1 May

My ferry isn’t until 11:30 pm. So I potentially have a full day to explore. It’s an interesting area – the dense history; and flat, beach-rich terrain alongside an ecologically significant area of wetlands. I have a sense of jostling, between the rights of nesting ringed plovers, nudists, non-nudists, cyclists, walkers… 

As I cycle past the Pegasus Memorial Centre (https://musee.memorial-pegasus.com/en/pegasus-bridge/) I don’t even think, “Villages were bombed to smithereens, ordinary men mustered beyond-human levels of courage in unbelievably brutal conditions” – it’s a visceral, gut reaction as I find myself welling up. And I ponder on a conversation with Aurore. Her take is that, in France, if it’s not allowed it’s forbidden – and this comes from the Revolution and rights not lightly relinquished, once won. The feeling of “we” makes state or departmental dictates easier to take on board. And whilst the French tendency to strike is notorious, it has an aspect that goes beyond the individual. It’s not just bolshiness. In Aurore’s view, there is more solidarity in France and more compassion in England. Head and heart? I think I agree.

Cycling along the straight, wide Orne river (actually a canal) is a little dull. So I deviate into the hinterland. 

At the Gros Banc ornithological reserve, in the Orne estuary, I briefly abandon the bike in order to walk through the dunes to the northern beach. All around are the remains of 2WW defences. 

I am amused at a stern sign outlawing nudity – on pain of municipal arrest. Seconds later I see why it is there – as I stumble on a naturist beach. This is actually good news. There’s nothing I like more than throwing off my clothes and plunging in for a swim. But the mahogany paunches are a little comic. And, although I do get in the sea, it’s a bizarre experience, as a single female. Especially as I now see I am beyond the edge joining the non-nudist area. So I am expecting any minute to be arrested by the municipality through being in the wrong place, or wrongly attired.

Back on my bike, even without looking, I fall on historically significant places, like the avenue of trees at Merveille-Franceville commemorating the 9th battalion parachutists. 

And at Oger I read:

In the early afternoon Amfreville, and the Oger hamlet... benefitted from a vast view to the sea and the estuary of the Orne river, over the valley of the Dives to the East and Bréville to the South. As a strategic spot, Oger was occupied by British, French and then Belgian troops, who took turns in the fighting during the summer of 1944.

Situated at the far end of this little square, the hamlet castle welcomed its first British liberators as early as the afternoon of 6th June. Among them was an engineering company from the 6th Air-landing Brigade led by General Gale.

The building was occupied by different military staffs and mainly used as headquarters for Commando n°4. This is in the park of the castle - where the first graves for the killed commandos were dug – and where the British erected a monument in honour of the Franco-British Commando n°4 in July 1944. It was conceived in the Scottish tradition, moulded in a washtub and given the shape of a "cairn" made with a number of stones, equivalent to the number of soldiers in the unit on 6th June 1944. 

It happened. And most of us take for granted the lives we are living now which would been so, so different.

I make it back to the hotel and finally start reading one of the two novels that I have been lagging around for the last five days. After half an hour of idleness I cycle into Caen for a guided tour that I’m booked on. It is worth the effort. I will forget everything by tomorrow. But, at the time, the following stories impress me: 

– the River Orne originally ran through the centre of Caen, but was deviated early in the history of the town, thin blue lines on the pavements show its original route

– the importance of stone as a basis for Caen's dominance as a town, and creating its physical character (Cherbourg and Le Havre are said to look grubby in comparison); 

– the fact that “only” 80% of the town was obliterated during 2WW accounts for its charm – though less of it is original than I originally thought; 

– Guillaume le conquérant is responsible for some of the oldest buildings (I’m amused that apparently no French child is likely to have heard of him – he was just a Norman duke, after all), including the castle; 

– Guillaume was successful at Hastings because although the English were better at strategy, the Normans were better at one-to-one fighting, which is how the battle was won; Guillaume also benefited from the English being distracted by fighting the Vikings up in York and choice his moment to invade accordingly; 

– Caen has been very much remodelled over the last few years, with high-end blocks of flats replacing the heavy industry along the river (the usual story of Airbnb distorting the local market).

It’s an exceptionally pleasant city to walk around with many fine buildings and grand, wide boulevards. With an inner-city population of 100,000, Caen is punching above its weight, thanks to the post-2WW Marshall Plan. Go visit!

