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Times
a day ago
- Health
- Times
My airport-free recipe for a foolproof family beach break in France
Sometimes what you want from a holiday is adrenaline — the buzz you get from a cram-it-in, eat-drink-shop-sights-party-sleep-when-you're-dead type trip. No flight time too early, no downtime allowed. But sometimes you want a trip that's more like serotonin. One that instantly has your shoulders dropping and jaw unclenching; one that feels like an actual holiday rather than something that leaves you needing one. How to cook up a soul-nourishing break like this? Here's my recipe. First, ditch the airport. I'm sorry to say it but there is no easier way to stop your blood pressure spiking. Second, at your earliest opportunity, ditch the car. Maybe it stays at home while you get the train; maybe you don't go far so you also get the carefree joy of 'just chuck it in' packing. Third, book a hotel to minimise exposure to washing-up duties (and, what the heck, let someone else fold your loo-roll ends into points for once). Fourth, maximise exposure to sky and nature and good food. Stir that lot together and — bon appétit! — you have a break that feels restorative, however short, because the serotonin effect kicks in from the get-go. This recipe might very well take you, as it did my husband, 11-year-old son and me just before Easter, to the Somme bay on the northern French coast. We took the car ferry from Dover so the bikes came too (and the scooter, and the skimboard, and the Carrefour-ready cool bag — we really did just chuck it in), turned right out of Calais and drove less than 70 miles south to St Valery sur Somme. It's a pretty, medieval port with a sort of well-kept boho charm — Rye in East Sussex would make it a good exchange partner. But really, the bay is the thing here. From St Val's spot on its southern edge you can make out Le Crotoy on the other side but mainly you're looking across a protected tidal expanse of about 30 square miles that excels at wide, empty horizons, seals, seafood and birds — the dawn chorus was a symphony of chiffchaffs and linnets. We were staying just outside St Val at the Hotel du Cap Hornu, a chilled-out place with a semi-resident boar, Titine, and an excellent breakfast, built around a house where the perfumer Guerlain once lived. He was one of many 19th-century down-from-Paris types who came for the light, the landscape and the newly fashionable sea bathing. Victor Hugo and Edgar Degas were regulars; Jules Verne wrote Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea here; Colette described how the bay 'darkly reflects an Egyptian sky'. Toulouse-Lautrec got his friend to photograph him pooing on Le Crotoy beach (an art movement, I suppose). • Read our full guide to France In a flat area of dykes and poldered land, Guerlain found himself a hill and a view — which for us, setting out from Cap Hornu on our bikes on the first morning, meant a scenic start, freewheeling down past crops and cows. The area has 30 miles of cycle paths so, true to serotonin recipe step 2, we didn't get back in our car until we packed up to leave days later. We made a good 22-mile day of it. First stop along the way was the Maison de la Baie de Somme, a visitor centre that — bear with me — was so compelling and comprehensive and interactive, we almost didn't need to go out and see the real thing. Though of course we did (see recipe step 4), but with heads full of intel to help us understand the landscape and tell our samphire from our glasswort, a shelduck from a hunting decoy (£9; • 10 of the most beautiful places in France (and how to see them) Pedalling on, we got to Pointe du Hourdel, the spur of land at the entrance to the bay with its lighthouse, little marina and shingle beach where we had the sandwiches we, ahem, were too full to eat at breakfast. The tide was in so we couldn't go looking for France's largest seal colony. But we did have that step 4 sky. Out here on the edges, I could see how artistic inspiration might strike in terms of colour more than form: the broad grey-blue brushstroke of wind-puckered sea; the horizon's fine line of light and dark that was the Marquenterre nature reserve across the bay; then the billowing blue, smudged with cirrus. On again along the coastal Route Blanche, past history. Not D-Day landing sites (we were too far north) nor the Battle of the Somme (too far northwest) but Second World War bunkers, part of Hitler's Atlantic wall. We saw them built into dunes, in back gardens and fallen on the beach, concrete giants toppled by time and tide. Beyond Brighton (which is more lighthouse and campsites than pier and vintage shops) we