We left London early on Friday morning and arrived in Calais at lunchtime; having not realised that toll booths accept debit cards (given we had no Euro), the mighty Clio meandered through the French countryside for several hours before the majesty of the Pont de Normandie loomed into sight.
45 minutes later we were cruising the main promenade of Trouville itself, a bustling seaside harbour and resort dominated by a faded casino at the junction of quay and beach, and famous for the seafood that arrives by the trawlerload on a daily basis. We'd chosen it as our destination for the weekend by that most scientific of methods, Google. When I finally gave up pretending I could afford Rome, I asked J where else she would like to go - "to wherever the best mussels in Northern France are", came the reply.
A swift internet search later, up popped Trouville - round the bay a bit from Le Havre, and a more manageable drive from the ferry than Mont St Michel. Not the most romantic of reasons for choosing it, but the squeals of delight from the passenger seat as we jostled our way along the street convinced me we'd done ok.
Our hotel turned out to be perfect, and the town itself was exactly what we (or more importantly, J) had been hoping for. We managed to exist in a little French bubble for most of the weekend until hearing our first English accent late on Sunday - and for two full days we strolled, sunbathed, drank beer and ate fantastic food without a care in the world. It was my first time in the France beyond Paris as an adult, so imagine my surprise when my GCSE French not only wasn't mocked, but resulted in my getting everything I asked for. Ok, so it was a surprise to find myself eating goats cheese quiche on Sunday morning, but I did ask for it, even if I thought it had bacon in it. Again, it was only on Sunday that the spell broke, when a well-meaning bartender answered my pidgin French enquiry in English. I have to admit though, I was exhausted by that point after a full 48 hours dredging the dark recesses of my brain to uncover some half-remembered 17 year old piece of vocabulary so that I could buy a pen to write a postcard.
Mornings were spent drinking coffee and watching the population of the town stroll past - obligatory baguette under their arm. I'm pretty sure people can't eat that much bread; I assume it's just the done thing to have a baguette under one arm and a cigarette in hand, should anyone doubt the true Gallicism of your nature. Afternoons involved a beer with the elderly locals watching the world go by outside a local bar, a stroll through the market, and a bit of gentle sun-burning on the beach.
We followed Trip Advisor's tips on eating out, which resulted in us tucking into delicious duck and steak on the Saturday evening in "La Bolee Normande", a small family-run restaurant up a steep side street near the quayside. The ambience was great, the service friendly, the food delicious - but it deserves special mention for its unique take on fresh seafood. As we were mid-meal, two middle aged French ladies and what appeared to be a daughter came in, ordering a seafood platter which duly arrived around 10 minutes later. After a moment, shrieks and the sound of chairs flying backwards filled the air; I turned round just in time to see the centrepiece of their meal - a crab - making a break for freedom across the table. The women were shouting (but laughing) as the young waiter came ambling over to try and catch the crab, which had launched itself off the table altogether and was attempting to scuttle across the tiles to safety. The young fella got down on his hands and knees and returned triumphant, crab in hand, just as his dad - the chef - appeared to apologise, explain and grab the plucky crustacean to return it to the kitchen.
Reading between the lines & fluent foreign language, it would appear that the wife / head waitress had scooped up the crab to finish the dish, assuming it cooked. As the husband / chef pointed out - and as was evident when he returned with our hero - still steaming from his hot bath - 5 minutes later, a cooked crab looks completely different to a raw (or indeed, "live") one.
There's something about the atmosphere in the place and the general friendliness and openness we experienced from everyone all weekend that I would use that story as part of a recommendation to visit la Bolee Normande if you're ever in Trouville; the same goes for Le Noirot where I showed my cosmopolitan class by ordering salmon in a restaurant renowned for its seafood, yet was treated like a long lost son by the exuberant old head waiter.
Thanks Trouville - you made a nervous boyfriend and the birthday girl very happy indeed.
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