The rest of the day is a little trying. The sun goes down and the vibe at the end of this May Day is unpredictable. At Ouistreham I am accosted by a couple of drunken youths making clumsy small-talk. I feel conspicuous and uncomfortable, and become progressively colder watching the ferris wheel. Later than I could have, I seek refuge in a restaurant near the port for a cup of tea. 

Finally, it is time to board. I spend a near-sleepless night disturbed by lager louts who haven’t noticed that it is night time. Hmm. Perhaps it was unwise to economise on a berth. 

We make it back to Portsmouth without incident and the train connection back to BoA is smooth. Nice to arrive for the last day of the heat wave.

30 April: Cuves to Avranches/Caen

Uncertainty around my lack of cycle reservation for the train from Avranches to Caen makes me nervous. And my mind shuts down on decisions about sandwich fillings – Aurore and Roger are kindly on the job. But as I start peddling towards the town along quiet, un-trafficked lanes, I relax.

I am ahead of myself and arrive at Avranches station a couple of hours early. Crazily, I start cycling towards Granville, a stop or two along. What am I thinking of – this is supposed to be a non-cycling day. I do a u-ey back into the town. 

Avranches… I’m pretty certain I was here during a childhood camping holiday. But I have no memory. It looks familiar: the super-pollarded limes, flag flying in front of Hôtel de Ville, pavement cafés. A bustling, provincial market town that hasn’t changed in decades. I choose a groovy bouquiniste cum café in a back street. Served by the owner, she reveals the influence of a year in Australia – it certainly doesn’t feel in the least French. She tells me that Caen is a beautiful city. I feel better about the decision to spend a night there, which I was beginning to question.

The station has seen better days, but I love the easy pedestrian access between platforms. A fellow passenger tells me that I will need to hang my bike up – and offers to help. And I need it. Relief as we get it up. 😅 I have had so many pleasant encounters with random strangers, this trip.

On arrival at Caen I have another wobble when the bike doesn’t fit in the lift. I am nonplussed – until I think to turn the handlebars round. 

Arriving at a new place requires 360° attention. I am slow to see where the cycle lanes are (and overhear a child asking her mother what a cyclist is doing on the pedestrian path). There seem to be scooters and other vehicles cutting me up non stop. But soon I am cycling north along the canal to my hotel, 10km from the centre at Benouville. It’s the perfect place for my last night: a bike lock-up, flexibility on leaving luggage, a friendly receptionist who upgrades me to a bigger room as they are quiet.

What now? I have a mozy around the port area  – Caen is in fact 10 miles from the coast. It’s Ouistreham from where I will depart. On the beach, there is a commemorative display of quotes from British 2WW veterans. Reading snippets of their stories helps me bridge the gap between my superficial tourist experience and those unimaginably traumatic times.

Supper in a ritzy restaurant near my hotel. The orders get mixed up and I have a long wait. But it is the best meal yet.

29 April: Epiniac to Cuves

 The previous evening my hosts had given me the heads up that there would be an above-normal high tide at Mont St Michel. Although I hadn’t planned on going back down to the coast it was a no-brainer. I set my alarm early. At 7:40 am, I am on the road, my load increased by my dew-soaked tent. 

The dawn chorus is in full swing. The farmers are already ploughing, followed by clouds of seagulls against a pink sky. Two munkjack deer cross my path. I ease up – no windscreen to protect me. 

I am happy to have another view of Dol de Bretagne, peaceful at this early hour. I have breakfast in a triangle of verdure. 

Going north towards the coast, I pass farmhouses now holiday homes. But the countryside is productive – well maintained tree-lined ditches, fields of cereal, rape, broad bean, mown grass. A lone and uncharacteristically thatched house is a placeholder for previous times.

Halfway to the Mont I realise I am not going to be there by my intended 9am. I watch my mind as I agitate, conscious of what I am doing even as I lean on my electric assistance to get there quicker. I am on an astonishingly well made cycle track, that curves inland, south of the Baie. Miles and miles of shady, hard-packed cinder gravel.

I approach the Mont from the south, along with hundreds of others streaming in from the car parks, filling the boardwalks either side of the road. The road itself seems to be the preserve of the shuttle buses – and a handful of cyclists. The sea looks to be going out but it can’t be far off the high-water mark. A tractor laboriously passes to and fro, clearing away the flotsam and jetsam, inch by inch.

