 |
| Despite being allergic, I love oysters and couldn't resist these fresh-as-you-like specimens! |
It had already been a lengthy journey and we were still at least four hours from our destination. My best friend and I were holed up in her Micra, Jimmy, to escape from the mundane routine that had been our summer so far. It had been a spur of the moment decision, (so spontaneous in fact that we had left without checking my Tesco tent was fully equipped; it wasn’t, the pegs had mysteriously gone walkabout). We had managed to enlist the company of our travel companions from the previous year’s Asian adventure, who also shared our passion for discovering local delicacies (much cheese eating and boozing would ensue). The motorway was stretched out in front of us, leading to a horizon which glistened in the scorching afternoon heat. Despite the Saharan conditions inside the car we were both smiling as we sped through the golden French countryside, bristling with anticipation.
 |
| Dinan |
We hadn’t planned anything; deciding we were grownups who could 'figure it out' when we got there- wherever ‘there’ happened to be. Arriving at a campsite and negotiating a pitch at the height of the summer season proved more difficult than we thought, it would seem the French are a nation who camp. Unsurprising really when you consider the perfect weather, striking landscape, and extortionately priced pensions. La Rochelle is a typical coastal resort; a comfortable mix of historical buildings, seafood restaurants and sandy enclaves. The wind was deceptive and we lived up to our ‘Rost Bif’ reputation in a more literal way than usual.
After a couple of days we headed northwards along the coastal road, or at least what the 10 year old road map, gifted from my parents, sold as a coastal road. Vannes is hillside settlement, with winding streets and attractive architecture. We were lucky enough to catch the weekly food market so could observe the locals bustle through their daily lives, literally arguing over the price of fish. They evoked a passion for fresh produce that is lacking in the supermarket food halls of the UK. We were addicted to this ideology and as we sat in a café, soaking up the morning sunshine, we hatched a plan to return; the travelling Olde English Tea Shoppe was obviously a plan that was destined for instant success.
 |
| Dinard |
We had agreed to meet a friend in St Malo, so our pilgrimage towards the Brittany coast continued. We stopped inland at Dinan which boasts a beautiful and well preserved Roman aqueduct, a crumbly medieval town and a quaint riverside marina. Here we discovered that cider, (our university tipple of choice) is actually traditionally served warm, out of wide brimmed mugs.
Dinard is stuck, magically, in the 1900s. Blue and white striped beach tents flap along the sea shore, as briny sea froth crashes, rustling and hissing, onto the grainy yellow sand. Seagulls cooing overhead. Everything is sand castles and candy floss; you can almost hear the organ grinder echoing through time.
 |
| Cathedral at Bayeux |
It was then a race against time to get back to Dunkirk to catch the ferry; barely squeezing in the Bayeux Tapestry and the D-Day beaches until we raced up the gangway into the bowels of the ship. We were exhausted but content; 6 days, 1200 miles, and more history than you could shake a stick at.
