We meander up the coast stopping along the way, taking a detour to stop at the village where our Mount Maunganui neighbour is from. We take the obligatory selfie and message it to them then arrive late afternoon and of course it is raining. We are blessed with a washing machine so I get started on that, although I am yet to ponder how I will get it dry. As the clouds clear we get out the bikes ready to ride down the greeenway to the Mont.

It’s about 20 minutes our host tells us. About 5 or 6 kms. No worries. 30 minutes later I am dearly missing my electric bike and so are my hips and so is my butt, and we are still not there.

Although its appearance in the distance, all be it on zoom, is promising. We arrive at its gate and take in the view. I inform WH that I do not think we shall bike back in the morning. It’s high tide at 7.30am so I am keen to come back then. We turn around and bike back home whereby my watch informs me I have cycled for 17 kilometres, which is definitely more than 12.

I watch a pries walk over the bridge and my mind goes back to the questions with no answers. What is he contemplating? I watch form a safe distance and he looks so serious, as if he is definitely on a mission. I wonder what his mission is? Does he live on the Mont and is this his morning stroll?

We head back in the morning, this time in the car. You park in the car park and then take a bus to the entrance. There is hardly anyone there and it’s nice. We make our way to the top but the Abbey doesn’t open until 9 so we wander back down. I have no. after effects form the cycle which is good but as we traipse down all the steps to go back down my knees are already protesting a return. I decide to book tickets for this afternoon and book the last one of the day at 5pm deciding we can then have dinner after before heading home.

Up, up, up and up.

We stop and watch a helicopter making numerous deliveries of building supplies and enjoy the view.

It rains most of the day and we head to the village for lunch. The specialty of the area is lamb so that’s what we have. It’s hard to tell them its not as good as ours but with only us and one other couple in the restaurant the chef and waitress come out and we have a broken English/french conversation , which is nice and passes away the time.

We head back to the Mont for our tour and the sun makes an appearance.

We walk to the top yet again and hear the history of this amazing place whose original begin in around the year 500. There are only 8 of us on our tour but it appears WH and I are the only ones who don’t know the bible very well so we nod a lot. Our guide is very good and as far as tours go its a good one and sure beats a tourist train.

There is giant wheel there which was the elevator to bring things up from below when the Abbey was taken over for a prison. Six prisoner used to be inside the wheel turning it, like a rat wheel, to bring things up.

We once again descend the stairs and find somewhere to eat. This time we have the omelette which is again a speciality. It’s yum.

I am really pleased to say that I have been. It was great despite the weather. My tips for wannabe Mont St Michele visitors is to stay close or get electric bikes. That way you can enjoy the light and tides easily.

I sit at the airport and write this and need to get cracking as boarding will be soon, so there is no time for proof reading. I would love to say that I will finish off tomorrow with a wrap up from London. Bur I probably wont. Quess what, it rained.

Lots of pictures but not many stories to tell as we wander around dodging storms and chasing rainbows so I will hark back to our little bay, Theoule Ser Mer.

We were sitting outside a little cafe as the French do with the chairs sat behind the table facing out towards the square. The dreaded lurgy was still in my chest so cafe sitting was a good use of my time. We drank our bad coffee and ate a yummy piece of quiche and were watching daily lives unfold around us. My tranquility was interrupted by a couple of posh English ladies sitting behind us. I say posh because there voices were more pronounced than sat nav lady Di. There were lots of French conversations as well but I couldn’t understand what they were saying so they seem to wash over you and become part of the balm that enriches the time and place.

The English woman start talking about trips and where they have been and what they have seen. I try to tone them out but once New Zealand is mentioned my radar tunes back in. “Yes New Zealand its just so far away”, “I know and well my parents went to New Zealand and they said it rained all the time and actually had no culture whatsoever so who would go all that way”.

