Sooner or Later (One of Us...)

When we got into the car, I wasn't sure whether we'd drive for a few hours towards the ferry ports and then find a motel, or look for something closer. Once again, I was leaving it entirely up to Lucy what happened next. I was starting to annoy myself.

I started to turn the key in the ignition, then just froze.

"What?" she asked, concern colouring her voice.

"I don't know. I have to say something. I'm afraid to say it, but I've got to anyway. Do you really want to go home? Because I could stand another day or two."
"What are you saying?"
"I mean, are we going to drive for home and stop on the way, or shall we just find somewhere close to here and do something else tomorrow?"
"Like what?"
"What about going over to the island. What is it, Noirmoutier? Is it worth a trip?"

"Hmmm."
"What?"
"I mean, does it matter? Let's go anyway. Yes."
"You don't have to be back at work?"
She waved a dismissive hand. "I'm off for the week anyway. And I can always justify this in the name of research. Well, I'd like to come back anyway."

I let out a breath. "Okay." Started the engine. "Let's find a bed for the night."

"Just the one," she said. Not as a question, but as a full-stop to the conversation.

I drove out of Bretignolles through the little town, and then headed North on the coast road, up past St Gilles Croix de Vie and St Jean de Monts. We were in the Marais Breton, and much of the land around us had once been under the sea. Just before Fromentine, we saw an attractive-looking Chambre d'Hote with a restaurant next door. Lucy told me to keep the engine running while she popped in to see if they had a room. When she waved that it was okay, I went to park, and carried the bags inside. Lucy met me at the door.

"They seemed quite stuffy, so I didn't correct them when they called you my husband," she whispered. I laughed.

So, though they weren't really that stuffy, we booked in as man and wife, and enjoyed the pleasure of exploring the room and flopping onto the bed, tired from the day's exertions. The restaurant, it appeared, was actually run by the owners of the bed and breakfast. Very small, with a policy of serving whatever the Chef was cooking that night. The only other people eating that night were obviously locals, known to the owners. We were the only actual guests, because it was still off season. One of the locals asked Lucy a question, something about were we in the area for long, and she started a conversation with them, in French too fast for me to follow.

Every now and then she'd stop and explain something to me in English, and the diners smiled indulgently and paused the conversation. Lucy told them we were planning a trip over to the island in the morning, and they told her that it would be low tide around 9.30, meaning we could go across the Passage du Gois, the crossing that was only available at low tide. Coming back, we'd probably need to use the bridge, depending when that was.

The conversation seemed as if it would go on till the early hours, and through several bottles of wine, but soon after coffee, Lucy leaned over and told me to take her to bed.

So we went to bed.

There was still a chill in the air as we drove to the Gois in the morning. You could see it's path across the tidal plain, interspersed with wooden emergency refuge towers. Lucy remarked that it would be quite hard getting up one of those with a couple of kids in tow. Once on the island, we drove along the main route, a strangely configured dual carriageway that crossed the salt marshes -- not really an island proper yet, it was strange to see the occasional commercial building sitting in the middle of what was basically a swamp. There were a few people out working in the salt, but the road was quiet.

Noirmoutier the town was compact and occasionally pretty. Being off season, there were a few places that hadn't bothered to open, but we spent a relaxing morning browsing in the shops, taking photographs in the port, and looking round the castle. Opposite the toilets near the castle walls, there was a tree with a natural forked shape which made a good seat, so Lucy persuaded a passing German tourist to take a photo as we balanced precariously together.

We ate lunch in a quiet pizzeria on a side street (not very good, because we were the only customers and the oven obviously wasn't hot enough), and then Lucy bought a map of the island and proposed we go off to find a beach. The island of Noirmoutier is somewhat nondescript, as flat as you might expect a sandbar to be, with a slight sense of hilliness around the town and castle. But while the town was charming enough in its quiet way, it was when we ventured into the even quieter interior that the beauty of the island smacked us between the eyes.

It's hard to describe. It's not like driving into a picture book, where the houses are all perfect, and the streets are clean and the people noble and friendly. It was pretty in the way a lot of French villages can be pretty. First you'd drive down a long straight back road, past low fields and hedges, then you'd see a few houses gathered together. But it was as we approached the coast again, through a small hamlet along a winding lane, that the feeling overtook me of being in the midst of beauty.

We passed a few houses, under a stand of pine trees which were between us and the sea, and the road then turned left and inland again. I used a narrow entrance to turn the car around and drove back down the lane to park underneath the trees. We paused a moment then got out of the car. The day had grown warm by now. The sky was blue and cloudless, and there was the sound of grasshoppers. Opposite was a white house with blue shutters in the classic Vendéan style, and we'd parked near a route onto the dunes, with a No Parking sign from the Sapeurs Pompiers. Apart from the creaking from the engine as it cooled, and the sound of grasshoppers, it was absolutely quiet, a shimmering kind of quiet that quickly invaded your soul and put you at peace.

"Oh beauty," said Lucy. "Can we live here?"

I glanced over at her with a smile, and saw that she was serious.

"I mean it," she said. "I'll sell everything I own and live on baked potatoes and porridge, but I want to live here. With you."