There was just one similarity to a day we spent in Italy in 2002. The weather wasn't similar. Today was overcast and eventually rainy.What was similar was that we drove for 2 hours to have a lunch in a renowned seaside port. In Italy we drove to Porto Recante on the Marche coast for one of the best seafood experiences in Italy. Today we travelled to Sete (pronounced "Set") for a genuine Bouillabaisse.

Sete is the last working fishing port in France, it is also a major port for the export of sunflower and rapeseed oil and the import of Algerian gas and wine. To steal a line from our guidebook, if one of the gas tankers goes off it would take out the town and the wine is only marginally less dangerous. Anyway, back to Sete later .....

We set off at around 10.00 and decided that we would visit Abbaye de Valmagne around 20 minutes north of Sete. This involved around 45 minutes on the E15. The E15 is the main motorway in from Spain running diagonally up to Orange where it connects to the A7 up to Paris. Get the idea. Lots of trucks. Lotsa trucks and cars traveling at 130km if on the speed limit and obviously faster because it is France.

OK, going down wasn't too bad and we instructed Tom to take us to Meze first. Why? Because Tom knows where every Abbaye in France is located except Abbaye de Valmagne. Meze is 8km due south of the Abbaye, so we figured it would be signposted. Not so much!

Meze is located on the northern shore of the vast saltwater Bassin de Thau. Sete is located on the Mediterranean side, on and around Mont St Clair which stands out in the middle of the flat coastal plain. The Bassin is chockers with oyster and mussel farms. I mean chockers, Like all small towns and villages in France built before the car, most streets are now one way and Tom barely had time to draw breath between instruction to turn. I had enough breath to swear and in frustration in trying to find any signage for the Abbaye, Ches and I had our first little tiff. Just a little one. There was a sign. And a long way along a very narrow road, another one. Over the hill and there it was across the fields. It is vast..... and it was closed for the winter.

We drove around looking for a vantage point to at least photograph it, and in the end had to settle with stopping in the middle of the road back across the fields for a distant shot.

oh well, on to Sete.

This town was only established in the late 1600's and has always been a gritty town. It is most notable for having absolutely no monuments or historic sites. Like Pisa, they have a festival that involves jousting in boats on the Grand Canal, but that's it. As I said, it is built on and around Mont St Claire, and they dug canals to make easier access from the Bassin de Thau to the sea. We drove in along one canal for a couple of kilometers and there were thousands of small runabouts and skiffs moored along the bank. I suspect every resident owns a oat and they say that they use to boats to do the shopping.

The Grand Canal is something else again. Massive trawlers are moored along the banks and it is lined with restaurants and cafes. Amazingly, there are large underground car parks below the canal, and as we couldn't find anywhere to park above ground, ventured down the narrow tight turning ramp. No problems Level 2 Pink. Ches still noted every sign above ground to make sure we would find the entrance again.

It was about 1ish so we decided to seek out a restaurant. Le Grand Bleu. What a good choice. We decided to share a dozen oysters and a Bouillabaisse. The oysters were around twice the size of a Pacific and tasted fantastic. Ches had a Rose while I had Picpoul Superieur (Coteaux du Languedoc). Quite acidic on first sip, but then after the first oyster wonderful ... made for each other. Just like the Verdicchio in Marche is made for seafood.

There was a 30 minute wait for the Bouillabaisse to be prepared, which was just as well. Then out it came; eight fish and two potatoes on a platter, a tureen of soup (fish stock) and a platter of croutons, grated cheese and tubs of rouille. This what you had in mind David?

Well we did our best, however one and a half fish and the potato remained on the platter when we surrendered.

A walk along the Grand Canal as the misty rain began was all we could manage before we tried to also drop in to Frontignan and drive the coast toward the Camargue in the hope of seeing the Flamingos.

It was 3.00 and drizzling as we got lost in the narrow streets of Frontignan. By chance we came upon a tourist office and they directed us to some tasting rooms. I don't know why I thought that the fortified wine, "Frontignac" from Rutherglen was the same. "Muscat de Frontignan" is a sweet unfortified wine. 7E seemed to be the top price for any bottle. We bought a bottle, as well as a Valmont de Peronny Chateauneuf-du-Pape. L80.00 in the UK and just 23E here in France. Can't wait to try it.

Tom couldn't handle any of the routes along the coast and the likelihood of seeing Flamingos was fading fast, so we decided to head for home. Just as well we did. The traffic on the E15 was horrendous. Trucks and cars in fading light and increasing rain made it a very uncomfortable drive home. At least we had now mastered the toll booths; take a ticket when entering the toll plaza and insert it and a credit card when leaving at the other end. Easy. Just don't want to do it many more time this trip,

No dinner tonight. Just a cuppa. Seriously, we may not eat till lunch tomorrow.

p.s.
When we had our holiday in Sancerre in 2005, we visited the village in which a French classic was written and where the author had grown up. It was published in 1913 and he was killed in WW1 in 2014. I bought a copy but never got around to reading it. Being in France I decided it was time.

Le Grand Meaulnes (pronounced: [lə ɡʁɑ̃ moln], French for "Meaulnes the Great") is the only novel by French author Alain-Fournier. Fifteen-year-old François Seurel narrates the story of his relationship with seventeen-year-old Augustin Meaulnes as Meaulnes searches for his lost love. Impulsive, reckless and heroic, Meaulnes embodies the romantic ideal, the search for the unobtainable, and the mysterious world between childhood and adulthood.[1]