2023: Brittany GR 34 France

The Trip

Brittany is much harder to get to than you think! A pleasant, leisurely train to Paris was a pleasure for Adrian; the red-eye flight to Charles de Gaulle a drag for Pete. But then there's that long train ride to Rennes; and the short bus ride to somewhere on the road beyond Pontorson; and the walk into Mont Saint Michel before we can say that we have really begun. After that we hug the coast for three days and about 80 km, except for those bits when we don't, all the way along the beach and around the bay to St Malo. What could be easier? Sacre Bleu!

Click on a picture to see it in more detail than necessary!

Saturday

Various news and weather reports offer thrills and excitement for our gallic adventure. Torrential rain is promised for Brittany, while the political climate in Paris offers entertainment of a higher temperature altogether. At least Pete has the treat of the onboard entertainment system for the train trip into Paris. The plan is to meet in Paris for lunch and travel onwards together to Normandy. Pete walks to a cafe at the Gare de l’Est and is too hungry to wait, having been awake for nine hours without food, so orders boeuf de bourginon. He is nonplussed when a cheeseburger turns up. The waiter must be a foreigner, unable to understand simple French! Adrian manages to find the cafe only after a flurry of hectic, confused sms's, because it turns out that he arrived at a different train station altogether. Apart from that, this bit goes smooth as clockwork. We cross the capital on foot, basking in unexpected spring sunshine. Rioters are elsewhere, all we can see are crowds of Oriental tourists and endless queues. Navigating by instinct, we stop for a first beer of the trip on the Seine, opposite the Pantheon, in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. Thence a lazy meander through the gardens of the Palais du Luxembourg takes us to Montparnasse. The railway station is hard to find, as it is neatly hidden behind ...

... the tallest skyscraper in the known universe.

When in France ... grab a wee cairry-oot at M&S. We cairry oot armfuls of beer, pork and mango onboard the sleek TGV train which speeds us comfortably towards Rennes. Here, we must catch the only train connection to the coast. We arrive punctually, but find no connecting train: the only means of transport from Rennes to Pontorson has been cancelled due to rioting. We had no idea that Pontorson was such a hotbed of popular resistance to President Macron’s dastardly plans. We are stuck here until the morning.

Luckily, Rennes is not a one-horse town. We take a brief walking tour of hotels around the station, but unfortunately, every one is booked out. Quickly tiring of this, we grab a seat and a beer in one of them and resort to old-fashioned techniques: booking.com on Pete's tablet. Minutes later, we have a room at the Ibis hotel next door, and can breathe a hearty sigh of relief. We do not venture far for our evening repast, a smashing little Italian place.

Sunday

Breakfast in the hotel is an adventure in itself. We are sharing our hotel with the entire Maltese Junior Kudo Squad, hunners and hunners of them. A quick check reveals that this exciting, all-action sport is a unique combination of ker-plunk and ludo. The disciplines required for Mastery of Kudo do not include mastery of the hotel egg-boiler. The melee of kids and lack of timer turn this into a hopeless endeavour. The breakfast room is littered with a detritus of abandoned raw eggs. We wish everyone the best of luck in their competition. Go, Malta! being an expression which we had not expected to use on this trip, or indeed ever.

Places to go today, people to see. But before any of that, it is April Fools Day (more or less) and Pete has a job to do. He is expecting around half a minute of fun.

Instructions: insert in walking companion's boot and wait for comic reaction. Should occur a few seconds after insertion of foot.

At 8.45, the three of us - Adrian, Pete and mördarsnigeln - catch a bus which whisks us towards the mudflats of the Normandy coast. We alight our trusty steed five kilometres short of the famous Mont St Michel, so that we can approach the sacred destination on foot, like true pilgrims. The vibe is much like our Camino moment of twenty years ago, when we flew into Santiago della Compostella airport, and then snuck onto the final ten kilometres of the thousand mile pilgrimage to Santiago.

We stop for coffee and buns first. We ask the cafe owner if we are in Brittany and he snarls a response, all but spitting into his apron. Turns out that he is fiercely proud of his Normandy situation, Brittany is at least 150 metres away, across the river. Normandy is magnificent and modern, but we are pleased to see that it is ...

... foolish ...

... and old-fashioned too.

A gentle smirr of rain and a coolish breeze accompany us as we slowly approach the awesome UNESCO world heritage site, which is reputed to have inspired several Disney films and does indeed rise magically out of the bland nothingness of the surrounding mudflats.

The Road to Mont Saint Michel gives us the opportunity to take the first portraits of the trip.

Beyond its remarkable facade, the city within is a bustling scurry of narrow streets, ancient vendors and traditional gallic fare, all of which are wonderful. And tourist tat and tourist fast food and, worst of all, tourists, which are not. The sights ...

... and sounds ...

... of commerce, bells and pesky people are overwhelming. We escape to a brasserie on the battlements for an early lunch of moules-et-frites served in scallop-shell porcelain; and cidre served, to our great amusement, in cappuccino cups. Moments like this are what we travel for.

