There’s an unspoken rule, isn’t there? You have to go somewhere nice-sounding
on holiday. It needs to roll off the tongue in a filthily Nigellaish “just
made some doughnuts” way. Tuscany, with its seductive mozzarella ess; the
Dordogne, with its illicit bed-spring oing; Devon, with its vish hint of
clotted cream and haystack frolics.
Which is why the Pas de Calais doesn’t really make the grade. Pas as in
“Pah!”. De as in durr, as in stoopid place to go on holiday.
Calais as in Kelly, as in a tart having it off outside a fish’n’chip shop on a
rainy, alcopop-fuelled night out with the gels. Announcing it as your
prospective holiday destination is like announcing you have Northern Rock
shares, or syphilis, or a wife who just ran off with a carpet salesman.
“I’m off on holiday next week.”
“Oh, great. Where to?”
“The Pah durr Kelly.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
Yet, apart from its deeply unseductive name, hinting as it does at its
alarming proximity to Calais, I can’t see why the Pas de Calais gets the “my
husband turned out to be a cross-dresser” sympathy. Not if you know about my
secret bit of it.
WE RENTED a three-bedroom cottage near Hesdin for a week in May, for £190. I
assumed that £190 would get us something between a squat and an unconverted
barn, in an unlovely village tucked under a toll motorway on which posher
people would be racing south to their swankier manoirs.
In short, I wasn’t expecting a lot. But £190 got us a charming, spacious
farmhouse with a great kitchen, exposed beams, a cool roof space and a huge
fireplace, in the pretty hamlet of Willencourt. In the garden, we had lawns
– plural – stretching down to our own 80ft stretch of fishable river,
complete with dapples, ferns and cute little water rats.
You would pay three times as much for the equivalent in somewhere more...
stockings and suspenders. We settled happily into our perfect provincial
backwater. I drove off to the butcher’s and bought pâté, creamy butter, all
sorts of boarish saucissons and some fine cuts of beef.
My wife, Harriet, went to the supermarket and came back rejoicing at how even
the supermarkets in France can do proper food. We stocked up on table wine,
we unpacked the bats and ball, and our one-year-old, Freddie, befriended the
feline neighbours.
The next morning, quel dommage! We had forgotten les baguettes,
and there was no bakery in our hamlet. But, as we paper-scissor-stoned to
see who would go back to the supermarket, a van pulled up in a lay-by
outside and honked its very French-sounding horn.
Of course, it was a mobile bakery – because, of course, you can’t expect a
French hamlet to get through a whole morning without fresh bread. From then
on, that horn heralded the beginning of the classic French daily routine:
fresh croissants and coffee in the morning, salamis and cheeses with earthy vin
rouge for lunch, expat G&Ts on the river bank in the afternoon, and
something gourmetish if we were still standing by night. Isn’t this what
everyone does down in Provence and the Dordogne? The only difference is,
they have to drive a lot further.
BUT YOU can’t just sit around eating and drinking for the whole week.
You have to go out. And you’d think this would be where the, brace yourselves,
Pas de Calais (euk!) would come crashing down in a grey, drizzly, flat,
muddy, trench warfareish mess. And it did, for one day at least, when it
rained as we attempted to explore a tediously historic village. For the rest
of our stay, the sun shone, and the towns and surrounding valleys were more
than entertaining enough for Family Rudd.
You see, I’m not talking about any old bit of the Pas de Calais. Oh, no: I’m
talking about the Seven Valleys, which fold in and out from south of
medieval Montreuil along the lazy River Canche.
Here, the bleak farmlands you would have thought made up the whole region give
way to gnarly forests and cute villages. It’s classic driving country.
The Thursday market in Hesdin took up a whole day. It was one of those
typically French experiences so often ruined by lots of English prats in
pink rugby shirts, chino shorts and boat shoes (as if they’d gone out for
the day unsure of whether they’d be braying and strutting their way through
a polo match or a regatta).
In Hesdin, we were the only English prats. And my rugby shirt was turquoise.
Harriet became overexcited at the watercress stall, condemning us for the
rest of the week to watercress with everything, even pain au chocolat.
I spent many thousands of euros on stinky cheese. And Freddie got carried away
with a smiling waitress and promptly wet himself, just as our first pastis
of the day arrived. By the third pastis, we’d completely forgotten about the
cassoulet man who said he’d be shutting up shop at 2pm. We had to content
ourselves with fish stew instead.
