service onwards to Angouleme, but I couldn’t find anyone willing to sell me a through ticket using it.
Consequently, we had to make a detour of many kilometres via Poitiers. Never mind: to travel hopefully etc. etc. Out itinerary was as follows:

All the trains were on time and mostly uncrowded and the sun shone encouragingly all day long. I got a bit discombobulated by misunderstanding instructions at Poitiers as to where we should board the TGV as it flashed by, but otherwise a journey entirely without incident. The last stretch of the journey, from Saintes to Royan, was notable for the fact that all the bien pensant and serious minded holiday makers got off the train at Saintes to head for its wooded coves and beaches and special campsites, leaving only day trippers, the poor, and incorrigibly vulgar tourists like ourselves to trundle on to the seaside splendours of Royan.

I had booked us into a fancy hotel at a location very convenient for the ferry (see later) but not at all for the train station; consequently we had to walk a while, along the obligatory grand boulevard connecting the station to the town centre, across the park, a quick view of the sea, and this magnificent violin. Also, in the excitement of leaving home, L had forgotten to change out of her golden slippers, and was thus ill equipped for sensible walking, a problem to be resolved tomorrow when the shops are open. And so to the Hotel Beau Rivage, where we have what is described as a chambre fantastique i.e. a corner room on the first floor, with a balcony around two sides of it, looking out over the beach, and (less charmingly) the road. There is an electric fan, which is good, though getting it to work is not the work of an instant. By now, it’s also peak dining time in Royan, so we work our way along the sea front from one over-crowded restaurant serving marine produce to another, until finally finding a table for two sans reservation inside the misleadingly named “L’instant” where we eat undistinguished chips, accompanied (in my case) by an undistinguished steak, and (in L’s) by a plate of moules gratinées, i.e. accompanied by a green garlicky sauce called beurre d’escargot, though it was mercifully snail-free. It’s been a long day.

Next day is bright and sunny and we are up in time to inspect all the shoe shops on Royan’s main drag, of which there are not a few. By 11 am, L has found a really rather snazzy pair of snakeskin shoes, so that walking is no longer a torment.
Much heartened we head for the market, which is everything a French provincial market should be: full of fresh fruit, fresh veg, umpteen cheeses, and a gazillion kinds of fish.


There’s a chilli-vendor, a seller of antique macaroons, disreputable looking hippies selling organic produce, two bars, and … what is this? an interesting looking little restaurant with an acceptable menu. Hoorah! Replete by two pm, we waddle back to the hotel for a small siesta, as it is much too hot to consider anything doing anything else.



For our afternoon constitutional we head out along the cliff top walk which winds around the coast west from Royan, taking in splendid sea views and equally splendid seaside villas to view them from. We admire antique fishing equipment, and enjoy pleasant coastal breezes. There is some shade, and not much traffic. We survey from on high a total of three beaches, each of them now covered with people (this is peak bathing time) before finally deciding it’s time for a cool beer in the next village along what I now learn is officially known as the Cote de Beauté, which village rejoices not only in the name of Saint Palais sur Mer, but also in a bus stop. And in the evening we spend a lot of energy trying to find a restaurant which will serve rice (frites, pizza, pasta, and even paella of a sort are all on offer, but no rice), until eventually we stumble upon Royan’s only Indian restaurant and gorge ourselves on rice and curry. And so to bed.

Next morning, outside our window a row of cones has materialised and a tailback of traffic is crawling along towards the ferry embarkation point we will be taking tomorrow. It’s Saturday and just everyone wants to get out of town, apparently. We walk along the sea front, past the recently manicured beach, to check out the ferry, and then proceed round yet another seafront shopping area, this one overlooking an actual harbour with cute yachts in it, before finally arriving at the business end of the celebrated and justly named Grande Conche, which is an immense and well maintained expanse of sand stretching for some 3 km south. It’s also (we realise after a while) devoid of cliffs, and largely devoid of shade, which makes the walk less and less pleasant as the sun rises in the sky. We stagger into the first watering hole we can for a drink, and then take the bus back into town, which is largely deserted. After last night’s rice fest, we’re not very hungry, but I can just about manage a salade composée sitting on the terrace of Le forum before staggering back to the hotel for a very necessary siesta.