I could not help it. I swivelled my head around and as soon as I had turned and looked at them she said “oh no you are not from New Zealand are you?” “We certainly are” I replied. “And we live at a gorgeous beach where we get a lot of sun and we have tons of culture”. I say it with a smile and she replies “I really should go and see for myself”, I could’ve said “nah we don’t want you”, but I simply replied that she should as its worth it. There is nowhere in the world better than home.

We catch the ferry back across to St Malo but the weather turns and we end up cold and huddled under our umbrella so we do the tourist train, which is not very exciting but at least it is dry and then we catch the ferry back again.

Sometimes when being a tourist there are a lot of questions about the places you visit and the people you see. Many can be answered by trying to remember them and googling later and many remain a mystery, but this guy intrigued me.

My initial thoughts as I saw him trundling back up the beach with what appeared to be his trolley bag were that he had checked out of his hotel and gone to the ocean for a swim and had his little trundle bag with him for safe keeping. But he comes back and climbs the stairs back up to the promenade lugging his case. Which I can see now is container for water. He has gone down and collected the sea water then carted it back up all the stairs. He takes his trolley up first then goes back down and lugs his water up. It’s really heavy and he struggles with it. I will also add that he is in his Calvin Klein undies, not swimmers. What does he do with the water? Why doesn’t he wear togs? How far is he now going to take the water on his little trolley? Does he do this daily? Some holiday questions shall always remain an enduring mystery to be pondered on in the rocking chair.

PS. WH read me out a local news story recently where togs where being banned in the town including the promenade. The townsfolk evidently being sick of bikini clad and undie wearers on there promenade and in there streets. They would now be met with a fine. The beach below however appears to say you can’t wear full covering. It is possibly supposed to be a burqha but I am going to leave it to ponder.

We arrive in St Malo early evening and as you are aware I have completely “let it go” in regard to our accomodation so we shall only speak of the gas’s half full. The tides were what impressed me most when here last and they do not disappoint again. We wander the promenade and watch and a storm brews behind us and begins to float over the top, sandwiching the sunset between storm cloud and ocean. It’s quite spectacular.

We wake and get our morning exercise with a circumnavigation of the ramparts and walls that surround the old town. The rain once again threatens and we pack up to head to Dinan.

It’s a steep walk down to the river and we break the up hill climb back by having galletes and vin. Galletes are like crepe but more sort of whole meal and savoury. I had a zucchini and tomato one and it was delicious .

There is actually a lot more to say but I am sleepy tired so shall shut down for the day and hope the photos say more than the words.

Mine came in St Malo. Nothing against St Malo itself its lovely and we had a great time here and as I write this we have moved a short ferry ride away to Dinard, to enjoy more of it. It’s a sort of long story, to write at least so I shall try to summarise as best as my brain allows.

I precision planned our entire trip with accomodation from Rome, to Portugal to Nice to Brittany with the exception of three days in between airbnbs which I decided to wing it. The night before we leave our bnb in Arradon we sit down to see where to stay in St Malo. We think we will just pack some things in an overnight and leave our luggage in the car, but whatever we do we needed a car park which proved to be our downfall. We found a couple and then rang but their car parks were full and the time is now approaching 10.oo at night. I go onto my Accor app and there are a few in St Malo but after ringing two and finding there car parks full I finally book an Ibis, with a car park. It’s $260 for an Ibis, expensive I think, whilst WH says out loud “what $260 for an Ibis that’s expensive”. It’s done I say loudly, booked, it has a car park and I don’t care.

I am no longer on a daily budget as we travel round the globe and I have given up trying to convert every euro into dollars, yet I cannot help but wince as I fork out 20 euro for a pub cheeseburger but the pain dissipates as I drink in the view and live in the moment. The fact remains its difficult to fork out that much for an ibis room even if it does have a view but its an Ibis, its available and it has a car park.

