A Tale of Three BnB's March 28, 2015
Every once in a while, it's actually comforting to stay in a hotel that's very basic and standard - if boring. However, that's not our usual style. Usually Bruce goes to the AirBnB website, our favorite enterprise for finding fairly inexpensive places to stay. Beside the good price, AirBnB's are often quirky and unique - and usually in people's homes. Our last three accommodations have been brimming over with personality!
In Portsmouth, England, our hostess was Barbara Ann. We called her when we arrived at the bus station, and she kindly came to pick us up. She introduced herself with a handshake as hard as rock. Tall and thin, in her late 50's, with red hair pulled tightly back into a ponytail, she could have been a roller derby queen. As we loaded our stuff into her car, she advised us not to mind the mess.
"I don't clean cars. I just don't do it!" I hoped that she cleaned BnB rooms!
As we pulled into traffic, she commented on a fellow who had led a group of students across the street in front of the car.
"That fellow is a foreigner. I know because he didn't thank me for letting him pass. I'm sorry, but that's how they are!"
Oh, boy, this was not good. What were we getting ourselves into? For the first time in our AirBnB history, I was worried.
On our way to the Fairlea BnB, Barbara Ann drove us around Portsmouth and Southsea, a pretty seaside resort, pointing out the highlights. Situated in a row of modest brick homes, Fairlea was a hold-over from the days when families flocked to the British seaside for their annual vacation - before the era of cheap flights to Spain. It still had a 1960's feel to it, though it was spotlessly clean with good internet service (not always a given, even in these days). Our bedroom was on the first floor; the toilet was on the second floor, and the two showers were on the third floor. There was a kitchen on the second floor, too, where we could put together our own breakfast of cold cereal and toast:
"Believe me, you wouldn't want me to cook for you", Barbara Ann had declared.
The other guests in the house were long-term workers, staying in Portsmouth during the week for jobs which got them up and out early in the morning. I met only one of them, a Spanish woman who was there to learn English in a quest to find a job in the difficult times since the crisis struck Spain. She works on a train, serving food to the passengers who commute to London and back.
It turned out that running the Fairlea and another BnB, as well as managing other property that she owns, were Barbara Ann's full time job. She was a hardworking business person with a soft side, not readily apparent at first. When it came time to catch the ferry to France, she was up early to take us to the terminal. Despite my initial reservations, the experience had turned out well.
Our next AirBnB experience couldn't have been more different. It was a small farm in Ste. Marie du Mont in Normandy, France. The somewhat eccentric couple who run it have two spare rooms in their rambling 1720's stone home. Claire is a self-taught artist, in her 50's, and Michel, an amazing 77 years old, is a small time farmer, devoted to ecological practices. He lived through the war, albeit at a young age, and had interesting stories to share. One evening they introduced us to various forms of Normandy apple liquors, including pommeau, a bubbly aperitif, similar to champagne.
Claire and Michel's ancient home in Ste. Marie du Mont, Normandy, near Utah Beach.
The first evening when we stepped outside to go to our rental car, one of the resident big white geese stood defiantly by and hissed at us, her mouth open wide, showing her tongue and tiny teeth. We jumped back until Claire came to our rescue, shooing her away and telling us that she had eggs that she was protecting in a nest next to the house.
Proud momma goose atop her eggs.
Michel was eager for us to see the baby lambs and their wooly mothers. On our last evening there, he offered to take us for a walk in the area. We first passed through a field where a mother sheep had given birth to a baby lamb that very day. She had actually borne two wee ones, but one was not properly developed and was dead in the grass. The survivor ran in and out through her legs, snuggling up close. Michel was delighted to hear the mother "talking" to her off-spring. "She is a good mother", he said. "It is very important for the mother to talk to the baby - for the connection."
Our late afternoon stroll took us down leafy lanes, past a huge modern farm with lots of cows confined to a cement stable. A huge vat of "shit", as Michel unabashedly called it in his delightful French-accented English, stood just outside the barn. A massive mound of silage under a sheet of black plastic leaked a sour smell into the air. Michel rambled at length about the evils of farms such as these, whose practices harm the environment and produce milk and cheese that don't have the proper taste.
Michel and Bruce along a Norman country lane.
Our late afternoon stroll took us down leafy lanes, past a huge modern farm with lots of cows confined to a cement stable. A huge vat of "shit", as Michel unabashedly called it in his delightful French-accented English, stood just outside the barn. A massive mound of silage under a sheet of black plastic leaked a sour smell into the air. Michel rambled at length about the evils of farms such as these, whose practices harm the environment and produce milk and cheese that don't have the proper taste.
