Aix and Spains
TUESDAY 21 JUNE Posted 3 weeks later.
Aix-les-Bains – Grenoble – Sisteron – Chateau-Arnoux – Aix-en-Provence – Martigues. 363 km / 226 miles.
Hot, sunny. Snaffled two free cups of coffee from the breakfast room and headed into town for our breakfast. Aix-les-Bains is a smart, prosperous resort, with the main centre some distance from the lake. As we parked the car I spotted the sort of drinks shop that might sell Arquebuse — and it did. The perfect present for Nick Kennedy, even at €31.20 the bottle. There’s a long story about Arquebuse. Some other time. Suffice it to say that it used to be used for curing shotgun wounds — and it says so on the bottle. An arquebus was a blunderbuss.
“L’Arquebuse était autrefois une remède pour les blessés des “Arquebuses”. Elle fut qualifiée de VULNERAIRE, ce qui signifie “propre à guérir des blessures”.
Had café au lait at a little bar on the main street — when I asked for two croissants Madame sent me over to a bakery on the other side of the street. While I was there she told me to get a Croix de Savoie as well, a sugary brioche with a touch of almond paste. Pleasant, but not as earth-shattering as she made out. We bought two slices of ham and a Tomme de Savoie for our picnic. Fantastic ruined mansion at the south end of town, high on the hill.
We decided to take the autoroute round large conurbations and stick to the old straight roads for intercity travel. Bogged it in Grenoble and did the opposite, becoming quite lost in a housing project in the south east of the city. Eventually made it through. We’re using a 23 year old Michelin map, and all the road numbers have been changed.
Gwyn very snuffly with hay fever. Gwyn is allergic to flowering privet, so this was a good time to be out of London — but Von spotted we were driving through a grove of what appeared to be privet trees.
Driving through one village there were cartoon-coloured statues of children just about to run across the road at a zebra crossing. I automatically wanted to slow down even though Von was driving. Clever idea.
Picnicked from the back of the car on a road leading up from the old N 75 to the Col de Grimone. Side of the road stuff. Clouding over.
Driving through the gap at Sisteron
We drove through Sisteron and down the Loup d’Or. Oh, another story. We can never redecorate the lavatory now. Amazing bridge piers from a demolished bridge over the Durance — or was it the Sasse? French Wikipedia was not helpful. Joined the autoroute just before Aix-en-Provence and sailed through to Martigues. Came off a junction too early and couldn’t find the road to the little church among the pines where Milo was to have his run and ended up in a coach park. He was whimpering by now as he had decided not to have a crap at lunchtime, so he catapulted out of the car and exploded in the coach park, far too much to clear up effectively. Ach-y-fi, ach-y-fi.
Hot and steamy evening. Found the hotel in the southern part of town. Car park at back. Tiny room, minimal air-conditioning, but another second little bedroom upstairs! We used the stairs as shelves. Drove into town and it was SEETHING. Never seen so many people. Traffic inched along but worse still it was becoming very clear that it was going to be impossible to park. Every parkplatz, every street was solid.
A welcome sight at the end of a long drive
We finally left the car parked illegally on the quayside in this ‘Venice of Provence’ and went to have a beer in front of deafening loudspeakers pounding out Portocario and Baby Dance. I haven’t encountered these dance steps before. Then off we went to get a good fish supper, perhaps a bouillabaisse. Our first choice restaurant, Le Bouchon d’Or, was packed. No chance. The second one, Quèi dou Traou dou Mast, looked hopeful. We sat on a terrace over the canal in a line of three ranks of tables. That was at 8:55. At a quarter to ten, not even having had the chance to look at a menu, we assembled our hungry dignity and left. They had one waiter and one cook to serve, what, 50 or 60 people? And of course Madame, who was above such trivialities as customer service. What a crappy place. Remember the stupid name and avoid at all costs.
Everywhere else was either full to bursting or refusing to take any more orders. So we threaded our way through the packed revellers — it was the first day of summer, and possibly the last for many of the participants — and Milo was very badly spooked by a man lit up like a Christmas tree and singing bad rock & roll at deafening volume, loud enough to fill Wembley, in a tiny echoing square. We made it back to the car which hadn’t been booked, merely hemmed in by fishermen, and got back to the hotel. The car park was locked and shuttered. Nowhere to park. So I dropped Von & Milo and went off to find somewhere. After 15 minutes I found a pavement down a dark cul-de-sac half a mile from the hotel and left it there, acutely conscious that I was leaving a LOT of stuff in the car.
Back in the room, we had two hardboiled eggs left over from our picnic, a quarter of a loaf of bread and a glass of wine. Such was our Night Out In Martigues.