We turn up and put our car in the car park and the receptionist says it will be 15 euro to park the car and would we like to pay now. I then pay 275 euro and we are given our keys to the room. Yep 275 euro. It doesn’t register at first but we get upstairs to the room and it is the tiniest Ibis room I have ever stayed in and I have stayed in a few. You have to turn sideways at the end of the bed to walk past as there is only about a foot between the end of the bed and the end of the room. The bedside table is a tiny round stool which leaves about another 18 inches between the side of the bed and the wall. IT is incredibly lucky we bought in an overnight bag as there is no room whatsoever for a suitcase. I am pissed. WH says “it’s done” just let it go.

LET IT GO. Not since the great 2007 Wales travel inn rip off, when we were charged 150 pound to stay in a mouldy motel room at the RWC, have I felt so ripped off. I obviously haven’t let that go.

I go back and double check the booking, it turns out the app converted to Euro and I had indeed booked a 250 euro room not an expensive $250 NZ dollar one. We decide to go for a walk and explore and enjoy this wonderful place so I endeavour to “let it go”. On the way back downstairs I read the tariff rate above the reception and it’s lower than what we paid. WH walks out the door but I can’t help it and I go back and ask why and am told that’s because I booked yesterday. I say that is not OK but I am informed that it is. I want to just leave but as it’s after 6pm that we checked in the flexi fare rules are done and I would have to pay anyway. The back up receptionist comes out from behind the wall and tells me in stern French there are no refunds now. I just need to “let it go”.

I go outside and catch up to WH with great intention of letting it go and I tell him of the rate above the reception. He too says it reminds him of Wales, which makes me laugh that we think the same thing and I at least feel validated that I am not alone in my thoughts. We wander on the promenade, where even the sun has graced us with its presence, it’s a beautiful spot in the world and yet my mind wonders how much each hotel is as we wander past its door. I bet they are cheaper than the Ibis. I resist the urge to get my phone out and google the rates. The tide starts racing in again and we stop for dinner at a yummy little restaurant where we luck upon a table in the window overlooking the sea and we watch as the sun melts into the ocean.

We watch the sunset from the promenade and momentarily forget our teeny room until we head back and realise it has no jug or tea and coffee, I guess there is no space to put it. The final straw in the coffin as I pine for my bedtime cup of tea. The next morning as I shower with the threadbare tea towel imposing as a bath towel I cannot help but think I have paid fluffy robes for scratchy large tea towels.

So there its out. Judge as you will. There are lessons to be learned all be it expensive ones. Do your homework and read the fine print and if you get it wrong then “let it go” or it will have cost you more than money.

PS

I shall just add this wee story on the let it go page as well because I am shocked with the subterfuge as well nauseous with the thought now WH has told me as he read my latest blog that my delicious stew was ox tongue. I am a girl of simple tastes and tongues and other such things are not simple. I choose wholeheartedly not to eat them I am an ante organ, sweet meat, offal, tongue, stalwart who has been mislead. He tells me he didn’t know when we bought it only when he ate it. I think I will stay in denial and class him the ex butcher as being wrong.

We had no dinner and then no supplies for breakfast so a compulsory fast was in order as the next morning we headed to Vannes. The rain hit again and as with the next few days we became expert at storm dodging. It’s already nearly lunch and we break our unforeseen fast by escaping the rain in a little side street cafe where we eat quiche and salad and finish of course with a cake. Mine was lemon and although not quite as good as Cindy’s orVal’s it certainly passed the muster.

Vannes

We once again catch the little tourist train as it’s undercover and covers a lot of ground as we bump and jolt our way around the city. We pass the castles and moats and the wash house along the river, along with the crooked half timber houses that lean awkwardly in all directions.

The wash house, where woman did the washing under the long veranda.

With wet feet and enough shower dodging we decide to get some supplies and head home for the day. The evenings are so long that we bike into the village and have a vin and Beire in the square before heading home for beans and mashed potato and stew, that we had bought at the market, and it was delicious.

