We’re on approach to a French favourite, the lovely Honfleur. Close to Le Havre’s ferry it’s been an oft visited a spot over the years – our 6th, my buddy Google tells me.
We pass Cabourg and Houlgate along the way but I can’t convince Himself to stop. The architecture is stunning. Why, oh why, haven’t we been here before. I have to keep reminding myself – you can’t see everything.
Our path isn’t without drama – the Gods like thier amusement and apparently we’re always good for a laugh. Those two, they say. They’re having far too much fun. And having deemed us worthy of jest, they give the motorhome a new tic and stand back and watch mayhem unfold. Every so often, when the ignition turns on, the accelerator doesn’t engage. After the third or fourth time Himself starts to lose his cool*. I’ve had enough*, says He. Let’s go home. (*Edited for delicate ears).
Now those of you who know me will be familiar with my personal mantra – failure is not an option. I don’t give up without a fight, hence us actually being in France. Ignoring Himself, who’s mentally halfway home, I locate a Fiat track garage just out of Honfleur, guide us there then shamelessly and unapologetically flirt my way in without an appointment. French boys are a sheer delight, testosterone firmly intact. None of that pesky political correctness that can get in a girl’s way.
It’s not long before two of them are under the bonnet with their computer. Which says there’s nothing wrong. The motorhome roars into life, the accelerator obligingly perfect regardless of how many times it’s restarted. Of course it is. The boys aren’t easily deterred though. They test this and that…nope, nothing. I can see it’s challenging them. Eventually they take it into the workshop and fiddle further, testing goodness knows what. An hour or so later, they’re back. There’s nothing wrong with it, they say, we’ve tested everything we can think of. It’s a modern world, even in garages – without an error code or dash light to guide them, they’re stumped. It’s Friday afternoon too, edging towards day’s end. If you still have problems, they say, come back first thing Monday and we’ll take another look. And then they don’t charge us. I told you. French boys are lovely.
And so we continue to Honfleur, ostensibly to celebrate my birthday over the weekend, but tensions are high. Once we’re there, the problem promptly reoccurs, which does nothing to calm nerves. Himself launches an investigation into getting back to England, finding a hotel room, rearranging the motorhome drop off and rebooking flights. After a moment’s denial, I turn to AI, desperate to identify our problem.
Eventually we face off: Himself in the red corner wanting out, me in the blue, firmly not. I don’t see logic of giving up – it’s the weekend. English workshops are likely to make us wait weeks for an appointment *and* cough up a lung for the privilege. The wait is like to exceed the drop off date. Meanwhile we have an offer of assistance locally, on Monday. I’ve located a larger Fiat truck workshop in Dieppe (on our route, also a ferry crossing if we have to go back). A deep AI dive down many rabbit holes suggests it’s a known issue in this vehicle – a worn part at the top of the brake pedal that can intermittently stop the brake from fully releasing. The computer notes the brake as engaged, disengaging the accelerator as a standard safety measure. No error code, nothing to see on the computer, an engaged brake pedal not being an an error. It’s allegedly a small part and quick fix. Further, if Monday brings no joy, the garage in Dieppe has a fancier computer that can read the brake’s comms with the engine to determine if it overlaps with the accelerator. Tellingly, the brake pedal gives a little click when lifted, a clue to the fault. I vote we stay put and ask the garage to look at it on Monday armed with the new info to hand. For good measure, I get under the brake pedal, a feat that takes some contortion, fiddle with the part and spray it with lubricant. I did mention, didn’t I – I don’t give up without a fight. Eventually, Himself begrudgingly agrees and we attempt to reboot the weekend. Not the smoothest start to a birthday I’ve had, then.
Honfleur does its best to set our troubles aside. Set on the estuary where the Seine runs into the English Channel, it’s one of France’s most visited towns attracting some 3.5 million tourists annually. It’s easy to see why. Between the reflective beauty of Vieux Bassin (the old harbour), its mediaeval charm and endless choice of restaurants, Honfleur is also an artistic hub.
Its history is ancient – 9th century Viking settlements morphed into an 11th century military stronghold and defence point for the Seine. Despite this, Honfleur changed hands between the French and English several times during the Hundred Year War. During the 16th and 17th centuries Honfleur blossomed as a trade hub before being overtaken by Le Harve’s larger port. Honfleur holds a special place in art history too. During the 19th century landscape artists congregated to capture the shifting light of the estuary, sparking the birth of the Impressionist movement and attracting the likes of Turner, Boudin and Monet. Honfleur’s art community is still thriving today with a wide range of galleries showcasing local artists across many mediums.
Having bought a much loved handbag on our last visit I’ve been waiting to come back for a while – as soon as we settle I’m off to visit the atileir in search of my birthday prize. Isn’t it gorgeous! 🥰
Himself meanwhile has booked a L’Oxalis for lunch the following day. My new bag is taken out for its inaugural spin – deeply pleased with self.
