Southwestern France is a region rich in history.Since the distant past, humans have inhabited the area and the traces of their passing survive everywhere.
This was the Aquitaine of Eleanor whose marriage to Henry II of England ensured that in the ensuing centuries the region would be claimed both by England and France and would lead to the bloody and devastating Hundrd Years War from 1350 until the final expulsion of the English in the mid-fifteenth century.
Eleanor's Aquitaine was a rich realm, a land of sunshine, vines, troubadours and the birthplace of the concept of courtly love. And also of beautiful romanesque churches. Built mainly in the 10th and 11th centuries, they are still the jewels of many villages and towns to this day.
In the Middle Ages the pilgrim routes from northern Europe criss-crossed the region and lead to the shrine of St.Jacques de Compostelle in northwestern Spain. Many villages display the stylised scallop shell symbol denoting their importance as staging posts on the route. Some still possess wayside shrines to the Virgin Mary where pilgrims would have paid their respects and offered up prayers for a safe and successful pilgrimage.One such can be found on the outskirts of a nearby village and has fascinated me for some time.We pass it on our way up to Paris before joining the N10 and once again on our return.It seems to mark the beginning and end of every journey.
Strangely, even though France is not the great Catholic nation it was once, many French people still claim to be Catholic (although fewer and fewer attend Mass). Locals however,still visit the shrine and leave posies of wild flowers at its base. Perhaps the origin of the little shrine precedes Christianity and goes back further into the mists of time. Many such shrines often mark places associated with older deities whose existence, although forgotten now, might still be acknowledged in folk memory. I must conduct further research and try to discover the origin of the beautiful little shrine, if anyone still remembers or has any idea.
Last weekend was glorious and with some friends, Jeff and Jane, I decided a sea fishing trip was in order. We planned to motor further to the north west, to a beautiful beach on the Atlantic coast and which faces the Ile d'Oléron.
We arrived at low tide intending to fish the tide up and down again and having parked the cars in the car park some way away from the beach, we tramped through the pine forest and over the sand dunes to the shoreline. Everywhere the air was heavy with the scent of the pin parasol, the umbrella pine and the cloying fragrance of curry plants which amazingly really do smell like curry.
A brief stop at a local market had provided us with fresh sardines for bait and a little fishing tackle shop in nearby village with several boxes of a strange little creatures known as vers de tube or tube worms. These marine worms live in little leathery tubes and are the bait par excellence for le bar (sea bass), le bar moucheté ( spotted sea bass) and the magnificent daurade royale (gilthead bream) which frequent the oyster parks and mussel beds on this coast.
The beach is truly beautiful backed as it is by the pine forests and facing the coast of the island three or four miles distant. A fast tidal rip and huge Atlantic breakers showed how dangerous this coast can be even in the most clement weather conditions. Standing there, I was instantly reminded of the channel which separates Rainbow Beach from Fraser Island on the Queensland coast of Australia where we had stayed a few years ago.
When we arrived the beach was empty apart from the odd solitary angler and walker but as the morning wore on, gradually couples and families appeared laden with picnics hampers and beach parasols.They were obviously intent on making the most of the last weekend of les grandes vacances before la rentrée ( the beginning of the new educational and working year which begins in September) and the long return journey to Paris and the towns and cities further north.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not a killjoy. I don't mind sharing the beach with anyone providing everyone respects other peoples' reasons for being there and their own personal safety. All I want is a few yards of clear water in front of me to cast my line out into the surf.
At first it looked as if my wish had been granted. However, as more and more holidaymakers appeared, having presumably enjoyed a protracted petit déjeuner at their hotel or campsite and looking forward to a day au bord de la mer, it was obvious that this was just not going to happen.What was most alarming was that although the beach was obviously not 'swimmer friendly',small children and older siblings were being encouraged by parents to don their swimming things and get into the water.
By now the incoming tide was ripping through the narrows and the current was so strong that we had difficulty in keeping our heavily weighted tackle on the bottom.Several bathers,seemingly oblivious to the danger, ended up being swept along the shoreline directly under our lines. Despite warnings, 'Attention Monsieur/Madame, petit/petite. Le courant est très fort. C'est très dangereux vous savez!' they continued to laugh, wave and ignore our animated warnings that this was perhaps not the best place to be taking a final dip ( or perhaps it was!). I fully expected to see some small child or a careless adolescent swept out of their depth by the crashing breakers and carried away by the riptide. Luckily it didn't happen and as the afternoon wore on and the evening sun began to pinken the sky slowly the beach began to empty.The holidaymakers packed their gear and trudged reluctently back to the car park aware perhaps that now it really was la fin des vacances but buoyed up by the promise of les feux d'artifices in the local town that evening ( a small plane towing a huge banner and flying back and forth along the beach had persistently proclaimed this fact all afternoon).
Left in peace in the soft rosy glow of the approaching dusk we could once again enjoy our fishing. Jeff, who is new to sea fishing, asked me to show him how to hook a sardine in order to present it as a natural looking bait.I showed him and Jane how to thread the hook through the tail and then once again through the gill cover. The final touch involves winding thin elasticated thread around the 'wrist' of the tail to stop the sardine sliding down the hook when cast. The operation completed, I dangled the mounted sardine in front of him for his approval. 'Wow!' he said 'You could call that 'a well-hung sardine'!'
As dusk began to fall, we packed away our gear and prepared for the tramp back over the dunes to the vehicles. Not a great day's fishing, only one small turbot and a small bass to show for it ( released of course) but a memorable day nevertheless. A day in a beautiful setting with lots of sunshine, fresh sea air and lots to talk about later over a glass or two of wine.
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