#14 Banned Areas and Other End-of-Holiday Decisions

Château de Chantilly

On the last day of a holiday, don’t you find your mind has already packed its bags and gone home ahead of you?

Mine was back in Australia this morning—fielding emails about certificates for a writers' festival showing our public liability policy (a phrase guaranteed to send John into a total meltdown, so I’ll do that at home), appointments, several talks to write, one in less than two weeks. I’ve loved not having to think about it.

So I made a decision. Put brain into neutral.

Which is how I turned up at the château this morning, racing through the interior like a woman with a wasp in her beehive. I’m afraid I didn’t do it justice. I had one eye on the clock and the other on the map, wondering how I was going to cover the gardens, which are vast in the way only French hunting woods are—designed, I suspect, to humble the tourist.

And then I saw them.

Not these cute pedal cars—which would involve rather a lot of effort up the hills. I chose a voiturette. A golf buggy.

I have no clear memory of ever driving one. If I have, it’s been wiped—possibly because I ended up with concussion. But Marwan—originally from Morocco and an all-round excellent man—assured me I’d have no trouble.

‘Turn it on. Forward or reverse. Foot on the accelerator. To stop, take your foot off. Handbrake if you’re pausing.’

All very reassuring.

‘And if you go into a banned area, the car will stop.’

I beg your pardon?

‘It will stop. You must reverse out.’

I said I would absolutely not be going into any banned areas.

Off I set, overtaking the tourist train on the hill like Oscar Piastri. I’m still not entirely sure it was chateau-legal, but no one stood in front of the voiture, so I kept going.

It wasn’t long before I encountered my first banned area.

I saw no sign. I had headed off along one of the paths—marked on the official map, with no indication it was off-limits. But the buggy simply stopped going forward. Dead. As promised. Maybe it gave a peep or two first, but I thought that was someone trying to overtake me. No way.

So there I was, reversing along what can only be described as a decorative watercourse in the formal area right in front of the château, with a piercing electronic beep announcing my dire situation to the entire estate. There is nothing quite like being trapped in a sublimely quiet Le Nôtre château garden while your vehicle screams in reverse.

It continued. Loudly. Until I managed to extract myself and return to forward motion, dignity trailing behind.

After that, I took a more cautious approach to the concept of ‘banned’. Sort of.

I drove to the back of the auberge to admire the exterior of my room—for the hotel overlooks the gardens. A thrill. Then I backed out again.

I came to bridges. One that might have been banned. One that definitely should have been. Narrow enough to get me praying that I wouldn‘t end up in a golf buggy sandwich.

I crossed both.

But that’s the point of a last day, isn’t it?

You suddenly become reckless. You can’t accept that you will miss things. That you’ve already missed things. That you always will.

So instead, you overtake the tourist train on a juddering cobbled hill, reverse with a screech out of a water feature, and cross a bridge that may or may not have been designed for your vehicle. Holding your breath.

I didn’t crash. I saw a great deal.

Including, finally, what looked like a shortcut back to Marwan’s cubbyhouse. Marked on the map.

A quiet path. A lake. People gliding past in beautiful rowboats, as if they’d been placed there by a divine hand.

Perfect.

I headed around the water. I got half-way around it.

Banned.

The buggy stopped dead, one wheel practically becoming water-borne.

There was no elegant recovery available. No discreet three-point turn. Just a long, public, beeping retreat—reversing all the way back around the lake, past the elegant rowers, waving my apologies to them but looking as if I meant to destroy their day, and up the hill, like a truck backing up in a cathedral.

At that point, I felt I knew the château gardens well.

And those are a few photos to prove it.

A few final observations of the trip before I go:

This auberge is a Relais & Châteaux, which I had imagined would be a seamless experieince. Instead, it’s had moments of something close to Fawlty Towers—I was simply pointed towards the lift when I arrived, cars booked for me under ‘Mrs Cxxx and family’, tickets confidently produced for me showing a date a month ago. And then puzzlement when they weren't accepted at the venue. Nothing disastrous. Just—an more interpretive attitude to hospitality. I have actually asked for my car to the airport to come 40 mins earlier than they suggested, on that basis. But the staff are divine and I adore them, which means I forgive it all.

I saw kangaroos in a paddock with peacocks at the château. There was plenty of grass, but it didn’t look like Australia. I was unexpectedly sad.

And another thing. When you step into a properly hot shower, it doesn’t matter what else is happening in your life. Whether you’re in France or Bashibazouk. For those few minutes, the warm water on your shoulders, your head, your face—that is the entire point of existence. Also, I am now firmly in favour of taps where you set the temperature once and then simply turn the water on like a sensible person, instead of conducting an adjustment exercise each morning.

I have acquired a new phrase from Paige at the retreat. Your boyfriend—John, in my case—is your ‘boo thang’.

There are no seatbelts on the TGV, which makes a certain grim sense—you would be pulverised anyway—but it felt illegal. And a bit nervous-making.

I had forgotten the sky here, criss-crossed with jet trails as if a child has taken to it with chalk.

I had forgotten the yellow fields of rapeseed—so bright they look like a movie.

And I had forgotten how much I love France.

It’s been a pleasure writing these for you.

Je t’attends toujours,