It was soothing to listen to the waves lap against the shore and we had resolved to have a picnic on the beach at some point during the day. But first into town for groceries, money changes and general sightseeing.We followed the shore road into town, enjoying the smell of the sea air and of the shore. The smell was far more pungent here than in Portsmouth, as though Cherbourg was truly on the ocean, and Portsmouth no more than a sheltered river. Both Heather and I had hesitated to say anything in England, after all what can you say? “Shouldn’t your ocean be stinkier?” We had a feeling that we’d exaggerated the memory of the ocean from our trips to California and to Prince Rupert. But all the while along the English coast something had been missing. It was like a hole being filled when we landed here and discovered that our memories had not been exaggerated.
When we found the hypermarket, after a small unintended detour, we found it to full of very fresh seafood…It’s back door was the harbour…and we had a great time watching the clams snapping and the crabs trying to escape.. One great big crab had all it’s rear legs over the lip of the aquarium and one good pull would have sent him clattering to the market floor. Heather and I watched intently, cheering him on in quiet hushed whispers. We were forced to move on when one of the employees glared at us angrily. Perhaps he thought we were organizing the crab version of the great escape. The question is...where would they have gone if they made it out?
Buying groceries was a chore, even with the amusing live seafood section. Not only could we not read the language but we had to figure out if 10 francs was expensive or not and to make matters worse most prices were also marked in Euros. Suddenly I am a big fan of a unified world currency.
Once we had bought our food for the day we set out to change some money. Since one of us had to stay with the bikes and our travelers cheques were in Heather’s name, she had been practicing the French phrases for money changes all day, every one of which left her mind the moment she stepped into the change office. She nervously stammered out a few words, only to almost faint with relief at the response “It’s alright, I speak English.”
From changing money our thoughts went to eating and we strolled along the harbour looking for a place. Suddenly, after all the commotion between tandems and catamarans we passed, sitting quietly and smugly in the harbour, a Trimaran. We turned our backs on it and pretended it didn’t exist.
We ate our lunch in a small park on the marina, adorned with all the flags of the NATO nations. Seeing the Canadian flag flying in the breeze, no matter how ignored it is at home, seemed like seeing a comforting haven, seemed like being at home, so it too we cheerfully ignored.
Cherbourg, once you are on its streets, is a beautiful port town with the sea incorporated into its design with huge harbours and canals coming right into the downtown, From the sea, with its water tower and blocky apartment buildings it had seemed like an ugly and foreboding place, an image easily dispelled by walking about the town, but one so disturbingly like propaganda photos showing Russian cities in the seventies, gray, dingy, and under strict military law, that it leaves you a little shaken when you approach it for your holiday. In fact, along the harbour front at least, the French seem very concerned with making things beautiful. Even the roads were being lined with a red shale path on each side.
After dinner we prepared for supper. Yes food is on our minds a lot. Sympathizing with plight of the escaping crabs and empathizing with them too much, we bought artificial crab for dinner. We went back to the beach outside our campground to enjoy our guilt free meal. As we ate a beautiful black and white three masted schooner sailed out of Cherbourg harbour and, all sails raised, sailed off in the direction of Portsmouth. It was a majestic thing to watch, cutting through the waves with proud confidence, relying only on the power the sea would provide. We watched as it grew dim on the horizon, until all we could see were the raised sails, like tiny clouds in the distant sea haze. It looked so right, so natural on the water, that the great ferries, as they pushed into Cherbourg, looked bizarre, floating oil refineries with belching clouds of smoke.
It was great to rest by the shore, watching the patterns of the waves as they rolled in, getting sand and seaweed stuck between our toes. Some crazed Frenchman, or perhaps it was an Englishman on vacation (he didn’t scream in any specific language) plunged himself into the water for a swim. The ocean, my toes can testify, was colder than the pool at Wimbourne and did not tempt us to plunge in at all.
As we sat watching the waves Heather became very melancholy, sitting silently and staring at the water. While I have been feeling very tookish because of the successes of the days before she had become despondent about her command of French. Because she speaks only a very little she felt isolated and trapped here. Worried what she would do in an emergency, if I could not speak or if we were separated. She also felt that as I had always relied on her to handle the social aspects of our trip she had become useless in the face of my greater proficiency in French. A large part of her depression, I believe stemmed for the fact that she had never before been in a country that spoke anything but English. Her depression disturbed me, not in the least because of her overestimation of my abilities in French. Hers are not really all that inferior to mine but she lacks confidence to use them. And I can’t, apparently, use my English all that well. I told her that I wasn’t excusing her from social aspects and she laughed…I wasn’t kidding. While I can ask for things and receive them Heather has an ability that I lack, the ability to immediately strike up a rapport with whomever she is speaking too. Because of that people are generally far friendlier to her than me and far more willing to go out of their way to help her, if only the same ability didn’t attract so many old men with a longing to share their life stories. I don’t think Heathers funk will last, just a tad bit of culture shock.
We opened the gift Heather’s friend Christina had packed, a “karmic” package that contained a pithy letter describing exactly how a trip such as ours feels. Each day is unique, isolated, a story unto itself and it is not until long, sometimes very long, after the events does the story of the journey begin to coalesce. The chronicles, such as this, do little more than record the story of each moment. It is not until the end, as with all stories, after you close the book and shut your eyes and reflect on what has passed that glimmers of understanding can be felt. Christina also gave small tokens with writing on them and we have decided to reserve each one for a difficult day. Today’s was a candle but we had no flame to light it. Perhaps that is the story of this trip.
Finally to bed and then leave tomorrow. Already the wind has picked up and the tent is moving in time to the gusts. Rain is spattering on our roof and clouds are rolling in.
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