I am at the entrance to the Mont just early enough to be able to scamper up and down the ramparts before the density of tourists makes this impossible. I enjoy the architecture and pretend that I will read up on the history later. As I pedal away from the mêlée the wall of humanity approaching along the causeway is overwhelming. I follow the coast eastwards against a ceaseless flow of cars.

It is almost midday and I dream of finding a fromagerie and pâtisserie. But a roadside picnic area has to do. Well organised groups of French are spreading tablecloths and getting out the rosé. My trusty UK oatcakes have their moment.

I have a lovely ride, mostly along a disused railway to Ducey. The verges are chocker with early purple orchids and cow parsley. Once again, I am full of admiration for a country that can create bike routes on such a scale. 

I arrive at the house of Aurore (friend from the Buddhist centre in Bradford on Avon) and Roger mid afternoon. Not before time! The body is complaining.

Over the last two years Aurore and Roger have done a great job bringing a five-bedroom maison de maitre up to spec. It is set in 2 acres of land between two villages in La Normandie profonde, 10 miles east of Avranches. They lead a quiet, semi-retired life. A plan to run the place as bed and breakfast has fallen by the wayside because of the poor return against investment (high expectations of guests). Aurore is teaching bit of English. But, given the choice, she would be returning the UK. It will happen when the time is right.

28 April: Les Chevrets to Epiniac

Breakfast on the beach by the campsite. Dreams are made of this. 

I have left my mobile phone charging in the campsite office and have until midday to enjoy the environs. The beach on the east of the Peninsulais empty, apart from a lone guitarist. I scramble over the rocks and up to the track I walked down yesterday evening, for a second view of the flowers. Glorious again in this different light.

My next night will be with a Warmshowers.org host the other side of Dol de Bretagne, a relatively short ride. I have time to meander along the coast. Although I don’t expect any experience to top where I have just been, I take a route that goes via the Pointe de Grouin – out of curiosity (this is where I had planned to camp yesterday). It is spectacular but doesn’t hold me for long. I abandon the idea of detouring into every beach and bay along the coast – less is more.

I cycle on towards Cancale on the western extremity of the Baie St Michel. The approach road is lined with Hornbeam pruned into chunky rectangular lollipops. The brutalist approach to pruning lives on. 

The town is another of the grey and stony variety. A line of restaurants extends along the shore. The place is literally throbbing with food, and large groups of tourists wearing their Cancale straw hats. I choose the least frequented place I can find with a decent Google rating. It looks onto the mudflats that characterise this part of the coast. At low tide it is hard to imagine water could ever be part of the picture. But the tidal range here is immense, up to 16.1m.

My restaurant table is shaded by a canopy. But, if anything, this seems to trap the heat. Not a breath of wind. I watch wagons passing. And realise – of course – that the mudflats are the conditions for oyster beds. I could have gone to the oyster market and had two dozen oysters for €10 – a quarter of the price in a restaurant. On a display board, I learn that, “Oysters were imported by the Romans from the coasts of Normandy and Brittany before and after the invasion of Gaul. Oysters disappeared to some extent from banquets in the middle ages returning to royal favour with Louis 14th who ate them every morning.”

But heck, phone recharging and a bit of chat is part of the experience. My hostess points to the other side of Baie St Michel where, through the shimmering haze, I can just make out the Mont Dol, a flat-topped granite outcrop standing above the plane. My destination is an hour the other side of it – mythically far (but actually only 27 miles). 

I follow the coast until Hirel, then turn inland. Quiet lanes and tracks. A short stop-off at Dol de Bretagne, a comfortably bourgeois little town with a strange, asymmetrical church.

The address I have for my Warmshowers hosts is in the middle of nowhere. I turn off the main road onto a forest track, arriving shortly afterwards at an eco-hamlet with no house numbering. It is an important moment. I have been trying to get this cyclist co-hosting solution to work for some months. But the lack of monetary exchange, and ergo commitment, means slow confirmation – if at all. This is the first time it has worked. It’s very kind of Anne and Gilbert to allow me to camp in their garden as they are about to depart on a four-month trip to the Black Sea. We have a brief chat over an apple juice, before they have to go out. A flat lawn, recharging point adjacent, a lean-to for the bike, an owl to serenade me. Perfection.

26-27 April: Portsmouth to Les Chevrets

At the Brittany Ferries terminal at Portsmouth I wait with a dozen or so motor bikers. The odd woman out. 

“We’ve changed from touring with a bike to doing a biking tour” says one of them, on his way to Spain, with his wife. I understand the distinction – this trip I have moved into the former camp. 

