Blog 1.32. Days 46 and 47

November 6th and 7th

Sunday dawned very wet. Rattling-the-roof-of-the-van wet. Pretty much as Saturday evening had petered out.

Destination chosen, we headed out towards our interim stop for the day - Huelgoat.

Pronounced something like Well-gwa I believe,  but don't quote me on that.

It's a small lakeside town on the edge of the Crozon presqu'ile, and turned out to be a bit more enticing than I feared (it being Sunday in France, when pretty much everything is closed).

Of course it's Good. Why wouldn't it be?

However, the typically-French bar/tabac/loto/creperie was definitely open, and served us with coffee that didn’t quite blind me. Excellent stuff!

The bar also overlooks la Grotte du Diable - Devil's Grotto - and the adjacent watermill. No doubt Old Nick likes his stoneground pain. We didn't go in the watermill, which also appeared to be ouvert, but did venture along the slightly hazardous slippery paths through the grotto, to the tune of the roaring water spilling from the lake's overflow.

It's all free too. If this had been in the UK's namesake, Cornwall, doubtless we'd have been charged an arm and a couple of legs, and would have been penned behind fences and no-entry signs. None of that nonsense here though. Put a foot wrong in this corner of Cornouaille and you're likely to be plunging into a crevasse to drown in a boiling (not literally) maelstrom of white water. There's a sign, if you look hard enough for it, which warns of the danger and potential dire consequences should you err, and of the fact that you will be held entirely responsible for your own stupidity.

Love it!

Surprisingly, when we walked into the pretty town centre square several shops were actually open; even a couple of boutiques. More importantly, though, the boulangerie was also in full swing, and here we bought what turned out to be the most delicious white boule loaf - rather reminiscent of the cottage loaves produced by the late, great Percy 'Doughy' Blundell. Apologies for another childhood reference there, but I'm sure a few will get it.

Huelgoat - Church Interior

Moving on, having been extremely lucky with the weather which had almost miraculously brightened and dried as we had pulled into the lakeside car park, we drove on into the Crozon péninsulaire in search of the town of Crozon itself,

Over the Pont de Térénez onto the Presq'uile

and the Camping Car Aire we had intended to stay a couple of nights at.

Approaching the town alongside the long sandy beach, it is instantly appealing, being a jumble of bright and pastel coloured buildings with a harbour alongside.

The Aire is perfectly situated just a few yards from the beach, so we 'swiped' in, set up for a late lunch, and hooked up to the electric point.

Except that there was no electricity at the first post we tried, or the second, or third...

On the phone, then, to the ever helpful customer service folks, and it transpired that there is no electric here any more, "and it tells you that on the website".

Hmmph. Less than useful that, when all booking etc. is done through their App, which says nowt about that minor fact.

The only reason for needing electricity was so we could dry freshly washed clothes in the bathroom (I'm seriously short of T Shirts), otherwise we'd have stayed as the battery was fully topped up.

So, up we packed again, and moved to the other CC-P Aire in Crozon, which definitely does have electric hook-up, but is unfortunately a good forty minutes walk from the town and seafront.

No biggy though. We had no intention of straying far, so just ate that late (later!) lunch, set all the heating to blow into the bathroom (full sauna mode with damp T Shirts hanging from everything), and settled for some extra vegetation practice.

Monday morning saw us temporary-pack everything away and move back, complete with virtually dry shirts, to the seafront Aire, ready for a spot of exploring.

I'm not totally convinced as to exactly where we are, to be honest. Some say it's Morgat. Some say Crozon.

Whatever it's called, it's rather pretty in a sort of Pembrokeshire/Cornish/Scottish West Coast sort of way. Most of the businesses are closed or on short hours, as we've come to expect on a November Monday in France, yet that doesn't detract too much from its charms.

A long sandy, with pebbly intervals, crescent of a beach curls from the harbour, past the town's cafés, creperies, and bars, before coming to a shuddering halt against wave-battered rocky cliffs.

It kinda resonates of Tenby, among other places. Maybe this is a visit-worthy destination for a September, or maybe May sojourn? It would certainly not disappoint.

Tomorrow should see us traversing the presq'uile once more, this time in the opposite direction, and then heading north to Morlaix. Another step towards our ferry voyage home, which is now, sadly, booked... 《glum face emoji》😉

Mileage so far: 3040