Claire and Michel did talk pretty incessantly, which drove Bruce a bit batty, but they also bent over backwards to be helpful to us: calling to make resto reservations for us; offering us maps and books to guide us on our WWII explorations at Omaha and Utah beaches; and doing the heavy lifting of speaking in English. When we left for good, they presented us with a box of caramel candies, a specialty of the area. Overall it was one of our best AirBnB experiences ever.
Claire and Michel, AirBnB hosts, in Ste. Marie du Mont, Normandy.
The next evening, we lucked into a Chambre d'Hote, which is a common French tourist accommodation, similar to an AirBnB. We had left Claire and Michel and had traveled north to Dieppe, on the coast of the English Channel, still in Normandy. We stopped into the tourist office, late in the afternoon, where the young woman suggested the nearby "Villa des Capucins". Without much discussion, given the hour and our weariness, we took it and arrived there about 15 minutes later. As we approached the address, standing on the sidewalk waiting for us was a debonaire gentleman of about 60, with a mustache and hair the length of mine, horn-rimmed glasses, a hand knit cravat tucked into his wool jacket, and a warm smile. Bernard Clarisse, our host for the evening, opened large metal doors behind him, leading us out of the seedy neighborhood and into a lovely garden. Just inside the walls stretched a row house of four rooms, all with their own entrances. In years past, this had been a small convent estate, dating back to 1900, a medical clinic for the poor, and these had been the rooms reserved for nuns visiting from Africa. Now they are loft spaces for tourists!
Villa les Capucins in Dieppe, northern Normandy
I could tell before we even stepped into it that this tiny doll-house-like place was CHARMING! Obviously, someone with an eye for design had been at work here. The mirrors of the grand antique armoire seemed to enlarge the tiny space; the immaculate white tiled bathroom downstairs; the loft with its steep steps and then its beautiful bed, piled high with warm duvets and flowered sheets, the cozy lights - it was very romantic! We loved it.
Up the steep steps, carefully....
...and voila! a sweet little loft.
Bernard's house at the end of the garden.
At the typical French breakfast of croissants and baguette the next day, sitting in the kitchen of Bernard's lovely home at the end of the garden, we learned about his career as an artist. Having retired from teaching at the University of Rouen, he devotes himself full-time to making art. Painting and preparing for exhibits (plus his chambre d'hote work ?) keep him busy. His "woman" continues to teach at the University. Being there for only one night, we never did meet her. And soon it was time to move on, but not without realizing how lucky we had been to stumble upon this interesting corner of Dieppe. (I didn't have the courage to ask Bernard for his photo, but you can google him and see a picture there.)
Croissants, butter & jam, cafe au lait, juice - yum. Never before had I been asked if I wanted salted butter or unsalted butter for breakfast the next day. The Normans take their dairy products very seriously!
I could tell before we even stepped into it that this tiny doll-house-like place was CHARMING! Obviously, someone with an eye for design had been at work here. The mirrors of the grand antique armoire seemed to enlarge the tiny space; the immaculate white tiled bathroom downstairs; the loft with its steep steps and then its beautiful bed, piled high with warm duvets and flowered sheets, the cozy lights - it was very romantic! We loved it.
At the typical French breakfast of croissants and baguette the next day, sitting in the kitchen of Bernard's lovely home at the end of the garden, we learned about his career as an artist. Having retired from teaching at the University of Rouen, he devotes himself full-time to making art. Painting and preparing for exhibits (plus his chambre d'hote work ?) keep him busy. His "woman" continues to teach at the University. Being there for only one night, we never did meet her. And soon it was time to move on, but not without realizing how lucky we had been to stumble upon this interesting corner of Dieppe. (I didn't have the courage to ask Bernard for his photo, but you can google him and see a picture there.)
So, here we are in Arras, where we landed late yesterday afternoon. We're still in France but not far from Belgium. Arras is a city that I had never heard of, but one that is large and beautiful - and very historic, as I'm learning. Brits and Canadians probably know all about it, since it is in an area littered with cemeteries from WWI. It is also near Vimy Ridge, another somber Canadian war site. We stopped at a British cemetery beside the road yesterday and walked to one today. The inscriptions (and ages) for the young men were heart-rending.
A lively Saturday market in Arras was an antidote to the futility of war with the loss of so many young lives.
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