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One More Croissant for the Road
Felicity Cloake


The nation’s ‘taster in chief’ cycles 3,500km across France in search of the definitive versions of classic French dishes.One of the chief pleasures of cycling, apart from the thrill of freedom it gives you, is stopping for lunch, so ravenous you inhale the bread basket before they’ve even had time to bring over your beer. And France is a country whose roads, so straight and smooth and quiet, seem designed for cycling, and whose hearty provincial cooking, whether that’s Moules Frites or Boeuf Bourguignon, makes the perfect fuel for it. To be hungry in France is to be fortunate indeed.One More Croissant for the Road sees ‘the nation’s taster in chief’ Felicity Cloake embark on the trip of a lifetime, cycling 3,500km across France in search of the definitive versions of classic French dishes. Felicity has long established herself as an absolute authority on everything that is important about food. This lively and charming account of her search for the ultimate Quiche Lorraine, la meilleure Tarte Tatin and a Cassoulet par excellence, culminates in a triumphant two-wheeled tour of Paris’s boulangeries in pursuit of France’s finest croissant. Accompanied by charming line illustrations, each chapter concludes with Felicity putting this new-found knowledge to good use in a new ‘perfect’ recipe for each dish, the conclusion of her rigorous and thorough investigative work on behalf of all our taste buds.Felicity Cloake is the author of the Guardian’s long-running weekly column, How to Cook the Perfect…as well as having been the New Statesman’s food columnist since 2011 and the author of four books with Fig Tree. She was named Cookery Journalists of the Year at the 2016 Fortnum & Mason awards, and won the Cookery Journalist of the Year and New Media trophies at the 2011 Guild of Food Writers awards.










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Copyright (#u90f5a66f-df1b-54dc-9eb7-cab0c4582dda)


Mudlark

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published by Mudlark 2019

FIRST EDITION

Text © Felicity Cloake 2019

Illustrations and cover illustration © Sara Mulvanny/Agency Rush 2019

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Felicity Cloake asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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Source ISBN: 9780008304935

Ebook Edition: June 2019 ISBN: 9780008304942

Version: 2019-04-30




Dedication (#u90f5a66f-df1b-54dc-9eb7-cab0c4582dda)


For my sausage-scoffing, plonk-sinking peloton – with whom the glass was always half full




Contents




1  Cover (#u759fab98-e86d-55c5-ad89-dfa3d36ce173)

2  Title Page

3  Copyright

4  Dedication

5  Contents (#u90f5a66f-df1b-54dc-9eb7-cab0c4582dda)

6  Prologue

7  STAGE 1: The Grand Départ, London to Cherbourg

8  STAGE 2: Cherbourg to Avranches

9  STAGE 3: Avranches to Dol-de-Bretagne

10  STAGE 4: Dol-de-Bretagne to Saint-Malo

11  STAGE 5: Saint-Malo to Redon

12  STAGE 6: A Stage in Two Parts: Redon to Tours, Paris to Lamotte-Beuvron

13  STAGE 7: Limoges (Circuit)

14  STAGE 8: Limoges to Bayonne

15  STAGE 9: Bayonne to Pau

16  STAGE 10: Pau to Carcassonne

17  STAGE 11: Marseille

18  STAGE 12: Marseille to Nice

19  STAGE 13: The Col de Joux Plane

20  STAGE 14: Lyon

21  STAGE 15: Chalon-sur-Saône to Dijon

22  STAGE 16: Strasbourg to Meistratzheim

23  STAGE 17: Meistratzheim to Nancy

24  STAGE 18: Toul to Bar-le-Duc

25  STAGE 19: Bar-le-Duc to Reims

26  STAGE 20: Reims to Bondy

27  STAGE 21: Bondy to Paris

28  Vital Statistics

29  Acknowledgements

30  Praise for One More Croissant for the Road

31  About the Publisher


LandmarksCover (#u759fab98-e86d-55c5-ad89-dfa3d36ce173)FrontmatterStart of ContentBackmatter

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Prologue (#u90f5a66f-df1b-54dc-9eb7-cab0c4582dda)


A green bike drunkenly weaves its way up a cratered hill in the late-morning sun, the gears grinding painfully, like a pepper mill running on empty. The rider crouched on top in a rictus of pain has slowed to a gravity-defying crawl when, from somewhere nearby, the whine of a nasal engine breaks through her ragged breathing.

A battered van appears behind her, the customary cigarette dangling from its driver’s-side window, and shakily she rears out of the saddle, grubby legs pumping in a surprising turn of speed. As he passes, she casually reaches down for some water, smiling broadly in the manner of someone having almost too much fun. ‘No sweat,’ she says jauntily to his retreating exhaust pipe. ‘Pas de problème, monsieur.’

The van disappears round the next hairpin. Abruptly our heroine dismounts, allowing the heavily laden bike to crash into a pile of brambles, describing an arc of chain grease across her bruised shins en route. Grumpily slapping away a thirsty horsefly, she reaches into the handlebar bag and pulls out a half-eaten croissant.

After peeling off a baby slug and flicking it expertly onto her own shoes, she sinks her teeth into the desiccated pastry, and squints at the map on her phone. Only another 40km to go before lunch.