The next day we head to Quiberon. We don’t know why but just because. I have to add here about our new car. It’s a Toyota hybrid and it’s sneaky quiet. Our sat nav is really annoying. Over the years we have Tom Tom who was like the English butler, and then everything in between but now we have Lady Di. She’s very posh but by the time she gets the words out she is too late. “Exit now” she proclaims ans we have just passed the point of no return. It always seen as if it is momentarily after the exit. It’s like she plays head games with us as we try and anticipate her next move. WH is unfazed as he does another loop on the round about and we methodically count the exits, or he slips down the wrong one and then goes back for another go. I have stopped braking on my imaginary brakes even whilst heading down roads where the sat nav track looks like an ECG recording, and not a good one. WE (I know I am not driving but am excellent co-driver and navigator, at least far better than lady Di) are excellent French drivers now, who don’t even blink at two way, one way streets (that’s streets that can only fit one car on that has two way traffic on) we pull in and out, reverse, drive into the long grass and hope there is no ditch. So on our way to Quiberon we have added St Cado which looked like a pretty place to stop on the way. We wind down the two way, one way roads and I am glad the only thing we encounter is a lady in gumboots pushing her toddler on his bike, and we slow right down, but as our sneaky little Toyota sidles past her she gets an enormous fright. Having past the only traffic of a lady and toddler, Lady Di tells us we are at our destination. Which is a couple of houses in the middle of nowhere. So that’s a fail.

Back to Quiberon. It’s a nice drive and we get there in time for lunch and find a restaurant by the sea. I have scallops and WH has Moules and frites, both of which are excellent. There is a small ro-pax that does a trip out to an island, its a 45 minute trip and it costs Euro 39.50 for an adult, euro 216 for a small car and 650 euro for a camper. Cook Strait eat your heart out. We stroll around and with a bit of a google we find there are two St Cado and we reset Lady Di and off we go. This time it doesn’t disappoint as we find the little island reached by the causeway bridge.

We are yet again dodging storms but the bonus is that the sky is dramatic. When we first arrive the sun is still bright and there are ladies sitting on the causeway sketching, a quick glance at there talents of the pencil sketch coming to life. On our return from the island circumnavigation they are already onto watercolour and it looks like a wonderful way to spend an afternoon.

We sit on the deck of the bar with a drink and watch the storm clouds brewing and finally decide we need to get moving so we head back to the car. With precision timing the skies open with a hail storm and we are grateful that we are undercover as we watch everyone bolt for cover and head for home.

On one day we headed to Grasse, perfume capital of the world. Walking through the perfumerie I could not smell a thing so it was no time to invest in a create your own masterpiece as my would have been a bit bit stink (get it). The town was celebrating the pink rose and I wished Mum could have seen it. As I tell her that whenever I see pink roses I think of her so this really was Mothers Day.

We sat in the square under the pink umbrellas and next to the rose fountain and had some lunch and watched the world go by.

Photo dump as the street photos are more memorable than my recollection.

I need to wind this part of the journey up as we have so moved on from here but I can’t go without saying about Cannes.

It turns out it’s Cannes film festival and the day before we leave we train into Cannes and wander around. This is a day I could most easily people watch. I ditched my 10 year old gucci sunglasses least someone mistake me for someone important and plus it was raining a lot. We caught one of those little tourist trains as walking was still not my strongpoint and it’s another good place to watch the world go by. There were crowds gathered outside hotels waiting for glimpses of somebody they deemed special. There were slinky gowns in daylight, mixed with crocheted shorts and sparkly jumpsuits. The paparazzi stands were empty in anticipation of the evenings events and when we left the next day the airport had way more private jets than aeroplanes. WH and I were just glad no one recognised us as we enjoyed our wandering and super duper train ride:-)

It did not disappoint. We went on the first trip of the morning and the water was really calm and the tide low.

We cruised along the coast and our skipper and guide took us in and out of caves. I didn’t like the experience of going inside them. Felt a bit weird when you walk around the beach and there is danger, DANGER, signs everywhere depictimg how not go on the shore under the falling rocks and then you go right underneath them, and through them and even in some cases out the other side.