We enjoy a delicious lunch starting with an amuse-bouche seafood bisque,
entrees of macerated tomato, pesto, burratina salad for me and prawns salad for Himself,
followed by an Iberico pork pluma on charred corn and traditional veal banquette for mains.
I can’t resist a cardamom scented creme brulee while Himself plumps for an avant garde interpretation of an apple tart, encased in white chocolate. It’s a lovely, relaxed afternoon.
A crack of dawn start on Monday sees us at the garage with research in hand, which the boys dutifully test. You guessed it – they can’t find anything wrong. The offending part seems fine and they are reluctant to pull it out. Once again, there’s no bill despite an hour in the workshop, truly kind of them.
The motorhome continues to behaves impeccably so we take the opportunity to run all the errands lost to time in the workshop on Friday. We also take stock and decide to stay put, propping in Honfleur for a while, continuing to Dieppe then Calais.
The week passes exploring all Honfleurv has to offer at an exceedingly leisurely place. We lunch frequently, enjoying local specialties: moule, buckwheat gallete and afternoon drinks harbourside. Himself decides that Roquefort is his moule sauce of choice and becomes quite deft at wielding an empty mussel shell as a pick.
We discover Les Marmottes offering alpine specialties – tartiflette, burgers laced with rebechlon cheese, lardon and other yummy things and of course lovely goat’s cheese salad.
Their food is so tasty we go twice. It looks humble but Himself declares it the best burger he’s ever had, juicy and packed with flavour. Meanwhile my restaurant French is coming along nicely, merci beaucoup.
I fall hard for a farmhouse Armagnac and prune icecream. I can see we’ll be firing up the hamster wheel when we get home…and you know what? It’ll be totally worth it, I don’t regret a single calorie.
In between all the divine food, we take in Honfleur’s highlights. There’s the Eglise Sainte Catherine built by fishermen in the 15th century at the end of the Hundred Year War. Local stonemasons were busy repairing the town’s defences leaving the fishermen to build the church. Knowing only how to construct ships, they framed its twin naves in the shape of inverted boat hulls and created France’s largest wooden church.
I’d really like to take some restorative oil to its doorway…
A separate bell tower stands across the square, detached to avoid the risk of lighting strike burning down the whole structure.
The square between the church and tower hosts a twice weekly market where Himself is lured by the scent of charcoaled chicken.
The Old Harbour is a constant drawcard, buzzing with people, an ever changing light and its pretty carousel, stood here since 1900.
Hongfleur’s beautiful half-timbered cottages take hours to explore. Whilst some remain residential, most house restaurants, shops and galleries.
There’s Rue des Petites Boucheries so named for the butchers’ stalls that once lined it. It’s through a tiny doorway in the heart of the old town. Just look at that gorgeous green doorway.
A single wooden stall survives, virtually untouched from the 16th century.
The Enclos stands at the edge of the Old Harbour. Once Honfleur’s medieval forteress it was surrounded by stone walls until the end of the 17h century.
The last remains of the fortification is the Lieutenance, the former Gate of Caen, used to control the entrance to the Enclos. In the 17th century it became the house of the King’s Lieutenant.
We see the enormous salt store, built with stone from the original wall fortifications to hold up to 10 million kilograms of salt which was used for cod fishing (presumably preservation) in Newfoundland – it’s now an event and cultural space.
We head further afield to green spaces – there’s the 10 hectare ‘Park of Personalities’ featuring busts of those who played a part in the town’s cultural heritage. Even this close to town, grazing sheep aren’t far away.
The park extends past the new harbour out to sea alongside a boardwalk.
A massive ship passes at an impressive speed, well past by the time I lift my camera.
A lake in honour of Monet is rather lovely and replete with swans.
We walk the Recovered Garden one afternoon. Originally planned in the 1800s it fell into ruin during the two World Wars it was only restored in 1996.
The garden offers a green haven from the busy pace of the Old Harbour and features formal plantings, arbours, roses and a pond.
There’s an impressive living bird sculpture and even a eucalyptus to remind us of home.
And when we tire of everything else, there’s always Honfleur’s public art to explore.
A particularly poignant piece is the mayor’s homage to the mussel gatherers, women who for decades toiled in the estuary to provide for their familes. Dressed in heavy skirts and wielding long knives they wrapped their hands in protective cotton strips and hauled huge sacks on their backs. This hazardous work progressively become obsolete with the passing of time. The last mussel gatherers stopped in 1977. The sculpture reflects three generations of women bent at their task.
And just in case I needed a little something extra to remember Honfleur by, at week’s end I revist the atileir and pick up another two handbags. *Happy dance* Himself puts up no resistance. He’s a good boy, really.
It’s the longest we’ve ever spent in Honfleur and it’s a fitting farewell to a place we love. I’m going to miss it. Farewell pretty Honfleur.
Miss Baci Travels 