The sun shining
through the window told me I had overslept a little. I felt much recovered from
yesterday exertions, but still a bit achy. However, there was no point wasting
daylight, so after a quick breakfast I went out to explore the city. I had already
looked through the old town, but saw in Google Maps a nice city park, narrow
and long following a creek that empties in the bay, which was inviting me to
explore it. First thing I saw on arrival were a group of trees that had been
painted blue in their lower meter or so. A celebration of France’s soccer
victory over Belgium last night? No, as it turns out it is a project to remind
folks that the city was flooded by the storm surge of storm Xynthia in 2010,
with the level of the water being marked by the blue portion of the submerged
trees. Trees might not like being painted blue, so the city uses some sort of
food-grade color that slowly fades with time, just like the memories of people
fade through time, and refreshes the color every 6 years to remind folks to be
alert and follow the emergency evacuation orders. In line with the paranoia
about rising sea level they have added another thin blue line 30 cm above the
historic flood level, to scare people into submission about what a storm surge
could be like in another 50 years.
The park is used by a
great variety of people for jogging, bicycling, pushing the poussette to
sunbathe the babies, or just walk in the company of their friends (or their
cell phones). There is also a small free zoo, where kids can come to see a good
variety of farm animals.
Done with the zoo, and
not wanting to undertake any long distance trips, I took a short walk through
the ramparts, admiring the old medieval lighthouse, and the two towers that
protect the entrance to the old port. The towers are all that was left of the
old wall and fortifications that surrounded the city when the English were in
possession of this part of France; they were destroyed by the French when they
conquered Nouvelle Aquitaine (just like they did in Bergerac), but the
Protestant inhabitants of La Rochelle—having withstood a nasty siege—were able
to negotiate a special status as one of three cities where Protestant temples
were allowed to persist. Protestants were allowed the freedom of religion
throughout Nouvelle Aquitaine, but Catholicism was the official state religion
and Protestant temples slowly disappeared.
By 10h30 I was done
with my exploration, and back in the old port saw that a sightseeing ship was
getting ready to depart for Fort Boyard and Île d’Aix, and I
jumped on it. Fort Boyard is the equivalent to Chateau d’If in
Marseille in that both of them eventually morphed into prisons, but there all
comparison ends. Fort Boyard is a rather ugly structure that reminded me
of a half-submerged can of Spam. It was built during Napoleon’s empire to
protect the Arsenal at La Rochelle (which for some strange reason is called the
Rochefort Arsenal), but it never served its purpose because if took forever to
build. First a foundation had to be built, dropping large rocks unto the floor
of the bay at low tide, and then seeing them be scattered all over the place by
the many storms that hit the Atlantic shore. Then the Napoleonic empire came to
an end, and the French authorities, saddled with that particular eyesore, used
it briefly as a prison. Eventually the prison was abandoned and the whole thing
fell into disrepair. If Géraldine had been looking for a real estate bargain 30
years ago, she could have bought it for the measly sum of 4,500 euros! Alas, a
TV studio bought it for that paltry sum, turned it into a TV set, and proceeded
to make millions with their action game Les Clés de Fort Boyard. The
premise is that there is a treasure hidden in the fort, which is inhabited by a
hermit and a group of dwarfs, and six to eight players come to the fort to
search for the keys to the many treasure coffers, and presumably the winning
team either goes home with one of the keys (I imagine the winning team gets a
chance to come back) or with part of the treasure. Apparently it has been a
fabulously successful series over the last 30 years, and all French have seen
it at some time of the other, so taking a boat to go around it is a major
touristic attraction at La Rochelle.
The excitement wears
out quickly (again, it seems like going around a can of Spam, and there is only
so much you can get excited about this), so as a palliative one is allowed to
disembark on the Île d’Aix, which is not very large but receives the
tourist with open arms. There is a small town with rental cabins,
several restaurants, bikes for rent, and plenty of trails to follow around and
across the small island. You can also take a ride on a horse-drawn cart,
sunbathe on the rocks, and even bathe in frigid waters. The three hours I spent
there were pleasant, but gave me a bit of island fever.
