Somewhere, beyond the sea

For a relatively isolated corner of the country, we're remarkably well-connected here in South Devon.  We have two direct rail routes to London, a motorway connection to the national road network, and an international airport linking us to many far-flung corners of the world.  Furthermore, if you head down to southwest Devon, you'll find an international ferry port servicing us, in a few hours, with both France and Spain.

Last Saturday, Lizzie and I made the short drive down to Plymouth and hopped aboard Brittany Ferries' vessel, the Armorique, bound for the little French fishing port of Roscoff.  The Armorique is a lovely ferry, full of amenities - a bar, a restaurant, two shops, a cinema, a games room - a floating city of entertainment.  First stop for us; a sweet treat at the ferry's restaurant, followed by a stroll out on the breezy deck, to watch the old naval port slowly disappear from view.

Next morning, and a significant amount of cloud greets our arrival into Roscoff.  Passport control is a luxury compared to the harrowing routine of airport security, and we are let into the French Republic in ten minutes flat.  Time is brief, so we immediately make for the town centre, only a short walk from the ferry port, where the small fishing boats lay motionless in the low tide.  It turns out there isn't much to do on a Sunday morning in the town, so we take a Continental breakfast, then explore the town's principle church - Notre Dame de Croaz Batz - whose stained glass windows illuminate the grand old interior.  It is easy to feel the importance of this place to the townspeople, and I fancy I can hear the sermons, prayers and remembrance services for fishermen out on the dangerous seas, some of whom would never see land again.

The architecture of Roscoff is lovely, and the town is very pretty, clean and well-presented, the stone buildings providing a very natural backdrop to the blue-grey sea, as well as providing at least a little buffer from the punishing wind, hitting us straight off the endless expanse of water at alarming strength.  Down on the sea front, there are a few people milling around, dressed in hats and raincoats, disguising the fact that this is supposed to be a summer's day; indeed, coming off the back of a stunning Saturday, Lizzie and I are dressed only for summer weather, our short sleeves and sun hats utterly useless against this cruel twist of weather.

Following lunch at an excellent little bistro, which included sampling the local Brittany cola, we leave the town and walk out into the French countryside.  It's amazing to see how light the traffic is in-and-out of Roscoff, and we're very quickly strolling at the side of a road, surrounded by fields.  In various patches of land, totally open and unprotected, artichoke plants grow happily in their hundreds, almost as if having accidentally sprouted in the scrub land.  

Our destination is the exotic gardens of Roscoff, where for a nine euro fee, we are treated to one of the most well-planted gardens I have come across.  The gardens, which hint at a far balmier climate than we have witnessed today, are a kaleidoscope of colour, stunning even under the cloudy sky, and with an oceanic backdrop reminiscent of South Pacific.  At the centre of the gardens, a rocky outcrop with views across the Brittany countryside, the beach, and the Armorique, cleaned and ready for our departure.  The gardens were, in my opinion, the undoubted highlight of the day.

 

It's amazing how quickly five hours can pass when you're exploring a brand new place, and all-too-soon we are boarding our vessel again, and watching the French coast fade into the shroud of sea mist.  Our crossing back is a much faster affair - we will arrive back at Plymouth by 9.30pm, which gives us just enough time to take dinner on board.  A delicious chicken in tarragon sauce follows, then a visit to the bar, a wander around the top decks and some shopping in the boutiques.  Some five hours later, Plymouth comes into view and our adventure draws to a close.  

Passport control cleared, a great deal more slowly due to the staffing policies of the UK Border Agency.  Eventually, we make our way out of Plymouth, with only one wrong turning along the way, and half an hour later, we are driving through Teigngrace, our journey complete.  As we make the final turn into our countrified little road, it seems hard to believe that another country, with a different language and culture, can exist so close to our winding Devon lanes.  Yes, we're remarkably well-connected down here!