Day 56. Granville. Oct 1 2001.

My prediction from the previous evening, I’m afraid, came very true. Last night was one long marathon of worry. The wind built through the night until at times I was worried that we would have to pack everything in and scurry for the shelter of the toilet block. The worst was the fact that you could follow the wind in as it came towards you. First you would hear an extra large wave crash against the shore, sounding so enormous that you were amazed no spray lashed the tent. Then you would hear the bushes between the campground and the beach begin to rustle, gently at first, then violently. Finally a howling whistle as the wind crossed the open space between the hedges and the tent, a noise between an angry sigh and the whistle of a steam train. Then the wind would hit, bending the back wall of the tent down violently, smothering our faces with the cloth of our shelter. The walls would pulsate spastically, like a living organism in its final death throes and then it passed, only to begin again.

At times the pauses between gusts were long enough that I assumed the worst was over and I allowed myself to begin dozing off, only to have the tent shake once more, all the more violently because of its unexpectedness. If I slept 15 minutes I would be surprised. When the sun finally dawned I forced us both out of bed and moved the tent across the campground to a site sheltered on one side by a building and on the other by a large cedar tree. The cedar was magnificent, twisted into a gnarled and strange shape by years of sea winds.

From the building, however, we kept hearing loud crashing noises. Since there was construction on the other side I assumed they were connected. It wasn’t until later that it struck me. The building was a bowling alley and the noise was the sound of pins crashing. Strange as it may seem I found the noise, once it was identified, reassuring and missed it when they closed for the night.

At about 11 that morning, as I was writing and waiting for Heather to return from the washroom, I was approached by a young man who had noticed our Canadian flags. He was from Quebec and cycling across France as well. His name was Olivier and he had been struck down with a bout of tendonitis, which had forced him to remain in this campground for eight days. He was waiting for a week to see if his problem cleared up and if not he was returning home. He was pretty disappointed after having spent the last year preparing for the trip. He was also pretty excited to be talking to anyone; after all he had been stuck in a virtually deserted campground for more than a week with nothing but a gameboy to occupy his time. Heather felt left out of the conversation because he spoke mostly French but I was having a pretty hard time communicating anyway. The little French I remember doesn’t really cover phrases like “we are trying to stretch our money.”

We left to explore Granville and poor Olivier seemed so disappointed to be left alone once more, kind of like a sad puppy.

We walked along the beach for a while and then over the rocky headlands and into a graveyard we had seen yesterday. The gravestones were decayed from the salt sea air and one had a burrow in the side. It was a disquieting place.

Immediately next door to the cemetery was the house of famous fashion designer Christian Dior.


The house was closed but we could wander about the garden at will. The plants were spectacular with roses and lipstick plants and a hundred other flowers for which I have no names. The views from the terrace took in the broad sweep of Granville’s oceanfront while strategically blocking out the monstrous casino.

Heather was a little naughty I’m afraid and surreptitiously clipped a flower from the lipstick plant to wear in her hair.

From Dior's house we walked into central Granville, down a long winding street. From above all you can see of Granville is the clustered roofs of apartment buildings so closely packed you can scarcely tell where one ended and the other began. Descending into the town was like dropping into a vast artificial canyon built upon a hundred layers of history.

We passed an old man washing his car in his garage, the wallpaper still up from when he had torn out his living room. Everywhere you looked buildings rose in columns to the sky, blocking out the sun. Walking through was like being trapped in a beautiful and lively maze.

After our descent we climbed out on the other side to the church of St. Paul’s. It was an enormous domed church with an exterior so weathered and gray that it looked as though it had been abandoned centuries earlier.



It was an ugly church, the more so because it could have been so beautiful. Inside were Romanesque mosaics depicting the Sermon on the Mount. The tiles were beautiful, in stark contrast to the exterior.

We descended into the warren once more, keeping a wary eye out for exotic restaurants like McDonalds, and headed to the rocky shore of Granville. We walked past the city’s port, the tide now out so that all the ships rested with their hulls buried in a thick layer of mud.

We walked up to the “Haute Ville” The ancient city on the rock.

Here evidence of WWII lay everywhere with deliberate effort given to preserving the nazi’s “Wall of the Atlantic.” The view was unparalleled, seeing almost to Mount St. Michel, but it was grim, with concrete bunkers rising behind us.

On the high rock we went to the church of Notre Dame De Granville, a church built on successive layers of sailor’s chapels, were legend tells of a statue of Mary and Child washed up on the rocks. The interior of the church was dark, the only illumination from thick and grimy stained glass windows. At one end rose a great gilded pipe organ three stories high, while at the other was an elaborate shrine to Mary in marble and gold.

It was getting on toward night and the streets were starting to flood with students, so we decided to call it a day. We walked home under graying skies along the seaside cliffs and we felt a little grey ourselves. The weather has been bad and we cannot help but think this is part of what the changing seasons will bring. The dilemma that lies before us is: to follow the coast or to turn inland?

We are also a little disappointed at the distance we have covered. The balance between seeing all that we want to see in one place and traveling fast enough to see the things in another place is a very delicate one we have yet to master. Perhaps we should have practiced before tackling such an enormous venture.


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