Camp at moténo

A holiday can be a very stressful thing. A month-long tour living in such close proximity to ones partner can bring that stress to boiling point very easily. We had invested a huge junk of savings in Rocinante and this was his first serious test, so I was anxious lest I’d forgotten something or something broke or didn’t work. So I was tense for the first week. As we settled at out first camp site on the north Brittany coast, that was expressed in my increasingly annoying supervision of everything B did.  We had a few minor yaps and barks about that and I tried to back off; not entirely successfully. Even though the van had been very cleverly designed and laid out we had to be careful about exactly how items where stored and where. Efficiency became an obsession for me so as I watched B, I’d be saying things like: “That goes there and needs to go in before that so they don’t rattle and you’d be better to snap-shut the lock now or you might forget later.” Real pain in the ass micro-management stuff.

She was nervous too and that showed in anxiety as I drove, she’d second guess the sat-nav or warn me about stuff I’d seen and was reacting too. In other words we were getting on each others tits big time! The crisis came to a head one evening when we had heavy rain and there was something in the cab we needed. (There are three front seats in the cab and one can’t walk through to the living quarters.) Rather than get out and get soaked I wiggled over the top of the seats and got the item from the glove box. Wiggled is not accurate – stuffed – forced – fell head first  might be more accurate. I’m not as lithe in body as my mind thinks I am! I flailed about like a stunned tuna trying to return to where I’d so impetuously come from. My thrashing legs got tangled in something and I was yelling for B to clear it and hold my legs so I might return. I was not too polite about it as I was beginning to hurt and thought I might do-in my back or lose my dinner all over the front seats. “Move that fucking stuff. What stuff? The fucking stuff tangled in my legs of coarse!”

When I got out, B lost the plot at me, cursing and yelling as she went off on an indignation rage. I lay on the bed and begged her to stop. She didn’t and the van shook with the yelling with me mostly shouting for her to: “Just stop! Please just stop.”

When we did eventually calm down I spoke of humiliation and how I reacted badly to feeling it or having it inflicted upon me or doing it to myself with stupid errors. I was humiliated by my mistake and my bodies failings. A childhood tortured by a mother, who delighted in humiliating me at every opportunity, has made me ultra sensitive to the feeling. I get too controlling trying to avoid mistakes that might produce the feeling.

B saw she had, and often does, use humiliation as a tool. We had a big break through of understanding and empathy. That was the last of the stress eruptions and we truly settled into enjoying the holiday, as we headed to the south coast and a camp site near Lorient. A place called Moténo Camping on the shore of an oyster filled bay called La Ria. (My daughter is called Ria and I love oysters nearly as much as her.)

La Ria bay

Lorrient Uboat base

Lorient itself was a disappointment, but the world war 2 U-Boat pens were worth the visit. They are still in use and many world ocean racing teams are based there.

the pens

still in use

I found the place awe inspiring but not in a good way. I could not escape the melancholy thoughts about how much resources and cleverness the Germans put into ever more efficient killing.

ocean racing centre

We enjoyed our four days in this area, walked the shore, visited the little towns, delighted in a local blues band at the little village pub while eating crepes, and getting a bit drunk. We went to Carnac and looked down our noses at the beach-set and sun-worshipers, as I tried NOT to notice the acres of nubile female flesh on abundant display.

We stopped at a… a field full of antiques and jumble. A big tent surrounded by row upon row of jumble. We collect pewter and we found a nice big jug that we paid a whole six Euro for. It polished up a treat and serves as reminder of how wonderful travel can be – after the storm has passed.

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