Well here we are again. As a favoured last stop before ferry crossings, Honfleur has become a French home away from home. It’s nice sometimes, to be in a place instantly recognisable, without having to rediscover everything.
We had a challenging morning and tempers are high. I’d hoped to stop at Fecamp to tour its magnificently gothic Benedictine Abbey, now utilised as a distillery for its famed liquor. Road works, parking and tempers got the better of us. I storm off in high dungeon, if only to stop myself pushing Himself off a harbour wall for a refreshingly impromptu swim. Would have done him the world of good too. It certainly would have made me feel better. Disappointments one and two, right there.
A helpful sidebar for husbands everywhere: when your wife tells you you’ve gone too far, stop what ever it was that led to that pronouncement. Quickly, if you have any common sense. If she repeatly says it and you still haven’t let up, you’d better be a good runner/swimmer/quick to heal. Give me staff any day. Can you performance manage husbands? No. I rest my case.
Further on, the gorgeous white cliffs of Etretat offer a second chance at a great day. Not to be. The aire is packed and a line of motorhomes exceeding the number already jammed into the aire have taken up residence on the verge. There is literally nowhere to stop. So that’s disappointment number three – I was still working on a slow burn from numbers one and two. Are we having a good time boys and girls? 🤐🤬. By the time we get to Honfleur, distance is needed, but we set out together nonetheless.
It’s oh so unexpectedly hot. After weeks of mild mid 20s sunshine, the French northern coast is soaring well into the 30s. Still, the harbour’s looking gorgeous and without a breath of wind, reflective shots are tantalisingly within reach.
Two river cruises are in port and there’s a huge cruise ship off shore. A third enormous river boat appears our second day. It’s just as well I guess. Honfleur has an endless array of restaurants – they wouldn’t survive without the influx of foot traffic the boats bring.
We potter for a while and stop for drinks with a side order of tension before Himself calls it a day and heads back. I still have energy (let’s call it that) to burn and am nowhere near done. I stay to explore further, heat be damned. You can outwalk rage. It took me 23 kilometres once, at a furious pace, but it can be done. Patience, grasshopper, patience.
Left to my own devices, I have to admit that Honfleur’s just as magical as ever. There’s a 1,000 years of history in these streets. It’s no surprise that it was a favourite site of the impressionist movement. Artists were drawn like moths to the special quality of the light and there’s still a thriving artistic community here. I stop in at the church, of course, the oldest specimen of its type.
Despite the number of times we’ve been here, I manage to discover not one, but two beautiful parks. The first is enormous, set far from the village at the water’s edge, almost out to sea. It’s Les Jardins des Personnalites, charmingly established ‘for the children of Honfleur’, to teach them about Honfleur’s cultural and historical heritage. It features historical figures who made an impact on or were impacted by Honfleur. Artists, poets, sculpters, navigators and authors are well represented across the park’s 10 hectares. Each figure has their own small garden featuring a bust of their likeness and a plaque telling their story. Claude Monet, a frequent visitor and devotee to Honfleur’s light, is honoured here and a favourite with the sleepy ducks. It’s very peaceful, greenery all around and the sea beyond. There’s a path on the park’s perimeter, should one prefer a sea view.
Afternoon fades into early evening – into that magical hour when the light is mesmerising, perfect for photography, and painting if one has the skill. It’s always been my favourite time of day. It comes with a bonus today – the crowds have thinned and for once Honfleur stands alone in her beauty, sans throng. Utter bliss.
Closer to the village I find Le Jardin Retrouve, guarded by fierce lions at each gate and griffins within. It’s bejewelled with flowers, pretty as a picture.
Calmed by beauty and light I eventually wander home. It’s rather nice, having a few hours to yourself to wander far and wide, felled only by day’s end. Left truly along to my own devices, I would have wandered into night fall. It doesn’t get dark here until well after 10 pm.
The following day brings peace alround. Himself’s slate wipes clean by morning, mine expunged by yesterday’s greenery and exertions. I take the opportunity to finish a book before we set out for lunch at L’Absinthe, a recently found favourite.
It proves a great choice yet again. Himself has goats cheese stuffed peppers to start then hake with leeks in a cream sauce split with citrus oil, followed by roasted apricot mille feuille. I differ only in the entree, selecting a twist on a prawn cocktail, served warm on a guacamole base. Accompanied by a crisp Bourgogne white, it’s a deliciously relaxing way to while away the afternoon.
Post lunch I indulge in a little retail therapy* – a gorgeous green bag comes home. I spotted it yesterday but the shop was closed. All the more special being made locally, albeit with Italian leather.
Reluctant to end the day, I coax Himself out for a last drink in one of the quieter squares after wandering for a while. We see a floral interpretation of Olympic fever and pop in to the local Boulanger for a baguette and an apricot flan – clearly a bumper crop this year. God I’m going to miss French bread. And the patisserie. And the cheese. And the butter. And the creme fraiche. And the available everywhere heirloom tomatoes. Yep, pretty much everything. 😭😭😭. Meanwhile Himself is dreaming of English pies with a side order of peas and mash, and looking rather cheerful about it.
The tourism office provides an interesting juxtaposition of old and new – I rather like the composition of the photo below.
It’s hard to believe that tomorrow is our last day in France. Time is so elastic on these long travels. At the start, it stretches out endless in front of you. Many weeks in, it settles to a normal pace, but the end always comes with the speed of a rubber band snap back. Tomorrow we’ll make our way to Caen in readiness for the morning ferry at the crack of dawn. Our French adventure has ended and despite both being very ready to come home, it’s hard to not be a little wistful as the day draws to a close.
*Himself got away lightly there. In yesterday’s temper, I came very close to giving the credit card a good workout in a jewellers, before I was forced to admit that my motivation was somewhat south of pure desire. Damn that little voice that forms your conscience. About a thousand years or so ago, when I was married to my first husband, I used to shop the way other people exercise. If done correctly, it’s an excellent cardio workout, if only when you open the credit card bill at end of month. When we argued and he was at fault but stubbornly refuse to apologise, I used to take myself off shopping as a balm until he did. It’s a very effective technique for extracting a reluctant but due apology. But I was young and silly then, with far more modest tastes. Let loose these days with a refined shopping palette, I could wreck havoc in mere moments. Himself is lucky indeed, for that little voice of reason that resides in my grown up head.
Miss Baci Travels 