Travel Biography - Week 37.

Please note, the photos I took of the features in this blog aren't available at the moment. Therefore, stock photos are used.

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During the first half of the eighties, despite living on a tighter budget than in the seventies, I still managed to cross the English Channel, or Le Manche, if you speak French, for three consecutive years - 1983, 1984, and once more in 1985. Despite being "just around the corner" compared to Israel, America, and even Sicily, France has its own offers that rouse my interest and delight my eyes.

A Prisoner on the Mount.

One of the delights was Mont Saint Michel, just off the northern coast of Normandy and back then, joined to the mainland by a raised causeway carrying a road and car park, and accessible around the clock, as the causeway wasn't submerged by high tides. That was in 1983. At present, the causeway I became familiar with was demolished at the start of the Millennium and replaced by a bridge. This allowed the tidal flows to pass under the bridge and thus prevent the build-up of silt, deposited by the blockage of the flow by the original causeway.

Mont Saint Michel

The nearest railway station for the mount was Pontorson, about an hour by train from Rennes. Then, I took a bus to the start of the causeway, and walked its length, about a kilometre, to the mount itself. The single road served a shopping precinct as it winded its way up to the summit, over 90 metres high, to where the church stood.

Indeed, I could ask: What was the motive for visiting an attraction such as this? Such motives arose from my interest in volcanology that began after the 1982 hike to the active crater of Mt Etna. An experience of that kind has resulted in a sense of bewilderment and awesome wonder. This was a time when I had in my sleep, dreams of the crater emitting thundering noises filling my head, and even of my companion, Miguel, smiling and giving me assurance. One of those dreams I still remember to this day.

Therefore, I was more interested in the geological history of the granite plug than the history of the abbey that sat on top of it. However, I entered the church which had several people sauntering around. Then, on the other side of the church, a wide-open double door led to some steps to some chambers beneath, one of them, perhaps the crypt, was large and also illuminated by electric lamps, and its ceiling was supported by neat rows of granite columns.

Eventually, after checking out the whole system of corridors and chambers, I made my way up the stairs, only to find that the exit doors were closed and locked. I was literally trapped inside the complex. Thinking that these weren't the exit doors, I carried on wandering through the corridors, even passing through a courtyard that looked out to the street through secure fencing, only to end up back at the crypt. There was no staff member to explain the situation or show me the way out. And so, I sauntered around in circles, ending up where I started. I felt as though I was imprisoned. I was beginning to feel uneasy about this place.

At last, after what seemed like an eternity, the doors were once again opened and I made my exit with a sense of relief, back into the church itself. At the doors, a warden, upon enquiring, explained that there was a Mass, that is, a Catholic Eucharist service taking place in the church, and the doors had to be locked to avoid disturbance from visitors passing through. Now that the service is over, I can leave the complex. Indeed, from a tourist point of view, I was rather annoyed that no pre-visit information was given, warning me that the exit will be closed between various set times.

Even from ninety metres high, the view of the surrounding sand flats exposed by the low tide wasn't that inspiring. For some visitors, Mont Saint Michel might be the fulfilment of dreams, a once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage dedicated by the most devoted Catholics. But for me, Mont St Michel, in comparison with Mt Etna or even Mt Vesuvius in its dormant state, was something of an anticlimax. Or maybe that was how I felt after being unexpectedly locked in for an hour without any forewarning.

Saint-Malo and Rennes City.

Other places visited included a day spent at the port of St Malo, also accessible by train from Rennes. From there, I watched a ferry depart for either Plymouth, Portsmouth or the Channel Islands. Next to the ferry terminal is the walled Old City with its own beach, the west-facing Plage de Bon-Secours, a sandy strip over 400 metres in length. Heading northward along the beach, I came to a rocky outcrop on which a fort to guard the harbour was built, Fort Nationale.

St Malo. The Old City wall and Plage de Bon-Secours.

The rocky outcrop was also the beginning of the main, north-facing beach of St Malo, Grande Plage du Sillon, up to five kilometres in length. Admittedly, I hardly saw any length of this main beach, as I was spending my time concentrating on the Old City, and even walking along the city wall facing the west beach. However, the beach was virtually deserted, as the nip of the Autumn air deterred any bathing.

And that was the common factor behind these trips to France. I chose Autumn to go, for the two simple reasons of being less expensive and less crowded.