The boat disgorges a zillion lorries. I am joined by a handful of cyclists, all men. There is a huge variation in cycling itineraries. From a four-day Brittany tour, to schlepping down to Bordeaux and then flying home, to a young lad who has quit his job in order to do an open-ended solo journey down to Portugal for a stag event – front panniers loaded with tins of sardines. 

My panniers are bulging. Dad’s oversized fleece contributes to the bag-lady look, in contrast to the sleek Lycra of my companions. My bike squeaks and groans, and wobbles, consistent with the overloading So where will I be going? Er… round the corner to the beach. “It’s not about distance”, they say, kindly.

Boarding the ferry – uf– it is huge! A cavernous spaceship. We watch carefully as the ferry staff tie up our precious bikes. 

The ship is apparently brand-new. It has the ambience of a cruiser – restaurants, entertainment area, kids playground, workout area, exhibition space. I am out of my comfort zone bewildered. And then an unbelievably sumptuous (4-berth) cabin, with fabulous shower and comfy bed with duvet. 

I forego the entertainer playing with detergent bubbles (not a success – the atmosphere is too dry, he says). Senses overloaded, I turn in early. And sleep like a baby until pinged alert by piped music at 6 am. I assume we are docking and bolt out of my cabin. Only to discover the ship is deserted (heck, am I on my way back to the UK?). I look out of the window and see a huge horizon of sea, and the Sun rising. Way to go. But in half an hour the grey outline of St Malo – it really does look austere and prison-like in the light – comes into view.

The next adrenalin jolt is the message on my mobile telling me I have exceeded my monthly allowance. I find that can’t get onto the Internet and minutes later mislay my wallet. It begins to look as though my adventure is going to end before it has began. The dependence on gadgets is painful. Sure, I could buy a map. But what about all the accommodation information, keeping in touch with home, etc. I would be plunged into the dark ages. And worse if, in addition, no means of payment. But the wallet reveals itself, and the young lad hotspots me and this seems to kick the phone into action. “Relief” would be an understatement. But the sense of unravelling is acute. When one of my cycling companions has to zip up my rucksack for me, and I subsequently start cycling the wrong way round the first roundabout in St Malo, I know I am going to be difficult company. 

A delightful breakfast in a quiet cobbled street in the Intra Muros. And then soaking up the view from the rampart over the glorious sandy beach, watching the Brittany ferry start its return journey. Both temperature and (mostly French?) tourists are hotting up. One or two are in the sea-filled beach pool. I am envious – but not willing to leave my valuables unattended.

It is such an extraordinary location – for hours I soak up the panoramic views on all sides of the ramparts. As the tide goes out, grockles stream towards the rocky outcrops, newly re-accessible, as well as the Grand Bé (little island on which Châteaubriand’s tomb 🥱). 

A busker provides an easy-going background vibe. I realise I have no French currency on me and make a detour back into the town to a cashpoint. The streets are now packed with shoppers. Diving back into the backstreets I have to weave around in order to avoid flights of steps. Back to Bjorn the busker – to catch his last notes. We chat for a while. It turns out that, when touring, he tows the piano. I get told off for having an e-bike when I don’t have such a load. Hm. 😬

I treat myself to Coquilles St Jacques in a traditional restaurant, enjoying the thick white napkins, and dark atmosphere of a place frequented by locals. I have to be told that the seaweed garnish is not edible – foraging hasn’t made it to these sophisticated parts. 

I’m in no hurry to leave the town so book onto a guided tour of the Demeure corsaire. Its claim to fame is through having survived the Second World War bombing. But, without the droll presentation by the guide (oh so French), the rather dull suite of rooms on one floor wouldn’t have held our interest. He does a good job. But after an hour the rhetorical flourishes (“Et pourquoi est-ce que je dis ceci?”) are too much. This and the uncertainty about where I am going to spend the night are a signal to move on.

I meander north east along the coast, heading towards the beach campsite I had researched online. On a whim, after 7 miles, I have suddenly had enough and cycle into another site. I couldn’t have found a better place. Large and three star and full of static caravans but well designed, hilly, wooded and very close to fabulous coast and the almost-enclosed bay: the Navre de Rothéneuf.

After a camp meal of pasta nature I manage a quick swim (glacial) and then wander along the GR path around the Île Resnaud peninsula. Short and idyllic with sublime displays of gorse, bluebells, thrift, bladder campion.