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.
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