reached Cayeux sur Mer, a seaside resort that was warming up for the season, with half its signature beach huts still flatpacked on racks by the boardwalk. La Cabine de Mouné was open, though. We sank into colourful sofas on the beach bar's tiered decks, the recipe working its magic with the help of glasses of strong beer (the Belgian border isn't far). • 25 of the best short breaks in France The next day took us in the other direction, towards Le Crotoy. But why pedal round the bay when we could cross it on foot? The immense tidal range, one of the biggest in Europe, allows you to set out at low tide and make it all the way across, with muddy feet but without swimming. It's three kilometres as the crow flies, seven as the qualified guide walks. And you do need a guide, not just to help you navigate sand and marsh. Maxim Marzi met us at St Val's sea lock, handing out hazel staffs and binoculars. We'd gone prepared to paddle and squelch in bare legs and old trainers; when we reached the mud Marzi went barefoot, like he said his grandmother did as a girl digging worms for the local fishermen. 'Good for the soul and the circulation,' he said. Maybe so — she lived to 101. As we walked, Marzi brought the bay to life: its history, its wildlife, its traditions. He described how 50 years ago it was all sand and no salt marshes and now they rise 2cm each year, global warming and Napoleon's canalisation of the Somme River having sped up the silting that in the 18th century cut off the former ports Abbeville and Rue. Marzi pointed out avocets, spoonbills and curlews through the usual end of the bins, then flipped them to improvise a microscope to show us one of the tiny crustacean mud scuds the birds feed on. He led us across marigots, mini canyons in the marsh; held our hands in the slippery mud; and picked salty sea purslane and sea aster for us to taste (the 'crisps' and 'spinach' of the sea). He showed us a century-old duck-hunting hide that floats with the tide and — most popular with the 11-year-old — how to sink into and get out of quicksand (from £17pp; The three-hour crossing felt like an epic adventure. If Marzi was our Moses leading us across the sea bed, Le Crotoy was our promised land, flowing not with milk and honey but moules frites, served 26 ways at Le Bistrot de la Baie (mains from £13; South-facing Le Crotoy looked cute basking in the sunshine but we couldn't linger — we had a train to catch. The Chemin de Fer de la Baie de Somme, the 19th-century network connecting sea-bathing sites, is run today by enthusiasts as a tourist line, with steam engines and vintage carriages, around the bay from Le Crotoy to Cayeux sur Mer (£12 one-way; We hopped off at St Val after an hour tchou-tchouing past herds of saltmarsh sheep, waving walkers and slightly less amused drivers at level crossings. Maybe they should have ditched their cars too. The night before we'd pedalled into town for an excellent dinner of asparagus and lamb parmentier at the macramé-and-marble Le Jardin (mains from £17; but today we had longer to explore the local-produce delis; the steep streets prettified with shells, pot plants and buoys; the medieval part of town through La Porte Jeanne d'Arc (she passed through in 1430 en route to her trial in Rouen so it's not an arc de triomphe — but it should really be called the Arc d'Arc). We didn't need a guide here. St Val is extraordinarily well served with information signs filling you in on all sorts: silting, fishermen's wives and their wheelbarrows, and flint-dressed 12th-century churches. For conversation we had the lady with an open front window and purring windowsill cats, a feline honey trap we didn't mind falling for. Back down at water level we made the sort of discovery every family holiday needs: the Buvette de Mouton, a bar with sunny tables next to easily supervised sands, a just-cranking-up barbecue and views back to Le Crotoy. We ordered beers from the Silly brewery. Simple pleasures … More of which we found the next day on our slow coastal route home via Berck (these names!) for kite-flying and Wissant for its dunes and views of Dover's white cliffs. We stopped just south of Calais at Escalles for evening skimboarding and a morning-after walk up to the clifftop obelisk at Cap Blanc Nez, a monument to the Dover Patrol, the Anglo-French maritime unit that defended the Channel in the First World War. The exchange rate of one history lesson for one skate-park hour seemed fair — there's a huge area of ramps and half-pipes in Calais on the recently zhuzhed-up seafront that's 15 minutes' drive from the port. This completed my serotonin recipe: that we could be scooting and eating ice cream in the sun right up to the last minute before we left the country was the icing on the cake. This article contains affiliate links, which can earn us revenue Liz Edwards was a guest of Hauts-de-France tourism ( and Irish Ferries, which has returns for a car and four passengers from £108 ( Hotel du Cap Hornu has room-only doubles from £69 ( and Hotel l'Escale in Escalles has room-only doubles from £98 (
