Day 5 - Saturday August 6thLa Vienville - Graignes
The whole point of going to Graignes was to be near a go-karting track, but on the Wednesday the chap at the karting track finally got back to me following a slew of texts, emails and messages with the bad news that he was complet for the day. Gah !! Not only that but he doesn’t start until 3.30 on Sunday which is much too late for us. Dang. (Still, it did mean we got a second shot at land-yachting.)
Breakfast at Le Grand Hard was very good indeed (expectations set as a result of the previous evening’s meal were admirably fulfilled). What nice people. Sun already hot by the time we left. More beautiful lanes, the odd hill or two. Joe’s bike has a slow puncture and we stop alongside a beautiful set of farm buildings to take advantage of the shade. The valve stem has parted from the tube. Quickly sorted.
This was an everyday occurrence : -
We sort of follow my planned route on the SatMap, and occasionally this takes us onto a marked cycle route which isn’t tarmac. I’m fine (2” knobblies) but it raises the odd moan or two from the children on their 23s.
Sandwiches from a boulangerie in Carentan eaten outside the Mairie and what looked like an old barracks complete with sentry posts.
We drop into the Normandy Tank Museum on the way, which does what it says on the tin.
All the way the SatMap has proved invaluable. I wouldn’t be without now for a trip like this, but equally, I wouldn’t be without a map either. The ability to make routes up on the SatMap is very neat, but then again, so is the ability to use the map if we want a different route and can’t face the faff of route planning whilst on the go. The map on the Satmap has contours which helps no end. The 1:100,000 map doesn’t, and I don’t have the 1:25,000 maps for this bit (which do).
Slight concern about Grainge is where we are going to eat. It doesn’t look very big. Oh well. We’ve managed OK so far.
On arrival at the Delaunays we are offered a bottle of cidre (yes please !!) and some salty snacks.
It’s an old stables.
M Delaunay was a trainer. His son is a trainer and his daughter is married to a trainer. That’s trotting racing training. As Joe says, “Why on earth do it like that ? It’s like racing cars in second gear.”
We ask about somewhere to eat and Mme Delaunay points us at the hippodrome (which we can see from our bedroom window).
This window also overlooks a field of sheep and the local graveyard. Very rural, idyllic. After showers and a change we head to the hippodrome. Out of nowhere there seems to be a lot of traffic, and some of it comes complete with horse box trailers and trotting traps in tow. And yes, it’s a race evening. We get to the gate and ask about getting something to eat. Yes, they have a restaurant, but we have to pay to get in. Hmmmm. But at 3€ each for the adults and kids go free it’s a no-brainer. Joe is seriously unimpressed. Upstairs restaurant seems expensive and with a fairly limited choice, so we plump for a Sandwich Americaine Poulet Grille (Lu and me) and the kids have a Barquette de Frites from the stall downstairs. Joe has splurged on his cardboard dish the measliest portion of ketchup he’s ever seen. Cidre and Orangina from the bar and we take our seats to watch the fun. What a bizarre spectacle.
(And the building in the background is where we stayed.)
Watching it live enables us to answer a question we had following our viewing of the trotting racing in the bar in Bricquebec. Why are the horses followed round the track by an ice-cream van ? Turns out that the pink van is full of judges, we presume one per horse, and it is their job to judge whether or not a horse has broken its trot. The van has an electronic display on the roof and the moment a horse transgresses their number appears and they are disqualified. Watching a jockey trying to stop a horse from galloping really is quite something once they've got the bit between their teeth (never was a pun more appropriately deployed).
I decide that trying to fathom out how the betting works with my limited French will be too complicated or end in disaster (or both), so instead we run an internal family sweepstake. I’m able to make head and tail out of the programme so we have at least half a clue as to the likely performance of our selections. (Did you know that all horses born in France in any given calendar year have names that start with the same letter, and that the letter for each year is sequential, so a horse that begins with D will have been born the year before a horse whose name begins with E ?) I win the first and Izzy the second. No winners for the next couple but Joe’s horse is pipped on the line so we give him that one. I text an old buddy of mine asking for help. (Not only is he half Swiss-French and married to a Parisian, but also has for brothers a trainer, a bookie and a racing correspondent, and a father who is a horse vet.) His disappointingly unsophisticated advice hinges on two things; the relative weight of the horse and whether it has had a pre-race poo or not, neither of which I have any way of determining. Oh well. We leave with two races still to run, but we can watch those from our bedroom window.
The house is, how shall I say, decorated in an older person stylee. A material loo roll holder is a standout, but at least the shower doors stay closed on their own. Fifteen cushions on each bed, square pillows, a duvet and a top sheet.
A very peaceful night. Clear sky, bright moon, sheep bedding down for the night just below our window having been rounded up and locked in by the shepherd.
