La Rochelle and the arrival of Pat

On the 12th of May we packed up with excitement in a hurry to reach La Rochelle where we would meet with Graham’s brother Pat. A seasoned European camper he was making his way down to join us for the last ten days of the trip. After a time of concern that we had not directed him to the correct campsite, he finally pulled up looking rock and roll on his scooter bursting with tales of the adventures he had on his journey down.
Once Graham and I had completed our jenkers (mine inside the caravan, Graham’s out) and Pat had pitched his tent (in our Garden), we sat down with a cup of tea and spent the next few hours catching up. Krista and Pat bonded as they compared notes on their recent experiences in French hospitals. Pat paled when we informed him of the probable bill he would soon be receiving as a result. He felt suddenly less pleased about the size of the f…… great needle that had been introduced to the elbow damaged on the banks of the Loire.
There followed a relaxed time in our campsite just outside La Rochelle. We walked along the beach, visited the town centre, caught a little of the hair-raising World Cliff diving championships and kept Pat safe from a group of excitable French girls on a hen-night. While Pat and Graham reminisced about the French camping trip they had taken together ten years ago (‘where does the time go?’), Pat and Annie compared notes on bargains procured. Annie and Graham made a strong challenge with the pushchair and baby back-pack, due to an on-going problem with a wheel and Pat’s unerring devotion to the Meccas of Lidl and Aldi, the former won hands down. He also triumphed in several evening games of Rummicub and Scrabble.
Having persuaded Pat to wean himself temporarily from his camping diet of ‘potato puree and tinned mackerel’, we think he was impressed with the standard of meals produced (mainly by Graham) in our humble galley kitchen. However his experiences of the great LeClerc stir-fry, tuna au poivre, vegetarian shepherd’s pie, tuna pasta, grilled fish and baked potato, were curtailed when due to a gas leak we were left without an oven for the last week of the trip . Whereas Graham and I found ourselves at a loss and slightly hungry, a superior camping experience paid dividends as Pat returned happily to his rations.
After a delayed departure from La Rochelle when Pat’s battery went flat, we made a couple of nights stop at Le Mont St. Michel. Then we moved on to what was to be our last proper destination of Trouville and Deauville. As expected I loved these Normand seaside destinations made famous by their wooden promenades and historic popularity through history with the rich and famous. Deauville is comparable to somewhere like Cannes and has retained its affluent grandeur. But Trouville its idiosyncratic twin with all its highly unusual residences lining the beachfront, is more like Hastings. A former majesty echoes sadly from several dilapidated grand hotels, little populated restaurants and a shabby-looking Olympic lido. You can almost hear the chinks of the champagne glasses and the sound of the band as the ghosts of a past fast-set seem to party on forlornly behind the graffiti-ridden boardings of the town’s decaying casino and ball-room. An unexpected pilgrimage I felt satisfied to stumble across the final residence of Marguerite Duras, one of my favourite authors.