UP WHERE WE BOULOGNE
There’s more than a touch of Britain about northern France with its toasties, chips and Henry VIII’s bunkers
CHIPS. Toasties. These were not the gastronomic delicacies I was expecting on a weekend break in France.
But the Atlantic coast of the north, easily accessible via the Channel Tunnel, is not the France of our imagination.
As well as the rows of “friteries” and Welsh rarebits proudly presented on fancy menus, there are other signs that this area was once owned by Britain. Take Chateau d’Hardelot, a bonkers castle built in the 19th century by an eccentric English judge. Charles Dickens was a regular visitor.
It is full of grandfather clocks and royal memorabilia. If it wasn’t for the sun shining on the lawns and the tricolour on the flagpole, it could be in the home counties.
Henry VIII’s legacy is visible on the tip of the coast, where there are bunkers dating back to the days when he ruled this corner.
They are part of les Deux-Caps, a Grand Site de France.
This is the French equivalent of a national park, giving the area national treasure status.
It has been gently and thoughtfully developed to make it easy to explore and appreciate.
And, with layers of history visible round every corner, a bit of interpretation is very welcome.
The Tudor bunkers have been repurposed in every conflict since, and there have been many.
The wars of the last century are almost impossible to avoid, much to the disgust of 11-year-old Joe, who thought he was here to eat seafood and have fun rather than study history. In fact, it was easy to do both. We both loved Wimereux, a seaside town that could be Brighton if it hadn’t been discovered by jugglers and linked to London by a fast train. The first thing Joe did was take off his shoes and go for a paddle.
With the tide out, I stood by the smart blue and white beach huts and watched his tiny figure make its way along the shore.
This gave him a splendid appetite for lunch. We ignored “nos Welshs” on the menu in favour of the spectacular seafood landed in France’s biggest fishing port next door.
Joe made short work of a crab, impressing the waiters with his ability to poke the meat out of the claws.
I was glad I had brought my glasses to tackle a whole sole. The Atlantic Hotel, with its prime position on the beach, is home to the town’s first Michelin star restaurant, La Liégeoise.
The ground floor brasserie, L’Aloze, was more to young Joe’s taste. On a busy weekend, he was far from the youngest customer in the dining room.
His duck did not last long and its accompaniment, couscous, gave me a chance for a quick rundown of France’s colonial past before dessert.
Just down the coast, Boulogne is the centre of the French fishing
industry. It is also home to the country’s biggest aquarium, Nausicaa.
This, too, does a brilliant job of combining education with fun, showing the fragility of the world’s marine ecosystems and the people who depend on them.
If Donald Trump had only brought Barron here for a visit, he might not have been so keen to pull out of the Paris agreement on climate change.
There are fish and sea creatures from every part of the world under one roof.
I had not expected to see adorable little jackass penguins, from South Africa, in the north of France. Nausicaa’s colony is small but a cleverly designed enclosure makes it easy to see them potter around.
Watching four fat sealions being put through their paces in French gave the whole show a dreamy quality.
Two young female trainers gave them instructions as they leapt in and out of the pool, ate their fish and barked at the top of their voices.
The huge tanks of fish, arranged according to climate and region, are cleverly designed to allow everyone to get a good view.
Whether it’s the leopard sharks hiding in the plants or luminous jellyfish wafting through an illuminated tube, there is a wonderful spectacle at every turn.
After eating fish, paddling with them and learning about them, we drew the line at actually going out to catch them.
That’s a job for the many fisherman of the region who are out in the Atlantic in all weathers in tiny boats, and often sell their catch from a converted garage beside their house.
But we did fancy sand-yachting, an ideal sport for the wind-blown beaches of Boulogne. Learning a new sport in a foreign language, from a rather stern instructor, when the tide is not at its optimum position, was a challenge.
But once we got the hang of it, shooting around the firm sand in a modified moon buggy was great fun.
Joe, with the fearlessness of youth, was much better at it than me. He was soon zipping into the breeze and navigating around the corner like a champ.
It took me most of the session to stop hyperventilating.
And then, all too soon, it was time to take the Eurostar home.