Dinard

On Monday, which was perfectly beautiful, we walked into Dinard. It took about half an hour and we intended at first to take the bus back to our campsite. Above a vedette waits to take tourists across the mouth of the Rance to St. Malo.
Here is the fatal spot at which Chris lost her camera. We went to the Municipal police station to report the loss and a very helpful sergeant took our particulars in well decent English.
There is the mouth of the Rance across which the vadettes ferry tourists to the harbour fortress of St. Malo.
Vedette ticket offices old (above) and new (below). This contrast speaks volumes for Dinard. In its 1890s hey-day Dinard was the plage resort of choice for the English aristos. Indeed, as we shall see their decendents and, one is told, nouveau riche Parisians still own the huge private mansion houses surplombant la plage.

If you were wondering why we walked into Dinard. They don't like motorhomes, motorhomers or caravaners, or rather they don't want them to stop, park up. We should have gone to the information palace (it really was) and asked: "We've read the interdiction against camping cars. Show us your town plan indicating where we can park up!" We did not see anywhere at all ... and we were looking.

Across the main beach, this is the view of those huge late Victorian, Edwardian villas of style for the really rich.
You can still get without your money at the casino - rien ne va plus.
Along the back of the main beach are serious bathing, what? they aren't huts. One simply descends the access stairs directly from one's hotel or apartment to one's bath rooms where one's servant will prepare one for bathing.

A few of these villas have under structures as impressive as work by Vauban. We wondered whether that was municipal or private groundwork. There was a curious interface between the private and the public on that beach.
These villas went on for maybe a kilometre. Apparently, they are still the residences of the super rich.

Chris tries out her beach scarf.
We had walked so far along the beach that we realised it was pointless going back and trying to find the bus. We were in the very pretty suburb of St Egoat, tired and hungry. This was a normal place, so of course there was a boulangerie etc. etc.