Ile De Re: The Shellfish Gene (Tuesday 20/06/2017)

Having gone to the trouble of packing running shoes, it seemed only appropriate that we should at least have a discussion about using them.

And discuss it we did.

From an entirely theoretical standpoint, subjecting our already tired and dehydrated frames to the rigours of 30 minutes of cardiovascular pavement pounding seemed distantly feasible.

In practice however, it was so hot and uncomfortably humid, that venturing out in earnest was likely to result in a tragedy.

Whether that tragedy was my premature demise, convulsing face down in a patch of the island’s ubiquitous roadside hollyhocks, or even worse, having to run in plain view of the locals wearing a sartorial smorgasbord normally reserved for gardening, only an alternate timeline could say.

Wisdom prevailed and the idea was shelved for a cooler day.

7 Euros well spent.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              A not insignificant consideration that may have swung the decision in favour of  lassitude was the convergence of a recently purchased and splendidly striped beach parasol and the close proximity of  Bois En Plage; five golden miles of unblemished beach, facing the mainland and providing every opportunity that a four-year-old could desire to dig, scratch, scoop, pile and throw sand.

The fact that a good portion of this was destined to accumulate in the unguarded facial cavities of a lethargic middle-aged man, lying negligently prone in the vicinity can, I think, be entirely fairly characterised as self-inflicted collateral damage.

Alex and Sophie obligingly did precisely that.

When the worst of the offending material had been scraped out of eye sockets and hawked up from the deeper internal recesses, the important business of digging increasingly deep holes was addressed.

As a child I developed an obsessive fixation with two things; digging holes and lighting fires.

Spending several childhood summers, largely unsupervised on the pristine Mediterranean beaches of Israel, these interests were given free and largely unregulated reign and duly blossomed into what I regard as a late 20^th Century art form.

The modus operandi was comfortingly consistent and involved digging the deepest vertical shaft that a seven-year-old arm could stretch to. After bisecting the shaft horizontally with a further tunnel aligned to the prevailing wind, I filled the whole subterranean structure with as much flammable material as possible and set light to it.

The enjoyment of the smoking spectacle was often short lived as I usually had to run away when the angry beach café proprietor came to investigate why his customers were asphyxiating over their turbot.

There is a karmic inevitability about this and while my pyro-maniacal gene has yet to surface in the children, I know that it is only a matter of time before Alex sidles up to me to report nonchalantly that the shed has spontaneously combusted and that he had nothing to do with it.

After hole digging, we returned to castle building. Tom and I had (ahem)…carefully assisted the children to construct another perfect architectural spectacle, surpassing even, yesterday’s Krak de Chevaliers.

Sophie, in a spasm of infant nihilism, set about vandalising the towers and toppling the ramparts before the rising tide finished the job, and then turning to me, she shared a sparkle of grinning malevolence.

Decamping from the beach, much to the children's disappointment,  we cycled home for lunch, to avoid the searing heat of the day and later rolled into St Martin for our date with ice cream destiny.

The children had to be dragged away.

‘La Martiniere’ has something of a mythic quality in the minds of many who visit the island. There are as many picturesque ice cream sellers as there are leafy squares, limestone plazas and beach side rivas. I am sure that they are all exceptionally good but none have so boldly surfed the creamy zeitgeist quite like our legendary scoopers.

Ice cream Heaven since 20 past 11.

Perhaps, their pre-eminence comes from scandalously crow-barring the island’s capital into their name. Perhaps it is the undeniable quality of the ice cream or maybe the inspiring variety of cones that deliver the coup de glace. All of the above may be true but, as with so many things, it is location more than anything else, that has turned a frozen dessert also ran into the island’s chin dripping thoroughbred.

This is just not right!

After Alex had ostentatiously spread an even layer of chocolate ice cream from chin to forehead and ear to ear, home beckoned and powered by a coneful of empty calories, we surged across the marshes, pausing only to take refreshment at Maison Didier Fournier, the premier oyster bar.

Didier Fournier

I have to be honest; oysters are not my thing. I am sure Didier is a great chap and his maritime produce is surely top notch but if offered a blind taste-off between fresh oysters and a mouthful of salty snot, I would be hard pressed to tell the difference. Alex, evidently, felt the same way and while the fire starter gene has yet to materialise, my pebble collecting fetish surely has and he spent a happy half hour accumulating a respectable collection, a goodly portion of which currently lay in a pile by the back door as I type; the rest are still on the boot of the car.

Pebbles - the inherited gene.

Sadly, Dominic's carousel remained swathed in its familiar blue tarpaulin and as we rolled across the square in Loix, the realisation was slowly dawning that maybe Dominic would not be coming back.

All was not lost, however, and my enjoyment of afternoon snacks, pre-dinner nibbles and supper itself was immeasurably enhanced by the all too familiar beach picnic crunch of undigested sand between the molars.