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.