The area was beautiful and when we went to Bengali cave our guide told us that this was what had made Carvoeiro famous, previously it was a little fishing village but then they put a photo of the famous cave with a hole in the top, Bengali cave, as a Microsoft screensaver and whola.

Seems a while ago now. Carvoeiro that is, and its sun. The weather was lovely and we enjoyed its warmth and then it was back to Lisbon for D and K to catch their flight home and us to fly out to Nice in a couple of days. It was great doing travel adventure with D&K, sharing wonderful moments and making special rocking chair memories. We will miss them.

Before Seville too busy, after Seville too busy, then too sick. Bugger. I am a careful planner of not getting sick. Religious vitamin c taking, hand washing, sanitising etc etc. THen there is sick and SICK. It’s normal to get a sniffle or a bit of cold and maybe have a restful afternoon or two but when you get sick, sick it’s a real bugger. Mum block your ears and read on later. I spent the days laying round wondering at what stage of not being able to breathe probably should I head to the nearest emergency department. My wheezing was enough to drive both WH and I to a new level of worriness. I feel too sick to do anything about my predicament. I know that if at home I would go to the doctors or the after hours but here just let me be and breathe. It’s all too hard.

There is nothing worse than worrying about yourself. It always feels so indulgent and as the wheeze continues and you take yet another dose of your inhaler you wonder if you are a hypercondriac, castastrophiser or an idiot who doesn’t want to try and navigate themselves through a foreign non English speaking medical system. But then the catstrophiser in you is pretty sure you are an idiot and will wind up in an acute emergency room because you were so stupid. It doesn’t help that we are in a small village with not so much as a chemist shop and then it’s the weekend. But glass half full we are at least in a AirBNB which I could just lie around and do nothing but try to breathe. Lots of shower steam, honey and lemon drink, overdosing on my preventer thinking that would help. Then googling about that and it’s really not a good idea. A couple of days ago I decided to start taking the antibiotics that I had with me and I can say that as at today I am feeling substantially better. My wheeze is now at a stage where I have had a full nights sleep lying down. So whanau and friends cast your judgements as you will. Catastrophier drama queen or idiot who got away with it? I hear your whispers and cup of coffee chat as I tap. I smile knowing you and knowing where you will sit on the continuom between the two. Meanwhile the issue is I now have very few puffs of my inhaler left so today my mission is to go on a hunt to find out how to get another one, buoyed by the fact that I can now go and hunt. Wish me luck on the inhaler hunt and I shall update you further. Mother you may now read on.

In the meantime let’s go back to Algarve. We leave Seville and transfer to Cavoeiro in the Algarve. We make a stop at a pretty fishing village and it’s pretty. It’s sleepy and quiet and I wonder what made the person put covers over their car wheels and what purpose it could possibly serve. I have to be content that some mysteries will never be solved.

We next visit a castle which I will say is pretty ordinary as far a castles go but what we do see is Storks. Lots of them nesting with baby chicks in their nests. I remember in Strasbourg last year, where the Stork is their town symbol because they bought them back from only 12 couples after the Second World War to now over 1000. Here in the Algarve they seem abundant. On their own nesting poles, or derelict buildings as below or even layered up in the giant pylons alongside the roads like multi story apartment dwellers.

We arrive at Cavoeiro and it’s very pretty. With its steep cliffs and turquoise water.

We wander into town and back along a boardwalk. It’s a slow step and an easy wander.

Along the boardwalk on the way home we see a bar down the cliff under the shade sails so we wander down for a aperol spritz and Cervasa, as you do.

That’s enough for a day.

We do a wander through the lanes and go get some tapas, vino and cervesa. Nothing is great with the exception of the place we are in. We then sit on the rooftop and once again watch the sunset over the rooftops.

The next morning I wake on a mission to take morning light photos and yet get trapped in a maze of lanes where the walls are to high and the light is to weak. It’s easy to get lost as every left and every right is never quite square and every lane walks away a few more unseen degrees. Then before you know it you are somewhere far from where you want to be. Another rounded corner and all of a sudden the square opens before us and the architecture unfolds as you view it from a distance.