At bathing time we finally manage to do the right thing. This means paying for a nice umbrella and two loungers on the gradually filling-up beach across the road. L has a specially bought swimming costume and proceeds to try it out, even the water looks a little murky. The ferry boat trundles majestically to and fro in the background and I am content to toast myself in the sun for the rest of the day. Ater which, since it’s our last evening in Royan, we proceed to Nona’s restaurant for genuine sicilian pizze, which turn out to be really rather pleasant.
In the morning we pay up for the hotel, and move on out. The cones are gone, but there’s still a queue of vehicles and bikes for the ferry. As pedestrians we get to wait for the ferry in a nice shady spot under some trees, and also to climb onto it first. Hoorah! And off it sails: the crossing takes about 20 minutes, as advertised, and is entirely uneventful : no pirates, no whales, no dolphins. Lots of happy families and flocks of cyclists heading for a day’s excursion around the sand dunes of Le Verdon or maybe they’re aiming for the nudist beach. My goal is of course the little known railway station of Pointe de Garde, which Google and the SNCF both assure me exists even though it’s not entirely clear where, possibly because trains run there only every other hour and for two months of the year. It takes all of ten minutes to locate it, conveniently round the corner from a couple of restaurants, one of which will deign to serve us coffee. Which is good, as we have an hour to kill till the next train. We can sit in the shade, and watch the queue of traffic now fitfully moving onto the ferry we have just disembarked from.


And by jingo here is our train! The 1148 departure for Bordeaux arrives promptly at around 1130, disgorges its one or two passengers and sits panting for a while before setting off again, this time with us on and a couple more punters on board. This tranquillity does not last, however: the train starts filling up at Le Verdon, and even more so at Soullac sur mer, where an entire colonie de vacance or similar piles in, to be joined by another massive influx of young persons at Lesparre. They don’t seem to mind having to lie on the floor, and no-one cares to check their tickets, which is probably just as well. The scenery changes gradually from pine forest to vineyard country, for this is the Medoc, and soon all you can see from the windows is fields and fields of vines. After a while I see that that the stations we pass through are named for celebrated wines (Margaux, Pauillac…) and yes, just over there that is your actual Chateau Lafite Rothschild… and so eventually into Bordeaux, where we are planning to return to civilisation.
I have booked us into a hotel within spitting distance of the Gare St Jean, though I am not sure why since it is not the most salubrious of districts and we have plenty of time between trains (we’re booked on the TGV to Paris tomorrow afternoon, since our home-bound Eurostar was booked on the assumption we’d be starting from La Souterraine, long before the planning of this little escapade). Never mind, it’s too hot to consider anywhere more than five minutes walk away for lunch. Fortunately this is not hard to find: and the plat de jour at Le Terminus is a very acceptable joue de porc confite. Do we do anything except eat on holiday? Well, maybe a bit.

For example, I went for an explore up the hill away from the station after lunch, first to the cathedral, and then to the basilique saint michel. I vaguely recall the nice narrow streets around the former from my last visit here: at the moment everything is shut of course, but the streets are still pleasant: I really must come here more often and get to know this city properly. And by the time I get to the basilica, place Meynard is humming with people sitting around drinking delicious iced mint tea.
I entice L out for a short stroll in the evening, by when the bars and shops in the narrow streets around the cathedral are starting to open up: we decide to patronize a tiny Brazilian bar for tasty tapas and caiporinhas. City life, eh what.
Next morning, it’s back to place Meynard, where a morning market is in full swing. I complain that, like me, all my shirts are now tired and sweaty but no-one seems to be selling nice cool shirts for men, walk round a corner and discover hundreds of them: I buy one and shut up. A very pleasant morning. Back down the hill to the station where we have to collect our bags, and lunch for the last time, this time at Le Potager, whose menu made no impression on me at all. We are on time for the TGV to Paris, which is 40 minutes late on arrival, but since our Eurostar is 30 minutes late leaving, we have a net profit time-wise, which we spend glugging cocktails in the eurostar lounge. The holidays are over, and this seems like an entirely correct parting gesture.
