Ferme Means Ferme
I’m writing this as we drive back from our first holiday as a family of four. A week in rural Britanny. The drive home with a baby and all the extra stuff that comes with her, is proving to be much more difficult that the journey there – isn’t that always the way!?
It starts with the packing. How does all the
shit stuff multiply??? Given the number of nappies we’ve gone through, I’m confident we should actually have more free space and not less. Also I wish I’d kept all those carefully written packing lists, so that I could tick things off going back the way I did before we set off. I predict we’ll barely get as far as Normandy before someone remembers they left their sunglasses/toothbrush/pyjama bottoms/passport (delete as applicable). And how come the masterful tetris- like packing skills I displayed back in ol’Blighty have disappeared now that we have to re-fill the car with bags and suitcases and prams and booster seats and moses baskets….
Anyway next time I’m bringing an empty roof box for the magically expanding luggage and as far as possible, I’m not unpacking at all. I can see it now.
“Where’s Dottie’s porridge darling?” “Still in the case, in the car sweetiepie!”
“Honey where’s my swim shorts?” “Still in the car, in the case dearest!”
” Baby where’s my razor?” “
I’m currently shaving my legs with it. Check the car honeybunny”
*Disclaimer – we do not really call each other things like honey bunny*
Ahh yes…that will simplify the whole thing!
Apart from the long journey we’ve had a lovely time. Our friends Sara and Chris bought a second home in a quaint little village called St Nicholas de Pelem and kindly let us borrow it along with my Dad and my stepmum. I don’t feel like I can share pictures of the house as it truly is their home and not a holiday let, but it was far more beautiful than they’d let on. The village and the house just blew me away from the get go.
We arrived on a Saturday and having been warned that the only thing open on a Sunday, for miles around would be the local Boulangerie, we stopped at a supermarket on the way there and stocked up on a few ‘essentials’ (you know the sort….cheese, wine). What we didn’t realise is that LITERALLY nothing would be open. Not even restaurants or cafes or indeed Creperies – and Phill was craving crepes from the time he drove off the EuroTunnel.
We bought bread and pastries on Sunday morning but ended up throwing together a dinner of baked new potatoes, various types of cheese, some beans borrowed from Chris and Sara’s cupboards and tuna mayonnaise, because why not? It was actually very good!
Closed signs became a running theme of the holiday. It seems that not only does everything in Britanny close on a Sunday but alot of places have Monday off too, or Wednesday, or Thursday and when they do open, it’s only between the hours of 12 and 2 and 7 and 10 or sometimes just 12 and 2. Bretons live life at a different pace!
We became very good at packing ‘just in case’ picnics (or should I say my lovely stepmum did) and accustomed to approaching Creperies with cautious optimism before walking away with visible disappointment. Ferme. Ferme again.
Our first picnic was up here overlooking Lac du Guerlidan.
We hadn’t intended to go proper walking that day and so we’d brought the pram and worn sandals….fail! Once we realised our mistake, we hid the pram amongst some ferns and soldiered on with the footwear, but we didn’t dare take on the whole walk on account of the heat and Dottie.
Or at least that was our excuse!!
Part two coming soon…