We climb reluctant steps to ...

... take in the views ...

...but the bickering press of so many of our fellow creatures is not our cup of cidre. We flee the crowds and stride back along the causeway with a sigh of relief, occasionally checking behind us to see if the fairy-tale castle really is still there.

We cross a modern bridge, all metal panels with engraved bits-and-pieces, over the silted-up river, thus passing from Normandy into Brittany. Ahead, we look forward to three days walking on one of France’s favourite routes: the GR 34 or Customs Trail.

We are alone on the trail, which comes as a bit of a shock after the teeming crowds of Mont St Michel. We walk through the so-called Polders, land reclaimed from the sea, and there is no sign of the latter. This is a bit of a surprise to Pete since his map expects blue sea right next to our green path. Perhaps there is a high tide at some point, but it eludes us for the duration of the walk.

The landscape, while impressive in its own way, quickly becomes rather bleak and monotonous, and we are quite relieved to turn off inland in search of our accommodation. Soon we reach the tiny village of Roz-sur-Couesnon and our pleasant country hotel, Les 4 Salines. We have arrived quite early. Pete is privately relieved that his gnawing guilt over the presence of the slug will finally be extinguished. Surely Adrian can hardly avoid it as he takes off his boots.

Showered and beered, we enjoy an afternoon of reading and relaxing in the bar before Pete finally gets his promised meal of boeuf de bourginon, just a day after first ordering it. Upstairs, the slug dines on walking boot and then slumbers on, looking forward, no doubt, to another day on the road.

Monday

At last, Adrian glances downwards as he prepares for a day's walking and spies something suspicious. He is amused at the prank, but then astounded as he learns for how long it has been running. Pete breathes an inward sigh of relief, Adrian gets a hearty commendation for the Sense of Humour of the Year Award. Walkers have become pack-donkeys for less.

We spend the morning zig-zagging our way through leafy wooded lanes, meandering our way back to the Bay. This landscape is much more varied than the Polders and the weather is getting much better too. By the time we reach the coast, the sun is beating down and the sea-breeze has dropped completely.

We pass the ...

... charming Chapel of St Anne and ...

... many windmills, a feature of the local landscape.

Pete takes the first double self-portrait of the trip here, despite having no-one on the other side of the road to take the photo. How does he do it?

Eventually, we reach Cherrueix, where we march along the longest street in France, searching in vain for a pitstop. This rustic gem of a village is very quaint indeed. Everywhere we look, industrious workpeople are renovating the roofs of the lovely cottages, and luckily, the Boulevard de Sexe fails to live up to its enticing name. The only restaurant in the village is sadly closed, but we are directed by a charming local couple to the village boulangerie. Here we select takeaway coffee and buns, which we enjoy on a bench down at the beach. Don't be fooled by the fact that Cherrueix has a beautiful sandy beach, the sea is still blooming miles away.

After the gastric disappointments of Cherrueix, we are glad to find that the next village, Le Vivier-Sur-Mer, offers a choice of restaurants. The first one we enter is open, but as empty as a sausage machine in a dog pound, so we leave again and go in next door.

Here, we are greeted as if we are the first visitors since lockdown and settled down in the sunroom with a litre bottle of cloudy cider between us. After just a few slugs, we decide that this year’s beer of the trip must be Cidre de Bretagne. We order the plat du jour, which the lady of the house proudly declares, in her best, hastily learned English, is the cock-in-wine. This is a meal, apparently, and not a prank at a student party. How can we possibly resist that? The place fills up with locals, most of whom order the same thing. French cock has never been in such demand. Although dubious at first, we blithely order a second litre of cidre. This leaves us a bit light-headed as we set off again along the coastal route. A coffee might have been a better idea, but no worries, there will be many more pitstops ahead of us.

There are indeed many bonny establishments along the esplanade, but those that are open sell only oysters or llamas, not coffee or beer.

We amuse ourselves at a random look-out tower.

Not long afterwards we discover the garden of the trip, as well as other delights.

Finally we divert to a path between the coast and what appears to be an endless series of seafood farms. We are only gradually approaching our destination but, oh my, wouldn’t it be nice to have a pitstop somewhere?

On we go, as the curve of the bay opens out and we observe, with a gulp, the considerable distance we have to walk to our evening’s destination.

The advantage of walking along a bay is that your destination can be seen in front of you, in all its beauty and splendour. The path stretches, long and majestic, full of healthy delights. You are spurred on to reach your goal.

The disadvantage of walking along a bay is that you can see how far away your destination is, in all its distant remoteness. The path stretches, long and pathetic, full of blighted ruts and stones. You are appalled at the challenge of ever reaching your goal.

Late afternoon brings the final curve of the bay, with the sparkling port of Cancale and splashing waters of la Manche ahead, a series of small, pretty beaches between us and them. However, the dearth of facilities on the trail is taking its toll on Adrian’s digestive tract. Maybe cloudy cidre wasn’t such a good choice for lunch, after all. Pace slows dramatically, with Adrian pausing regularly, pretending to examine seashells every few steps, gasping under his breath.

