Dinard (pronounced Dee-Nar) is considered the posh place to vacation in Bretagne. It used to be a small fishing village, and in the mid-1800’s its persona changed to that of a resort. This is also the time the first English residents arrived.
I don’t know though – Dinard seems sort of run down to me. Kind of like Coney Island.
Well … maybe not exactly like Coney Island.
We come here every year, just the five of us (6 with Hunter)
to try and get a decent family picture.
Try being the operative word.
And we come here to eat ice cream.
I was nervous when I asked if dogs were allowed in the restaurant so we could eat at our favorite ice cream place. But to my shock, they were! They were allowed! I love France.
It’s always rather hard to wait for the ice cream.
Especially when the parents are served first.
It’s a soul-refining moment.
But in the end it is oh, so worth the wait.
Then we go jump and climb and stuff.
No guys – not there!
Oh look! Real estate! (Sorry. I’m distracted)
And then our clown gets to go on his own ride.
Complete with a meltdown when he has to get off, that is.
The first time we came here was with the extended family when William was still in my belly, and we decided to take the ferry from Dinard to St Malo. It was high tide then (not like it is now) and this whole area was covered with water. The first thing two-year old Gabriel did was to jump up on this ledge to peer over when I was too far away to stop him.
You can’t really tell from this picture, but there is literally no protection for a toddler standing up on that ledge to keep him from tumbling in. And if he had fallen in, I would have jumped in after him, never mind how cold the water was, never mind that I didn’t know how deep or whether or not there were rocks down there (there are, as you can see), never mind I was five months pregnant!!!!
But I reached him in time and he didn’t fall in, and I didn’t have to jump to my probable death to save my son.
And so Dinard is is not the site of some personal family tragedy. Dinard can just be Dinard, after all –
a little posh, but a little run down.