The Sun
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- The Sun
Mum goes viral for her ‘half naked' outfit choice at son's graduation, but insists she doesn't see a ‘problem'
A MUM has found herself going viral after sharing pictures with her son at his graduation. Selene took to Instagram to proudly post the pictures alongside her "kiddo", who wore his mortarboard and gown on his big day. 2 2 Alongside the snaps, she wrote: "I'm such a proud mama!! "My baby graduated at the top of his class! "I'm so excited to see what the future holds for you kiddo. "Sky is the limit!" She chose a bodycon black dress for the occasion, with the strappy number clinging to her figure and highlighting her curves. Selene also stood side on to the camera for the snaps, which drew attention to her derriere even more. She teamed the dress with a pair of black patent heels, and left her curly hair loose. And while many people offered Selene and her son their congratulations in the comments section on the Instagram post, others slammed her outfit choice. "His mum be half naked on here!" one raged. "Why would you embarrass your son like this?" another added. I'm a midsize 12 and I've found the perfect pair of jeans that suit all body shapes - they're so stretchy and affordable "You could have just congratulated him in person and kept the pics. "Take this down, you're humiliating him." "She stole his moment - why this dress for her son's graduation party?" a third commented. "She is irresponsible." "Poor kid," someone else said. "What the hell are you doing?" another shouted. What's the best style that suits everyone? ACCORDING to the fashion pros at Fabulous, there's a new style of dress that suits all body shapes. Low-slung, dropped-waist silhouette styles have surged, thanks to the Noughties fashion trend that has swept the catwalks, social media and, of course, the high street. First seen on the runways of luxury labels Molly Goddard and Jil Sander, the style typically cinches around the hip and pelvic area rather than the waist. Now a plethora of more affordable options of the dress that suits a number of body shapes have dropped just as the sun starts to come out. Clemmie Fieldsend, Fashion Editor, said: "There's something so stylish about these dresses, and I love them. "The simplicity of the top half teamed with the full skirt is like a sleeker and more grown-up tutu. "I have a short torso so the dropped waist makes my body look longer, but, thankfully, the long skirt means your legs don't look shorter. "Plus it means I can tap into the low-waist trend without baring all in a pair of low-slung jeans. "I know I'll be living in mine all summer, paired with black sandals and sunnies, but for now all I need is a blazer slipped over the top and a closed-toe shoe and I'm ready to go." Meanwhile, Fashion Director, Tracey Lea Sayer, added: "I remember dropped-waist dresses from the 80s. I loved them then and I still love them again now! "Forty years on from when they were first popular and I am not so sure they will be quite as flattering around my middle, because two kids and middle-aged spread later, my waist doesn't exist any more. "With a dress like this I can disguise my middle bit and still feel on trend for summer." As someone else said Selene's son looked "extremely uncomfortable", another called her "embarrassing". "Just had to do the side view, your poor son," someone lese commented. "Embarrassing," another shouted. "That youngster is gonna be made fun of his entire life for her poor decisions," someone else sighed. "I'm sure he's ashamed of being around you," another insisted. However, Selene hit back at the criticism, as she wrote: "I literally have a dress on all the way down to my knees, fully covered. "There was a lot of mums, aunties and grandmas wearing the same kind of dress. "But since I'm not a size 2 or shaped like a a square, it's a problem when I do it. OKAY!" And there were those in the comments who defended Selene, with one writing: "She can't help that she's fine, y'all lol!" "Nothing wrong with your outfit, you are beautiful," another added. "Slay it sis!!! You looks amazing!" a third commented. "Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder and you look like a proud and beautiful mum, dressed appropriately," someone else said.