Rennes, in East Brittany, was where I had a room at a hotel from where I visited both Mont Saint Michel and Saint-Malo. The city itself boasted the Cathedral San Pierre, and this was one place I visited a couple of times. I always loved the silence associated with a cathedral, where I was able to meditate and reflect on spiritual matters. Otherwise, I felt that the city of Rennes didn't possess the same historical and touristy atmosphere in the same way as Rouen. However, I recall one occasion when I spotted an indoor public swimming pool and spent an hour lane swimming, thus saving the whole trip from becoming a "dry holiday" - as I like to refer to a break away from home without any opportunities to get wet. As if perfectly planned, across the road and bang opposite the entrance to the baths was a coffee bar - ideal for an after-swim refreshment. 

Continuing on pool swims, the only other French city where I enjoyed a good swim was Rouen. After walking downhill along Rue Jeanne d'Arc, I arrived at the River Seine and crossed the river to arrive at a leisure centre which featured an ice rink and a large indoor swimming pool, back then a square 25 metres on each side before it was eventually demolished and rebuilt. Both in 1984 and 1985, I spent some time swimming there.

1984. To Clermont Ferrand and the Puy de Dome.

1984 was the year I travelled the furthest in France. Arriving at Dieppe Harbour Station from the ferry out of Newhaven, the short ride on the harbour extension brought me to the main terminus, where I alighted to find a hotel to spend just one night before continuing with the journey to Clermont Ferrand via Paris.

The next morning, the train pulled out of Dieppe terminus and having stopped at Rouen, I remained on board the train until it arrived at Paris Saint Lazare Terminus. I then made my way on the Met (Paris Underground) to Gare de Lyon, where I boarded the train to Clermont Ferrand, a through station on the Paris-South Coast and Alpine lines. Interestingly enough, with a distance of around 215 miles or 348 km, the city of Clermont Ferrand is almost on the same latitude as Milan, which means that there are areas of Italy lying north of this city in the Central Massif geological area of France.

The journey was a long one, taking six hours to complete. Since it was early evening when I arrived, I made no hesitation to find a hotel, where I was to spend the next few days. A small, family-run hotel suited me fine and finding a room was no trouble at all.

I liked the city, especially the central square which was a short walk from the hotel. But, what was I doing here?

Again, as with the previous years, it was to do with volcanoes. Since Etna in 1982, for a while, I became "volcano mad!" Just to the west of the city, there is a chain of extinct volcanoes. These included the Puy de Dome and its neighbour, the Puy de Come (pronounced "comb"). It was the second cone which inspired me the most. It had all the resemblance of a crater, filled almost to the brim with the partially eroded lava plug, now a circular, grass-covered field. My awareness of this came after buying a book on volcanoes from Foyles in London. In the book, there was a beautiful photo of the French Massif Central and the Puy de Come in the foreground, covered in green and bathing in the summer sunshine.

Puy de Come with Puy de Dome in the background.

After settling in and spending the first day exploring the town, on the morning of the second day, I started the long hike to the Puy de Dome, the nearest extinct volcano to the city. It took me about three hours to complete the 6-mile or 10.3 km walk to the summit. However, the weather wasn't exactly favourable. True, it wasn't raining, but whilst on flat ground, both in and out of the city, there was little wind, hence looking to be an ideal day for hiking. But when I reached the summit, the galeforce wind almost blew me off my feet. Yet, from where I was standing, the other volcano stands majestically further away, telling the history of its violent past.

But the wind deterred me from going any further. Especially if I have to hike all the way back to the hotel. Eventually, after some time spent resisting the galeforce wind, I started to make my way back to the city. Yet, was I disappointed? No, not really, as I wasn't expecting to see any lava or hear the hollow rumble of steam escaping from the vent. But at least there was no church built on the summit and imprisoning any visitor unfortunate enough to arrive at the wrong time!

The path I was on passed by some country houses as I made my way back to the city. My thoughts were far away, left behind in the wind-blown summit of the Puy de Dome, when all of a sudden and so unexpectedly, an Alsation dog barked just inches from me and behind a closed garden gate. I jumped out of my pants! Yet, despite the sudden fright and the anger at the owners that followed, there was nothing amiss. And that was fortunate. It takes an incident like this to give me severe lower back pain, sharp enough to temporally immobilise me. In the middle of nowhere and far from home, this was something I just didn't need. 

Boy! Was I glad to unlock the door of the hotel room and slump onto the bed after hiking twelve miles in a day!

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Next Week: I find myself alone walking through a one-kilometre-long corridor dug deep underground.