Another day in "Paradis"

My first impressions, as I woke from a deep sleep, were of the sun streaming through the billowing white fabric curtain of our open French windows and near silence, just birdsong and possibly a tractor in the far distance. The ancient carved stonework of the fireplace in our bedroom reminded me that we were staying at Le Logis du Paradis, and the lateness of the hour when I caught sight of my watch that we had enjoyed a delicious and convivial dinner on the terrace under the stars. We had chosen our table after our refreshing first swim to wash the heat of the journey away – then I recalled we had concluded with a glass or two of the local nectar; Grande Champagne Cognac, from the neighbour's distillery...

The large walk-in shower was hot and gushing and added to the fact my adorable companion had troubled to make a cup of tea in the guests kitchen next to our room, I was rapidly revived and beginning to imagine our plans for the day. Despite the sun beginning to heat up the fabulous shell shaped Charentais courtyard with its dozen or so ancient buildings enclosed behind ornate gates, it was still cool and Sally our charming hostess invited us to choose whether we will have breakfast in the large, bright guest’s breakfast room or at a table outside, under the shade of an umbrella shaped lime tree. We chose the terrace.

We had a healthy and filling breakfast, starting with one of those lovely natural yoghurts in a glass pot you cannot find in Britain, a delicious fresh fruit salad and freshly pressed orange juice. We succumbed to fact that Sally had already been to the bakery and our croissants and pain aux raisins were still warm as was the bread, crusty and sumptuous, with home made jams. We had a second pot of excellent tea although our neighbours coffee roast also smelled extremely tempting.

Although the prospect beckoned of the limpid blue swimming pool in the flower filled walled garden, which we glimpsed through the gates at the end of the courtyard, today was not for dozing with a book and refreshing dips in the healthy salt waters of the pool until lunchtime. That could wait until this evening.

As if on cue, we heard the throaty burble of an MG engine and our transport for the day was nosing its way into the sunlight from one of the fine stone barns around the courtyard. We had booked the MGB convertible in advance, with some nostalgic intent, and had studied with great interest the range of trips that Nick, our host, had recommended for days out to get the most from driving a classic sports car and exploring the contrasting delights of the Charente and surrounding areas.

I remembered my own MGB from, goodness was it really over 30 years ago, surely not? I could have hired an earlier MG from the amazing range on offer, even Nick’s own treasured MGC, or otherwise a Lotus Elan or Citroen 2CV, but we had endured, and enjoyed, an eventful courtship when I had owned that first sports car, so the B it had to be (if you’ll forgive the pun).

It was a perfect day for the seaside; early summer before the crowds arrived, and we had heard much about the fabulous oysters and seafood from Marennes and the Ile d’Oleron, some 60 kilometres to the west on smaller, enjoyable roads mapped out in our roadbook, by Nick. I had almost memorised it before dropping off last night.

Soon, eager for the briefing and with documents and our beach bag packed, I was ready to step back in time. Extraordinary how quickly the look and feel, even the smell of a particular car brings back a hundred forgotten moments. Nothing had really changed about the MGB, it still felt low, compact and seemed to fit more tightly around me, perhaps it was me that had grown larger? Enough of that...

At Nick’s prompting I recalled such forgotten items as the choke, the overdrive switch on the gearlever – and the seeming hundreds of poppers on the hood and how not to pinch our fingers putting up the frame. But that hood was staying firmly down!

Turning the key and that same deep resonant burble from the exhaust pipe completed the picture. I couldn’t wait to get going.

The first few miles were familiar and unfamiliar. The car drove as easily as I had hoped and none of the idiosyncrasies of my rather well used car in the early seventies were present in this well-sorted example. It was ideal on these roads, even if I was concentrating rather hard on remembering that we should remain at all times on the right hand side! Thankfully there was no traffic at all as we crossed a pretty little river over an ancient stone bridge and received a friendly wave from the fisherman there.

Up though the miles of vines, green and luxuriant, promising a bumper crop for the harvest of the Cognac and pineau production in the coming autumn. The views opened up from here and we could see right across to the Charente valley with both the towns of Jarnac and Cognac in the far distance. Past a beautiful Romanesque church with elaborate carvings, and we recalled we were on the pilgrims route to St Jacques de Compostela.

It was wonderful to have the wind in the face and the smells of the countryside and to change gear just for the hell of hearing the exhaust note rip a little harder coming out of the bends. We weren’t travelling particularly fast, certainly compared to my modern Audi, but this truly was driving and I remembered why I had looked forwards then to simple trips that today are, at their best, just a chore.

Nonetheless, we were covering the ground well, because there were no hold ups and when we reached a small, pretty town, I realised that it was a good time for a coffee stop. So easy just to park right outside the café. Leave the car in sight, top down, and settle at a table under a bright parasol. Madame was enjoying herself too, I noted and busily writing postcards.

On now on to flatter land, in and out of overdrive on the long straights and with marshes beginning on either side and the smell of the sea in our nostrils. We agreed we both felt more energetic and relaxed than we had for ages and were looking forward to a good stroll on the sands. Passing the high spire of the church at Marennes and then over the spectacular curving bridge to the Ile d’Oleron, we drove into a truly seaside landscape of fishing boats pulled up on the side of creeks and saltpans and small fisherman’s shacks and many little holiday houses clustered near the water.

We discovered a track down to a parking spot in the dunes, that Nick had suggested and stopped the car to take stock. We had probably been driving for less than an hour and a half, but already it was as if the MGB had been mine forever. A pleasant chap came over and tested my French by enquiring how long I had owned the car and had I restored it myself? I was perhaps less than wholly accurate about it actually being hired, but what the hell?

What a beach! It stretched for about a mile in each direction and there seemed to be about 4 people on it today. We had a truly great tramp right along to a former fortification and for a bit watched a lad windsurfing with great skill and paddled our feet in the waves. I realised with alarm that time was getting on and that Sally had reserved us a table at one of their favourite spots a short way from this beach.

There were a few cars parked already when we neared this place, which we would never have found on our own. It was deep in the marshes near some salt pans and, as we approached on foot over a wooden bridge, looked like an unprepossessing collection of fisherman’s shacks on stilts in the water. However we needn’t have worried, it was superb! We were shown to a good table on a sheltered terrace overlooking the water and there was a simple blackboard menu, but with a great choice of just the freshest fish and seafood. A carafe of crisp white sauvignon was an ideal companion and we simply relaxed and went for it.

All the French families around us seemed to have a similar view and as the staff was efficient but not hurried, so time passed most agreeably. The amount of the bill was, for once, a pleasant surprise, too. We walked lunch off and then drove across the marshes and back to the mainland to Brouage, a fabulous Vauban fortified village, left behind by the sea. A cup of tea there and it was already high time to head back towards the hills of the Grand Champagne and la Magdeleine.

On our return, Sally and Nick were anxious to know how everything had been, but I think they could tell how much we had enjoyed ourselves, without really asking! Time to plunge into the refreshing pool, then take in the last heat of the day on a lounger, the warmth reflecting off the ancient stone walls and the stone terraces, before making the tough decision of whether or not to have a white or a rosé pineau as our first aperitif?

Tomorrow, tough choices: To the Dordogne, or the vineyards of St. Emilion or the dive into the latest Harry Potter by the pool.

To be continued...