Nantes, first taste of Brittany

He played the theme for
pink panther!

My principle teaching job allowed me a week of fall vacation without middle-schoolers, amazing cafeteria food (you would think that's an oxymoron, but I kid you not), or biking up Rue Camille Pujul, giving me carefree days without a plan or responsibility in Toulouse. I stuffed my brown canvas backpack with the bare minimum (I've become well-adept at this since Ibiza), hugged my kindle, and trotted (well,  not exactly, I took covoiturage) to Nantes for several days. 



The arrival provided a street-lamp yellowing view of a long row of tall, snugly side-by-side, starched white victorian buildings. I peered out the window, antsy to explore in the morning.

La Loire

My couchsurfer host, a lovely girl named Stéphanie, welcomed me into her disney-like abode. Disney because of the cold stone steps leading up to a wide dark wood door which curved gently to a pointed top. After an easy sleep, I dragged myself to find a little cafe with cheap cafe au laits, then bounced to find the real castle of Nantes, from which Stéphanie happened to live only a pebble's throw. As it was closed (as most of Nantes is on mondays, unfortunately), I began to wander after steeples. 

















My rain jacket is an indispensable travel partner, but not quite enough of a wind-breaker for the North. As I shivered, the leaves also shook, swirling around the path as I strolled down the white streets. The gusts eventually won, and I took the bus for the return. But I first found three churches. St Nicolas, Notre Dame, and the Cathedral St Pierre St Paul.

Entering the St Nicolas, I felt a somber solitude, 
only a quiet man sat in the rows of chairs all pointing solemnly 
to the altar. As I gazed upon the pulpit surrounded 
by tall white marble pillars against a stained glass 
background, suddenly from up above, the organ sounded 
three strong sinister notes.

Following a quick lunch break (I had packed a salad, graciously bestowed by one of my students who happens to run a chinese restaurant), I braced again for the wet north. I had been recommended a friendly couchsurfer, Tuco, who, with an umbrella and a smile, met me to tour the Versailles Island. Comprised of a Japanese garden, my favorite part was the indoor cabin with aquariums of plump fish. However, we soon gave up on site-seeing in favor of hot drinks and a conversation of the best of french music.

Tuco

On the way home, I walked down the canal and ignored the drizzle. 

That evening, Stéphanie appeased me with my request for a dinner of Bretagne crêpes and cidre. We found a sweet little restaurant in the Buffay district, and dined on some lovely crêpes savour, then flambée. The rain had let up, and during our night walk down the beautiful cobble-stoned streets between the majestic apartments, I tried to imagine a life which included peering from those windows protected by the typical french ornate iron railings.

The next morning, I rose to explore the castle once again. The castle was the best housing of a museum I think I've seen. The dim lighting held a warm contrast to the misty outside, and the ability to freely patter around the castle gave an authentic feel to the ancient artefacts. Inside glass cases were decaying books (my favorite was a secretive 'little black book'), miniature ships, and used-but grand-navy uniforms. In one white stone room just of f the twirling white stone staircase were computers with a 3d visual program of a comparison of Nantes from 200 or so years prior. I had no idea Nantes was historically such a booming naval town.

I then rushed off to the famous but not well-known Machines Museum. 

Several Nantes inhabitants had mentioned the place, and Tuco had shown me an impressive video of one of their spectacle Royal de Luxe parades, so I found the exploration somewhat necessary. 

And my god, was I not disappointed. These 'machines' were splendiforous. Really. 

I had never heard anything about them, and I can't imagine why. I think my best description of the phenomenon is a clash between Roald Dahl and Tim Burton, and although I hadn't imagined such a thing before, it's a perfect mixture.

The pictures will say it all. Enjoy!

On first walking across La Loire river, I could just barely see the museum, but suddenly a monstrosity of a carousel came into view, and I stood, agape.

"The Gallery" was full of fish creatures, small and large.

A presentation was made of several of the fishy machines,
and children climbed aboard for a once-in a lifetime ride.

My personal favorite.

A smaller room held visual history of the making of the enormous elephant,
which is available for rides daily.

We were allowed to take a peek at the factory,
the old ship warehouse, now home to machine
body parts being painted and structured.

A work in progress...I wonder if it will fly?

Et voila. Nantes was certainly a success.