Washington Post
5 days ago
- Health
- Washington Post
Work Advice: Should you list a job you got fired from on a résumé?
Reader: My son was just fired after four months at a new job he had relocated for. It was pretty much his own fault. There was a long lapse in his health insurance and he didn't do what he needed to do to secure his ADHD meds. As a result, he made errors that cost the company money.
Daily Mail
6 days ago
- Business
- Daily Mail
BREAKING NEWS Sydney mum claims Saturday Lotto prize after he son bought her a ticket
A Sydney mum won a $6.4million Saturday Lotto prize after her son bought her a ticket. The woman, from Castle Hill, held the only division one winning entry nationally in Saturday Lotto and can look forward to $6,427,770.04. She revealed her son purchased the winning ticket through his online account after she couldn't make it to the news agency before the draw closed. 'My mum actually asked me to buy the ticket because she couldn't make it to the newsagency,' her son said. 'She'll be very glad she didn't miss out on a ticket - this will be life-changing for her, my hands won't stop shaking. 'I'm not sure how she'll use her prize. I'm sure she'll have a good think about it, and we'll try and get together for a celebration.' The winning numbers in Saturday Lotto were 13, 36, 5, 37, 33 and 35, while the supplementary numbers were 18 and 10.
Free Malaysia Today
6 days ago
- General
- Free Malaysia Today
Remains of the day: a childhood paradise being chewed up by progress
I was back in the old kampung on Penang island recently for my grandson's 'aqiqah' prayers, a religious rite many Muslims choose to make for their young. My son was holding it for his son. I was just there for the ride. It's been a good ride, too. At an age fast approaching what many call the 'seven series', I have finally been blessed with a grandchild, born, of all days, on Malaysia Day last year, who bears a name that'll put some pressure on which way his moral compass will point. So much pressure! Back in the good old bad old days, the only expectations that kids faced was that we should survive into our teens so we could be married off quickly, to then become grandparents in our 40s, before dying in our 50s. As simple as such expectations were, quite a number of us didn't make it past childhood. We all had stories of relatives who lay in those small graves at the local cemetery. Life was nasty, brutish, and short. As my kids would say, I exaggerate much. We weren't born into a war zone, although there were fears wars could come a-visiting from Vietnam, which wasn't that far away. There were hardly any natural disasters, and the politics of the time, while not short of charlatans and crooks, was quite mild. Tough as life was, most of us felt things would get better. We didn't think of growing up to become a prime minister: we were happy enough to get a job that came with a pension. My mother's only expectation for me was I'd get a salaried job, so I didn't have to toil the land or the sea as did most of my peers and elders. The track to Pantai Ah Sen My grandson is too young to listen to my tales, especially the tall ones. But he will, and any time I can kidnap him from his parents and the other grandparents, he's going to have to listen to them, and I don't care how much I have to bribe him for it. On this trip he got to tour the hills and beaches around my kampung following the famous hill tracks to Pantai Esen, which more and more outsiders are now getting to know. It's actually Pantai Ah Sen, named after the old guy who used to live there, but I seem to be the only one who cares about this. A view of Pantai Esen on the southeast coast of Penang island, with Pulau Rimau in the background, and an artificial island being built to the right. (Cmglee/Wikipedia pic) The track is now easier than it was years ago, widened now to accommodate the recreational ATVs – infernal machines that spew fumes and make enough noise to wake up the long-departed Ah Sen. That's not good news if you're one of those who's been taking the track, either being carried by your parents or on your own two feet, since the 1950s. There goes the neighbourhood – although most of the nutmeg trees Ah Sen planted are still standing. Visitors walk by without even knowing or caring that they are nutmeg trees. Of course I care: I've been 'plucking' nutmegs off these trees (without permission) since I was yay high, and I'm too old to change my ways. I'm sure Ah Sen wouldn't mind. But Ah Sen must be