Well not so much the Ocean the crossing between Plymouth and Roscoff, the English Channel or La Manche as I learned that the French call it. I have to say it was a smashing crossing, nothing like I remember it in the past. They seem to have found a way of reducing the vibration and the stench of diesel fuel which in turn leads to a reduction in puking. Not that that bothered me as I've got me sea legs. However, t doesn't make for a pleasant trip. These days the ferries are like a floating Weatherspoons except you can buy Toblerone and you get a very talented cabaret act laid on. During the crossing or cruise as Brittany Ferries call it I was able to brush up on me French. "Je Voudrais un Magners" The fella seemed to understand me. I also fell in with a lovely couple who were off on a tour of Britttany in their camper van. I told them about Devon's historic links with Britanny, how the Anglo Saxon invader had driven my ancestors across the water to settle in France and went on to the torpedo boat raids of WW2 and my experiences of dredging the harbour at L'Orient. They were very interested.
At Roscoff I met up with Piers of Tarka Taw Film and Video Services who was waiting for me at the Gare Maritime. He'd been staying at his parent's chateau which was nearby. Piers got in a bit of a huff when he saw the state of me and bundled me swiftly into the back of the Renault Space wagon and off we went on our long drive all the way down to the French Basque country, the Pays Basque. Here we were going to liaise with a bloke called Jean Michel Mendieta, a Basque sheep farmer, cheesemaker and cider connoisseur he people at TTF&VS have an idea for a programme called 'Farmer Swap" and they wanted to get it into development asap. The idea is that agriculturally minded people go and stay on each others farms, small holdings and compare notes on their lives, work and lend a hand about the place. Although, I'm not a farmer I am the closest thing they know to one and being their Mr Fixit in the Barnstaple area they thought I should be able to wing it.
Blimey it was a long journey. It took us all day. France it turns out from top to bottom is a bleddy big country and when you're on the motorway it just goes on and on and on. The thing that stuck in my mind was how flat it was down that west side. I was hoping to see chateaus, river valleys and vineyards. Nought just tarmac and ill looking spindly trees. Fortunately, I had some travel sickness tablets which I took with a couple of beers at a service station and bingo I knocked meself out for the last 300km. I don't think I missed much. I came to as we were driving along a twisty road that was winding through a valley with mountains up ahead, the evening sun was setting and we were surrounded by green fields dotted with red tiled, white walled farmhouses. There was snow still on the mountain tops and the shadows cast upon the rocks beneath all made for a spectacular vista.
In only a matter of minutes we were turning down a farm track and soon pulled up outside a tumble down farm house one side of which had completely collapsed but the other side look perfectly habitable. Pier commented that it was called French rural chic, I just thought it looked like Badger Bovey's place out at Chittlehamholt. Even more so when I spied the old caravan in adjoining hay barn. This it turned out was my lodgings as Piers had wangled the spare room with it's lovely mountain views, and rather comfy looking iron framed bed, writing table and en-suite shower.
From the start Jean Michel and his wife Claudette were very welcoming. No sooner had we unpacked the van we were shunted out onto the veranda with it's commanding views over an extensive meadow with the Pyrenees providing a backdrop in the distance. A vase of water was placed in the middle of the table and a bottle of pastis was opened. The Mendietas didn't speak any English and my French is basic but with gestures smiles, shrugs and a few Ouis and yesses we got by. Piers who is fluent in French translated when he could be bothered. After a few aperitifs we sat down to dinner and Claudette served up a smashing vegetable gratin made with stuff they had grown themselves. We were joined at the table by their two farm hands Clement a gruff old boy who muttered and spluttered his way through his supper and looked like he wasn't scared of hard work and a young bloke called Maxim, a white rastafarian! He was a friend of the family who'd come down from Paris to get away from something unspoken. Maxim spoke English very well albeit with an accent which made him sound like a French Bob Marley. Everything was cool, everything. He looked like he'd never done a days work in his life but as was later proven, appearances can be deceptive and he worked like a Trojan.
It was a smashing evening. Everyone around the table eating and drinking together. No telly, it put me in mind of us all at Granfer Eddy's place up at West Down in the sixties. Very civillised.
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