It was that sort of day. On the Friday, we stumbled on an annual boot fair
(which was good, because normally we stumble on things the day after they’ve
finished).
This part of France is practically Belgium, and, like the Belgians, the Pas de
Californians love a good bric-a-brac sale. We unearthed first world war
medals and 18th-century washstands in among less collectible 1980s board
games and Betamax video players.
If we’d stayed longer, I would have found a Van Gogh, but Freddie’s
concentration span let us down. On the Saturday, we judged it cold enough to
light a fire (it wasn’t) and promptly smoked ourselves out of the house.
Only stupid English people would light a fire when there was no wind to draw
the flames.
The caretaker of our property popped up from nowhere, and we steadied
ourselves for an argument. But, of course, he was charming, helping us put
out his burning house and dust down our clothes. In sexy Tuscany, you’d
probably get a clip round the ear. In Cornwall, you’d be run out of the
county. Pas de Californians aren’t like that.
There’s plenty of cultural stuff – Agincourt is a short drive away. If I were
the French, I would have built a multistorey car park on the site of
France’s greatest medieval thrashing and tried to forget all about it. But
they haven’t: they’ve got a nice little museum and lots of cardboard cutouts
of English longbowers.
There’s the epic Jardins de Valloires, all Louis XIV in their symmetry and
ostentation, and there’s Montreuil, with its fort and the nearby La
Grenouillère restaurant. (We only looked through the window... Freddie isn’t
into foie gras.) All in all, it’s a pretty impressive holiday package just
an hour and a half from Calais. It’s just a shame about the name.
Travel brief
Where to stay: WelcomeFrance (0845 268 0526, www.welcomefrance.co.uk)
has 90 properties in the region. A week in low season costs £142, rising to
£420 in July. Or try French Holiday Homes (www.frenchholidayhomes.com).
If you don’t trust me enough to stay a week, there’s short-break potential
at the Abbaye de Valloires (00 33-3 22 29 62 63, www.abbaye-valloires.com).
Book a feature room (£78) and you’ll open your shutters on one of the best
views in France. And I’m only exaggerating a little bit. La Grenouillère (03
21 06 07 22, www.lagrenouillere.fr)
has smart rooms from £94, B&B; the menu dégustation is
£54.
Getting there: sail from Dover to Calais with P&O (0870 598 0333, www.poferries.com)
or SeaFrance (0871 663 2546, www.seafrance.com);
from £50 for a car and passengers. Eurotunnel (0870 535 3535, www.eurotunnel.com)
has returns from Folkestone to Calais from £98.
We have holidayed as a family in the area for the last 8 years. We cannot recommend it highly enough - complete escapism and so close to Paris by train. The beaches are amazing, the people wonderful, the food extraordinary and the area steeped in history. Heavenly . . !
Anna Hubbard, Wiltshire, UK
we have found the pas de calais to be a great place to holiday, so much so we are now moving there to enjoy a long life, we have always found the place to be interesting, good value, and very friendly, though perhaps it would be bettter if the brits were not to discover its charms
david rigg, york, yorkshire
Only the tip of the iceberg touched here. I discover something new all the time. The lovely miles of clean sandy beaches are not even mentioned. I certainly agree it is an area worth discovering. I live here and let holiday properties and love discovering new and interesting places for my guests to discover.
Merelina Ponsonby, Boulogne, France.
I have just read the article about the Pas de Calais and have to say I have never read such rubbish.
'Classic French daily routine' consists of breakfast usually bread and jam, lunch is the main meal of the day with a light supper, possibly cheese and salami, around 8.00pm.
Hesdin market closes between 12.00 and 1.00pm and there is always an English contingent making fools of themselves.
To coo over a watercress stall is typical, I'm sure the last time I visited England watercress was easily availbale!!!
Three pastis, it is a wonder you didn't come into contact with the gendarmerie who are particularly vigilant on drunken driving. Who, might I ask, was looking after little Freddie whilst his parents were imbibing. It is fortunate he didn't fall in the river whilst the G&T's were being quoffed.
As is predictable France is seen as a giant off-licence. Did you think about visiting the mass of Commonwealth graves in the area?
mary joyce, Fillievres, France