turning in his grave if he could see what else is happening now. A 2,300-acre (930 hectare) artificial island is coming up off Pantai Esen in Permatang Damar Laut, Penang. (HundenvonPenang/Wikipedia pic) In the shadow of a man-made island Just off the shores of our kampung is a huge reclamation project to create the largest artificial island in Malaysia. They're busy day and night, with all the attendant light and noises. This island will fill up the entire bay in front of my kampung. It's not an extension of our coastline, it's a stand-alone piece of real estate with its own roads and rail transit, and its own postcodes, and presumably also 'seaview' posh bungalows, while all of our kampung, bungalows or not, will just get to stare at their back sides. And smell the raw sewage, which now flows out into the sea with nowhere else to go, stinking up the beaches. Given the enormous scale of the reclamation, that problem will just get even worse as time goes by. The beach, now dirty and stinky, used to be where I used to sneak away to do boy things, like swim and fish and ride sampans, or just lie about watching ships enter Penang port through the south channel. Occasionally we'd even get turtle eggs, which wasn't a very big deal back then. Tearing down a kampung Some houses are being taken down to make way for new roads to service this new island. My old kampung house is unaffected – so far. But we hear that the whole row of houses in front of ours will be cleared up for new roads, too. Hooray for raw sewage and traffic noises soon. Anyway, the little grandson is being indoctrinated into being a kampung boy with whatever bits of kampung we've left – which isn't much. Further programming will be activated when he can walk: he'll feel the dirt and get to know the trees and the rivers and seas and the fresh air. Said punishment will continue until he accepts his lot that, twice removed as he is, he's still a kampung boy. The family in front of our house, descendants of the old Chinese man who made salted eggs there, have been neighbours for 50 years. Whether they'll continue to be our neighbours will depend on whether their address has been deleted and replaced with roads on some traffic master plan. If that happens, I'd probably have to go further to buy fresh salted eggs from them, because I haven't come across anything that tastes as good. Another neighbour runs a coffee factory, which appears to be safe, meaning my supply of kampung-style freshly-roasted ground coffee is not under threat – for now. I met many childhood friends. They've all retired, from fishing or farming or some salaried jobs somewhere. Many of their houses have sprouted numerous extensions, as children and grandchildren came back to share their lot amid the sky-rocketing property prices of Penang. Influx of newcomers Because of that, and because of the many newcomers who migrated to the island for jobs at the many factories and businesses near the Penang airport, my kampung appears more and more crowded by the day. The days of having our own 'bungalows' with 50 to 100 meters of separation from each other are long gone. Soon, not even the rich people who'd be buying the seaview properties on the reclaimed island would know how it feels to live amid swaying coconut trees while the sea roars just yonder. My grandson is not likely to know, either. By the time he's all grown up, everything will just be concrete and glass and tarmac, even if he could afford those seaview bungalows. I'm of course trying hard to believe that being one of three generations of men to walk the hills together will mean a lot to him, when in reality it means a lot only to me and perhaps to my son who was also born there. Anyway, Penang being Penang, my eldest daughter and I put on an undisclosed but substantial number of kilogrammes from some serious eating, while complaining non-stop about the decline in the quality of the food and the inclined slope of food prices. But that's a Penang tradition. We were already complaining decades ago about the quality and the prices, before the age of influencers and foodies, when the beaches were clean and turtles landed regularly. But we're also less shy about how much weight we put on for our gluttony. Today, that's none of your business! Go to Penang with your own children and grandchildren and spin your own tales. Soon there'll be nobody else left alive to call you out for your exaggerations. The views expressed are those of the writer and do not necessarily reflect those of FMT.
