When Theresa and I moved here, living within driving distance of a beach was a priority. After all, the Jersey shore was our second home in the U.S. We’d spent our first 20 summers together at a family beach house in Longport, N.J., listening to the waves under an umbrella within walking distance of Lucy the Elephant.
The warmth, the salt air, the soft sand… that was my idea of the perfect beach.
Theresa had other ideas.
Specifically: Gray skies, scudding clouds, windswept rains and rugged coastlines where the local cemetery is dedicated to lost sailors. The kind of landscape featured in Elizabethan tragedies, where a love-struck heroine named Catherine inevitably throws herself from a steep cliff to the thrashing, rocky surf below.
In other words, the beaches of northern France.
We’ve made several treks to the coastline, looking for our perfect beach.
In Douarnenez, on the western coast of Brittany, we faced 48 hours of nonstop drizzle before we took pity on our visiting friends from Philly (who have hosted us many times at their sunny vacation place on Maryland’s blissful Eastern Shore) and cut short a long-planned stay in an AirBnB.
In Locquirec, on the north coast, the relentless rains kept us indoors so long, we binge-watched five seasons of “Friends.”
In Concarneau, on the southern coast, we were forced to evacuate our rental by a 100 kph cyclone that shut down the city for half a week.
Theresa, zipped into her raingear, found something to love in every one of those trips. One time, she claimed after getting caught in a downpour while traipsing along a bay that she was having so much fun she was “laughing like a child.” Me, I fretted about lousy WiFi and thanked the gods I’d packed enough beer.
Not that French beaches aren’t without their pleasures. Topless bathing comes to mind.
But, more likely, these destinations are known for their large, “interesting” boulders. We visited one so-called resort nicknamed “The Sardine Capital of the Atlantic.”
So, this week we are in Donville-les-Bains, a seashore town in the Manche Department of southwestern Normandy. We’ve had some rain, but mostly it’s been clear enough to enjoy the beach, such as it is.
Where the Jersey Shore’s white sands are groomed each morning by trash-scooping tractors, the stretch outside our rental is strewn with gray rocks and gnarly brownish seaweed. There is no salt air or the invigorating spray of cresting waves; this is the English Channel, after all: Remain calm and slosh on.
Yet, as we settle into our folding chairs, I’m suddenly struck by a deep sense of familiarity. Maybe it’s the wide, flat horizon, with ships in the distance. Or the cool water on my toes. The cry of the gulls. The sight of Theresa wandering off to scour the beach for collectible pebbles and sea glass.
The tide rises and covers the rows of bouchots, the pilings that hold tens of thousands of mussels waiting to be harvested. Time slips by, and it occurs to me that this French beach isn’t worse than the Jersey Shore. It’s just different.
Without waves, there is no body-surfing. But there is a natural swimming pool that fills with each high tide.
There is no Boardwalk. But there is a pleasant concrete promenade lined with changing shacks, and a café that serves espresso and croissants.
The jagged surface makes it difficult to walk into the water. It also keeps noisy jet skis away.
Theresa returns with more stones. We watch a dog chase a tennis ball. I scroll on my phone.
My ex-TV partner and beer-drinking pal Glen Macnow texts a photo of his seashore dinner: a lobster roll from Cape Cod. I send him a shot of yesterday’s lunch of oysters harvested at Îles Chausey, a tiny island that I can see through the haze from my chair. His feet are buried in the warm soft sand of East Falmouth, mine are resting on the cool, gray pebbles of Donville-les-Bains.
Same joys, 5,000 kilometers apart.
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Glen’s last show on WIP-Sports Radio is Saturday (July 13). I’ll raise a glass from afar to my friend’s outstanding run as a knowledgeable, caring, funny and entertaining host. Congratulations, Glen - and here’s to sharing one down the road.
I loved your beach article and photos Don. The sea shore is great wherever it is. By the way, I heard Glen's final show today. Among other thoughts, he estimated he's done 6500 radio shows and he regaled us with how he started out at WIP where station manager Tom Bigby had a 2-minute timer that turned red if a caller was still on after 2 minutes. If the call went 2:30, Bigby would loudly threaten to fire the radio host in question. - Jim H