We wander past cathedrals with the low sun hitting the steeples and watch and listen as the city comes alive.

It’s going to be a big day out as we head back to our hotel for breakfast which i have to share a photo of the pretty courtyard where we eat. We choose to eat outside and there is a really grumpy man who leaps up from his chair and slams the door after the waitress comes to serve us. It must be the cold draught in the 20 something degree heat that annoys him as he sits at a booth alone, in a setting for five, closest to the door , with a sea of empty tables far away from his perceived cool air. Tapping on his laptop with important looking eyebrows and grumpy looking mouth. We enjoy our breakfast in the cooler morning air but go in and out the door at the other end as I do not want the poor man to suffer further.

Right what’s next. It’s a walk to the park and then to see the big curved military building that seems to dominate the images when you go searching Seville. We walk. It’s hot. We walk some more. It’s hot. Somehow we get trapped in the grounds of the university and can’t get out. We are surrounded by a moat and no bridge, expecting security to come and deal to tourists any minute. We escape the university and finally are in the park. It’s hot.

It’s probably time to mention how much I hate google maps walking especially here in Seville. We follow it and then we are going the wrong way, turn around go back, turn around again, I feel like it’s just messing with us. Sitting in google space, watching and laughing. I don’t want to end up like breakfast man so I breathe deep and spin around again.

We walk around the outside of an ordinary looking building and WH suggest that as its curved perhaps it is our destination. We pass a car park and take some steps up to a door that we think will lead us inside antlers church but it is like we have stepped through a portal. Its beautiful.

There is so much detail you can’t fit it in. The tiles, the arches, the roof, the stairs, the bridge. In terms of monuments I think it is one of the beautiful I have seen. It is too much for my camera lens to take in as I try to capture it.

We cross the river and wander its banks. It’s hot. We look for somewhere shady to enjoy a late lunch and I wonder if breakfast man is at least happy sitting eating his lunch in the warmth. We meander back to the hotel, it’s been a big day out and the city is closed for Siesta. It seems such a civilised thing to do as we walk back in the heat. Evidently in the summer it’s around 40 degrees every day so my advice is don’t go in the summer. The lanes and alleys are breathless and the rooftop breeze provides a welcome relief along with a cervesca and Aperol Spritz.

With siesta over and our feet now rested we decide to head back into the streets below as we can hear the music somewhere and FOMO sets in as we pack everything into our weekend.

We are not disappointed as we walk into a small square and find not only the music but also the dancing. It’s the mayors party and all are invited as multi generations crowd into the space under the trees. You can buy cerveja for a euro and vino for 2.

It was a day to remember. Love Seville.

We wander in the wet, find a laundromat and do the washing. I know it’s only been a couple of days but it’s right there and it’s raining. We then head underground and ride the subway to checkout the subway art.

Truth be told I am writing this four days (now five)after the fact and I have so many photos and pieces of yesterday and the day before that and especially today that I want to put down. They are indeed rocking chair moments.

Lisbon was lovely and we then got a transfer to Porto where on the way we stopped at Obidos. It was a cute little walled town and the lanes were full of lavender and some other fragrant plant. At first we thought someone had been weeding but they were tied to the door knobs and around the edges. It smelled wonderful as more and more people walked over them. Evidently there had been a couple of weddings the day before and that is how the village decorates for the occasion, then outside a little church were the initials S&P in a heart. Cute.

Next stop was Nazare. Home of the big waves. We arrive in a downpour and scramble for cover, then walk down the hill to the lighthouse. It is hard to imagine the 100ft waves as tall as the lighthouse (check out the photos on you tube or just google big waves). The exhibition of photos and memorabilia of surfers who have conquered the coast was fascinating. Then the sky once again turned to drama as we raced the impending hail storm back up the hill. We won, only just.