Writing for life

La Beule is a long established seaside resort on the Atlantic coast of France. It has an incredibly long beach (9 km somebody told me – I took their word for it) lined with multi-storey apartment blocks and hotels with the odd casino thrown in for good measure. Like most anything that sits on the edge of the Atlantic for any length of time, these buildings looked shabby and in need of maintenance.

It reminded me of the North Wales seaside towns of my youth – perhaps a little more affluent. What reminded me of North Wales even more was the weather. It was raining, billowing black clouds rolling in behind massive breakers. The rain didn’t stop the kite surfers though, they were leaping about in the surf with abandon, carried on massive jumps by the gale force winds.

Between squalls we perched on a bench on the seafront sharing out the bounty we’d picked up a little earlier at the supermarket. Bread, pâté, cheese, salami and sundry other things the French are rightly famous for. It was wonderful fare, I have to say, and the children were in good spirits despite the inclement weather.

It had been raining since we’d arrived in France two days earlier, and after a couple of soggy nights camping we were waiting to meet my wife’s sister and her family. They live in Tours, about two and a half hours drive inland up the Loire valley, and have a holiday home in La Beule. It doesn’t take long for camping in the rain to dampen your spirits, and I for one was looking forward to sleeping in a proper bed again.

Waiting isn’t something the children are fond of at the best of times. In the rain it can be pure torture, and in the rain abroad after a long drive and two nights of camping it’s even worse. I finally relented and put a DVD on the laptop for them. For a while peace reigned while we suffered through the world’s worst ever animated version of Cinderella. It had come free with one of the Sunday papers, and I’d thrown it in the bag “for emergency use only”. This was an emergency.
The following day dawned bright and blustery. It was a massive improvement on the day before, and after some good French food, ample quantities of wine and a good night’s sleep in a real bed, was reflected by my mood. The girls were all happy too, which helps, and were playing with their French cousins.

It’s amazing how children can find ways to communicate that transcend language. As adults we skirt nervously around the issue – too afraid of making fools of ourselves to order a coffee or ask directions. Children just get on with it and communicate – they don’t understand the words, but there seems to be a built in ability to accept and comprehend that we lose as we grow up.

I’m hopeless at it. French I mean. Probably because I have my wife to fall back on. In France, and later in the trip when we reach Spain, I’ll definitely be letting her do all the talking. She’s better at it than me, even in English – she has more practice – and when it comes to other languages she wins hands down.

I guess it’s lazy – but then, I’m on holiday. At least that’s what I keep telling myself as I sit behind the wheel peering doggedly through the windscreen as the wipers struggle to shift the volume of water that’s pelting it. In the back the kids are starting to fight again. Not to worry, it’s almost time to find another camp site. Then we get to put the tent up in the pouring rain again. Yippee!

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