We arrive in Le Tréport mid afternoon. It’s one of three adjoining towns, Eu and Mers les Bains being the other two, together locally known as the Three Sisters.
A steep approach has us surprisingly atop a cliff. The Aire is a a short distance from a viewing platform and funicular rail, built to zoom down saving one the trouble of a steep climb in either direction.
It’s an absolutely spectacular blue sky day but no amount of pleading can coax Himself into town. Especially when there’s a gourmet produce bar with outdoor seating and panoramic views to enjoy.
That small disappointment aside, even I have to admit it’s a gorgeous spot to while away an hour or two. I take the opportunity to capture the view – impossibly lovely in all directions.
There’s a steady stream of visitors riding the funicular up to join us. I find out later that the viewing platform is one of the area’s tourist hot spots. They’re lucky to be local, walking away with swags of rillettes, mustards, confitures and other culinary treats from a range of Normandy delights on offer. I’ve fallen hard for porc rillettes this trip, especially served with cornichons. Expect to see them on my charcuterie boards soon.
It takes some resolve to refrain. The last month of travel is always a tug of war between readily available divine produce and the need to run the fridge down by travel’s end. Luckily there’s no need to refrain altogether – I spy a Normandy flan that proves one of the best I have had. Mouthwatering custard that’s, as Nigella Lawson famously put it, ‘…soft, warm and voluptuous, like an 18th century courtesan’s inner thigh.’ She does have the most fabulous turn of phrase, her cookbooks are worth buying for her writing alone. Thrilled that she’s now a Bake Off judge – too much Nigella is never enough in my humble opinion.
Views, appetite and capacity for drink finally exhausted, it’s time to go home. We encounter creatures along the way – donkeys and sheep, both with mowing responsibilities.
Himself finds me a camping cat, a two year old chocolate point Tonkinese who’s perfectly happy to be loved by strangers. He’s a little pet, flopping over to offer belly on request. I lose no time in stocking up on kitty love. Purrs on both sides, his and mine. 💓💓💓
The evening brings a gorgeous sunset.
Morning however is glumly grey, but it’ll take more than that to keep us from catching the funicular rail down to explore. It’s an impressive bit of engineering built just after the turn of the 20th century. How they tunneled through soft chalk cliffs boogles the mind. Best not to think about it, trapped in our wee travel bubble.
Himself has to be fed of course – he’s a hankering for a burger and I’ve found a restaurant where they’re a speciality. It’s a gamble though, ordering beef. ‘Medium’ can render anything from burnt to raw. He gets the latter and he’s not happy. Annoyingly this doesn’t become apparent until he’s dissected it to bits and un-salvageable. Mine meanwhile, is delicious, hake with rocket, dill and burratina.
It doesn’t help that a poor pigeon is run over right in front of him – victim of an idiot speeding driver and a child feeding the bird on the road. I’m grateful I didn’t see it, the aftermath was bad enough. We wander post lunch but the pigeon incident sets a somber mood that sits heavily over the rest of the day.
Harbourside greets us with a riot of restaurants and souvenir shops interspersed with the occasional poissonerire. The lobsters look incredible, evoking happy memories of my Barfleur treat – that lobster is a joyous, indelible memory. I’ll confess to not being a fan of dispatching them though. Neither is Himself and it’s only this that stops us bringing a couple home. I’d be at risk of naming them, then all hope would be lost.
In an attempt to save the day, we head for Mers Les Bains. Our walk takes us through a series of lock bridges to the beach, furnished with holiday huts. I’d love to see them bustling with families enjoying the seafront but stillness prevails at summer’s end.
We eventually arrive at Maison Belle Epoque, an orgy of glorious architecture.
A little history for perspective: King Louis Philippe I’s frequent patronage in the mid 1800’s inaugurated the area as a popular seaside resort whenceupon well-to-do Parisians wasted no time in building villas on the waterfront. The opening of the Tréport-Mers railway station in 1872 created ready access and in doing so, drove development further. Over this period, the four world fairs hosted by Paris between 1855 and 1900 created a source of design inspiration, bringing to the fore each attending nation’s expertise in the areas of trade, industry and the fine arts. It was also the time of industrialisation, introducing new materials into building design – ceramic tiles were all the rage between 1880 and 1930, allowing architects to move away from plain, single coloured finishes to decorative accents in personal styles that made a statement about the owner’s social standing. This was the era that birthed both the Effiel Tower and the Statue of Liberty.
A hundred years on from the Revolution, glitz, glamour and excess returned triumphantly to the fore.
Miraculously, the area survived intact through both World Wars. Thank goodness – I’ve never seen any thing like it. Street after street of fabulous architecture gloriously detailed with intricate fretwork, painted ceramics and flowery personal touches. It was in a word, magnificent.
You’ll not be at all surprised when I tell you it’s a protected area, but it took a 40 year battle make it so. Today, a team of carpenters, joiners, roofers, metalworkers, house painters and ceramicists work throughout the year to maintain and renovate the villas under the supervision of a state approved architect. A special building permit is required to even sneeze in the vicinity of this special place.
Our explorations eventually take as far as they can, to cliffs’ edge under the strong pull of a loudly rumbling sea. It takes a a moment to place the sound – it’s flint rock nodules being tumbled by the waves. It’s fantasticly deep and rythymic. I could listen to it for hours.
By days end I’ve walked the legs off Himself and he’s grumbly. He may have a point though – if you look at the first cliff top view picture, I walked him from there to the cliffs in the far left corner. And back. Ah well, a good walk never killed anyone. The day was never going to be quite right after that poor unfortunate pigeon.
The following morning there’s just enough time to land a few last smooches on camping cat. What a little sweetheart – he obligingly trots over and presents head and belly for a liberal application of love. Kitty love 💕