Back in La Rochelle I
had time for one more thing, and I chose to visit the aquarium. I have visited
many aquaria over the years, and cannot fail to compare them with the excellent
Monterey Bay Aquarium in California. If Monterey is a 10, I would rank La
Rochelle as a 9. They did a great job explaining and demonstrating the species
that live along the Atlantic coast, and I found particularly fascinating
learning about the sturgeon, eels, and salmon that migrate into the estuary of La
Gironde to reproduce, in some instances going a good distance into La
Garrone and La Dordogne. I also learnt that the oysters that are
such a distinguishing industry of the Atlantic French coast are actually a
Japanese species that was transplanted into the region when an epidemic
decimated the indigenous Portuguese oysters. Go figure.
The following day I
used the morning to visit the Maritime Museum, devoted to the fishing and
oyster industries of the region. Without being extraordinary it was very
enjoyable. They have several ships in their collection, but only one you can
visit at this time, the France 1. This impressive ship was one of the 8 to 10
“stationary” metrological ships deployed on the Atlantic from the 1950’s to the
mid 1980’s. The ship went on two-week missions to a given location in the
Atlantic, try to stay pretty much at a fixed location all the time, and from
there launch meteorological ballons and conduct all sorts of atmospheric, wind,
and oceanographic observations that would complement the data obtained from
land stations to create synoptic meteorological interpretations at a global
scale. They followed up from the meteorological network operated by the Allies
during World War II, which is credited with giving them an edge against the
German navy and U-Boots (incidentally, a U-Boot base was built by the Germans
in La Rochelle, but to late in the war to be of any use to them). Eventually
the network of “stationary” meteorological ships was replaced by
satellite-based observations and the fleet was retired and disbanded.
Highly satisfied by my
visit to La Rochelle, I got ready to take the train back to Bergerac. That is
when everything started going wrong. I had an hour to kill before taking the
train, so I stopped at the local Carrefour City supermarket to buy something
for lunch. Bought a nice salad and a slice of hot pizza, together with
something to drink, and I was juggling these three items in my hands when I
tripped on the sidewalk and fell hard without being able to use my hands to
break the fall. I hit my right elbow and right knee (yes, the same knee I have
been talking about) pretty hard, and got a nice cement rash on my right forearm
and leg. Somehow I also managed to hit hard my left thumb, which promptly
swelled and became useless. A group of young men witnessed the fall and came to
my aid because clearly I was unable to stand up, deeply hurt both in body and
in spirit. I managed to limp to a bench and wipe the blood oozing from my knee
and elbow, gobbled up the slice of pizza, and after a half hour got back on the
bike to go to the train station. Ouch, ouch, ouch.
There were quite a few
people waiting for the Bordeaux train, and I felt everyone was looking at my
bloody knee. There were also four or five bikes, so I had to worry about
finding space for my bike. The train arrived at the platform and fortunately
the conductor was close to me. So I asked on what wagon would the bikes travel.
He gave a frozen look and asked if I was Cynthia DIDIER. I was taken aback and
answered that I wasn’t. “Alors, Monsieur, vous n'avez aucune reservation?”
(So you don’t have a reservation?). “No” I answered, “I asked at the counter
when I bought the ticket and was told I didn’t need one.” “Let me see your
ticket … Desolé, you can travel but your veló cannot. You need a
bike reservation.” Rats! I then noticed I was not the only one with that
problem, for the infamous Madame DIDIER was not among the group of people with
bicycles. So I asked, “Well, can I pay for the bike on the train? And then the
glacial face relaxed and he told me that it would cost me 20 euros, and to get
on board and he would come by to collect the fee. I did and the train was
packed, so I had to stay in everybody’s way, sandwiched between a poussette,
and gentleman holding a dog on a leash, and an old timer who appeared to be
carrying all his world possessions in a shopping bag and a backpack. Eventually
the conductor came to me, and in a friendlier tone explained to me that
reservations are not needed in some regional trains, but they are required in
Intercity and TGV trains, and that if I had made a reservation I would have
only had to pay 5 euros, just like the man had paid for his dog. He gave the
same lesson to a French girl that had been caught in the same misdemeanor, so I
didn’t feel so bad after all (but still had to pay the 20 euros surcharge).
Needless to say, I was
glad to arrive home where I could lick my wounds in peace.
