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.
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