Albi & a fig tree

La vue depuis la pont

On returning to France last week, I was lucky enough to be given a couchsurfer-escorted (it's the only way) trip to Albi. A quaint, almost secretive beauty of a French city, it was typically known for its large brick cathedral, and the origin of the ultra famous (although perhaps not so talked about) artist Toulouse Lautrec.





Fred first took me to the charming chez of his grandparents, situated in the hills. His lovely grand-mere showed me around the home, (I practiced my best 'oohing and ahhing' French words), and to the back garden, where she picked a fig off a tree (perhaps her own hosting tradition) for my enjoyment. His grand-pere was a jolly French man of few words but a knowing smile, and I immediately felt at home (the early afternoon aperitivo of mini cheesecubes and a fruity rum drink certainly added to the ambience).

Fred, in his hometown

Après, we strolled along the itsy bitsy roads of cobblestones and great French vintage smells.

Visiting Albi without entering the great cathedral is to commit a tragic crime. Filled with the largest Italian paintings in Europe (if I remember correctly), the grandeur certainly struck a chord for my visited church collection. I have begun in fact to make a point to visit the churches before any other monument in a city, perhaps because of the guaranteed history, but in part the peace which inevitably accompanies.

Watch your step!

The well known brick

Toulouse Lautrec was everywhere. Every shop had souvenirs with the famous 'Chat Noir' and Moulin Rouge, which convinced me I couldn't live without them, and mock drawings covered walls on many streets. This city was swollen with artsy pride, and I couldn't help believe it was justified.

My personal favorite, the dancer

As I wrote in the thank-you card to Fred's kind grandparents, I hope I can return one day. Albi is a small "scintillant au trésor" (glittering treasure) to be cherished.

The Most Scrumdiddlyumptious Author - Great Missenden, UK

Even before I learned how to turn a page, images of clever crocodiles and roly-poly birds swirled around in my little curious head, while listening to an audiobook before entering a dreaming slumber.

After learning to read, I eagerly snapped up books with generous giants, brilliantly intelligent young girls, and pots of magic potion. Not uncommon for British children of my generation (and the last one), I thought Roald Dahl was whizpoppingly magnificent.

And thus I, with a heart of 15 years ago, finally visited Great Missenden, his English village.

My grandpa's good friend Patricia lived only a three minute walk from Dahl's own gloriumptious Gypsy House. I peeked over the brick wall to see his gardens and his cozy hut in which he did much of his writing. So the magic did in fact have a starting place, an origin, a normal, real setting. Like every child who eventually grows up, I had to accept that the swashbunking Dahl was in fact human, like the rest of us.

We three then skipped down to the buzzsquiggly museum. 

In two parts, historical and enjoyable (the first being both, the second being quite the latter), the museum housed many old letters and excerpts from Dahl's notebooks, as well as his old bag and old RAF pilot hat.

Dahl could not have been quite so successful without his illustrator,
Quentin Blake (another hero of mine)

A haven for imaginative young minds, the interactive museum tried its didlydupering best to encourage writing and a love of reading.

Patricia, enjoying the short film on Dahl

"I'm wondering what to read next," said Matilda.
"I've finished all the children's books."

In the gift shop I eyed plenty of lovely momentos, and the adult book shelf...which reminds me, I must email kindle about their pitiful Dahl selection...

Afterwards, Patricia, bless her, suggested we walk up the hill to the St Paul & St Peter chapel, to pay respects to the monument to the great man. 

..."You seemed so far away," whispered Miss Honey, awestruck.
"Oh, I was. I was flying past the stars on silver wings," Matilda said. "It was wonderful."

The narrow road was jungle-esque, bringing to mind many ramscriddlyscotchy monkeys swinging about, perhaps one of the culprits which sparked the characters in the actual books.

The grave had several artsy momentos strewn upon it, and a handful of change from various origins, as if to say, "Yes, I live quite far away but I came here, and my appreciation for a good swifflyhuffycheding is no different from yours". I left an American quarter which was bouncing rather dejectedly around in my purse.

Roald Dahl said many catabunkdungingly brilliant things, but I'll leave you with a certain one to ponder:

"I began to think of how simple life could be, if one had a regular routine to follow with fixed hours, a fixed salary, and very little original thinking to do."

The classics...The Witches, Matilda, Charlie & the Chocolate Factory, & the BFG

"She reckons on doing away with one child per week" -Witches