After an interminable final stretch, we finally reach the outskirts of Cancale and the oasis of a roadside pizzeria, which mercifully has a toilet. Ahhhh!

We still have to climb up the hill to reach our hotel. This attractive place has pretty chalets but no restaurant. So, following a brief rest, we somehow persuade our weary feet to carry us back down the hill to the harbour front, where many restaurants await us.

We are spoiled for choice, and pick a bar looking out to the bay. We just get in a beer order, but cannot order food. It is a lovely, balmy evening in April, the whole town is heaving with tourists, and the barman assures us that the place is about to close down. We end up eating at the only restaurant on the prom which stays open after 8, conveniently right next door and recommended by the barman. We smell a rat, but at least it saves us from making a choice, which is something we always hate having to do. We get a nice enough meal: steak-et-frites and what claims to be Mont St Michel's official beer.

Tuesday

Our hotel is up and out of town, so next morning we take a short cut on the high road to La Pointe du Grouyn. On the way we pass some ...

... standing stones, as well as some ...

... other things.

The weather is magnificent as we reach the rocky promontory in time for coffee and ...

... an early beer ...

... at the nearby hotel. The views here are stunning. The sea, finally, fills the horizon; rocky outcrops stick up menacingly; a yellow sun dazzles; the grass glows green. Photo-ops abound.

But eventually we must put cameras away and set off along a very different coast. We follow the ...

... official signs for the walk ...

... along the meandering coastline ...

... in and out of headlands and coves, offering breath-taking views of ...

...beaches and ...

... gullies.

We are reminded of Devon. Also Aberdeenshire, although, for these two, auld, granite-faced loons, most things do that.

The horizon is special too.

This is the ideal opportunity for the official photo of the trip, even if ...

... some attempts with the self-timer work ...

... better than others.

The paths are glorious, the weather is warm and sunny. Such ...

... wonderful scenery ...

... is hard to leave behind. But the ins and outs of the coast make the route much longer than necessary, and we need pitstops! We divert to the road and head for the town of Saint-Coloumb, as suggested by the label on our beer from earlier. Surely, that was a sign!

Unfortunately, we get lost. Not to worry, because the road brings us back to the coast, where we are treated to splendid views of ...

... a bonny village kirk and ...

... the picturesque Fort du Guesclin, ...

which we might otherwise have missed. A couple more kilometres to go, until we find the True Road to Saint Coloumb. However, SC is a very big disappointment, as big disappointments go, because nothing is open. We are an hour late for lunch and everyone is having a siesta. All we can do is move on.

The road to St Malo is very quiet, because it is closed for all traffic that is not walking. Road walking is hard-going, drab and bleak. We stow our cameras and make quick progress under an unrelenting sun. First we can smell, and then see the dreaded asphalt machines. The machines are working from one side of the road to the other, so we have no alternative but to walk on the fields alongside and even in a ditch for a while. The workmen are bemused, but offer lots of thumbs up to encourage us on our long distance walk to St Malo. At least, I think that's what they meant.

We reach the outskirts of St Malo as the schools are emptying. Tired and hungry after a hard day's work, we are desperate for a pitstop. The first we see is a charming little creperie and we hop in without further ado, happy to fulfil another French gastronomic cliche. From here, it is but a short stroll down to the beach of Rotheneuf.

The impressive fin-de-siecle esplanade and beaches of St Malo stretch out in front of us for several kilometres and we are back amongst trendy holidaymakers again. Feeling slightly out of place in our sweaty walking clothes, we divert after a while and take the harbour route into the ancient walled city.

Some three-masted tall ships in the harbour add to the nautical atmosphere of this former pirate haven.

Time for a last beer on the road. The lady serving looks like an old hand, but it soon becomes clear she is a novice. She cannot find mats, or glasses, and our promised local beer is, in fact, from Japan. What could be better?

Our final hotel of the trip is right in the centre of the old port, and we are mighty glad to reach it. As such valued customers, we are given the room with the best view.

We don't have far to walk to our chosen restaurant, The Penjab. Indian meals have become another standard element of the Strides, especially for the last night. It is typically superb, and we return well-fed to our hotel, via our local Irish pub of course.

Adrian makes one tiny last detour over the nocturnal city walls before retiring to the room to watch Dara O’Briain on Pete’s magic lantern. We barely notice the tavern owners rolling their wheelbarrows, through streets broad and narrow, in the small hours.

Wednesday

We’ve made it. 80 km varied walking over three days, plus a wee stroll in Paris, nae bad for twa auld craws lik us. Brilliant weather, despite the monsoon the experts had predicted. Pete is gutted that his new rain jacket - a special shopping trip to Uddevalla to buy it - remained unused. We aye say we shouldn’t over-do it on these trips, but we always end up doing much more than we have planned. No museum together this time, but Pete finds time to photograph Napoleon on a camel, so that will have to do.

Long but happy journey back home, and it’s all over for another year.