In the distance, there’s a rumble of thunder.






It’s not like I wasn’t warned. I’d witnessed the danger of turning a hobby into a job first-hand at a magazine publisher I’d once worked for, who regularly offered a bonus for anyone willing to give up their weekend to help with photoshoots for some of their more niche titles. No one ever did it twice.

As the new IT manager wearily switched my computer off and then on again one Monday morning, I asked him how his first gig for Mega Boobs had gone – he’d been so excited about it on Friday. He shook his head: ‘Believe me, Felicity,’ he said in a small, sad voice, ‘you really can have too much of a good thing.’

Poor Hamid. Almost a decade later, I can still see the betrayal in his eyes – but those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it, and, hard as I tried, I just couldn’t shake the urge to eat my way around France. (I’ll be honest, I didn’t try that hard.)

The absurd notion of doing it on two wheels came later, in the summer of 2017, when I rode from the Channel coast to the Mediterranean with a friend who’d recently quit her job in London to move to Provence. In the interests of wringing maximum drama from her departure, Caroline decided to make the journey by bike. I went along on a whim and realised, somewhere around La Rochelle, that I’d never had so much fun in my life.

France, I found, is a place built for cycling and, happily, for eating, too – a country large enough to give any journey an epic quality, but with a bakery on every corner. Here, it seemed to me as I rode through shady forests and sun-baked vineyards, you could go from beach to mountain, Atlantic to Mediterranean, polder to Pyrenees, and taste the difference every time you stopped for lunch.

Three weeks away from a computer gives you a lot of time to think, and as our little peloton pedalled south, a book began to take shape, a Grand Tour of French gastronomy, visiting dishes in their terroir, picking up tips, putting on wisdom as well as weight. The idea marinated for the next 697km, becoming increasingly less ludicrous with every pichet of local wine we swallowed.

When I got home, I told everyone I was going to do a Tour de France.






The indefinite article is important. I’m no Geraint Thomas, but I’ve always ridden a bike, pootling round town on a beautiful but big-boned Pashley, often with a similarly built dog ensconced in its capacious wicker basket. To my own surprise, in recent years I’ve fallen in love with cycling for its own sake too, mostly, but certainly not only, because of the amount you can get away with eating under the flimsy pretext of refuelling.

It all started when I joined a group of friends on a trip from Calais to Brussels in 2014, simply because I’d just been dumped, and it seemed like a good time to do stupid things. Until then, with the exception of the odd flash of elation while careering down Highgate Hill after a glass of wine, I had never really realised that cycling could be fun. Efficient, yes; cheap, certainly! – but enjoyable? In London, a city of mad bus drivers and careless cabbies, where every second pedestrian is FaceTiming their mum in Melbourne rather than looking at the road, and the Boris Bikers are the worst of the lot? No.

That trip, however, was quite different. No one had told me of the quiet satisfaction of pumping your way up a hill, weaving over the saddle like Lance Armstrong on a blood bender, knowing you have just enough left in the tank to make it over the brow, or the eye-watering thrill of the open road on a fast bike with the wind behind you. No one mentioned how sometimes it feels like the bike is part of you, an extension of your limbs, and sometimes, when the sodding chain pops off for the fourth time it feels like you’re locked in noble mortal combat. And most of all, no one told me about the giddy camaraderie of the peloton … even when your only goal is getting somewhere in time for lunch.

From the frankly dreadful fry-up on the ferry, feeling like bold adventurers among the dull hordes of motorists, to the commemorative cream cakes we ate on the steps of a bakery after our first, modest ascent (who knew they had hills in Flanders?), it was a joy from start to greedy finish, and not just because of the ready supply of hot crispy frites.

Two-wheeled travel offered other pleasures, too. Coming up close and personal with big-eyed cows, and stopping to gaze at hot-air balloons as they drifted across the vast Belgian skies. Rounding a corner to find an immaculately tended Great War graveyard, the endless rows of neat white gravestones causing us to fall silent for the next few kilometres and feel glad to discover, mooching around a market the next morning, that life in Ypres hadn’t stopped in 1918. Scoffing cider and cake in an orchard outside Bruges, and making friends with an enormous slavering Bernese mountain dog as the owner lectured us on the folly of the British attitude to Europe (yes, even in 2014, that pot was already coming to the boil). Racing each other through the flat, gravelled trails of the Ardennes forest, and wandering, slightly bow-legged, through a misty Ghent at dusk, high on life after getting my tyres trapped in some tram tracks. Posing for photos by the sign to Asse, pointing saucily at our padded bottoms like Benny Hill’s backing band, as a couple of bemused locals clicked the shutter. And falling asleep in full gear on the Eurostar home with a tiny bottle of wine and a lingering sadness that it was over – and suddenly, I was a Cyclist.

Like all new cyclists, I celebrated by buying loads of kit – stupid clicky shoes that made me walk like a duck, and technical fleece-lined leggings entirely de trop for expeditions around Home Counties pubs, or the trip to Brighton where I made the mistake of eating fish and chips just before tackling Ditchling Beacon. I did a couple of 100-mile sportives, fuelled almost entirely by malt loaf, a glorious four days eating crêpes and drinking cider from teapots in Brittany – and then, summer 2017, came that ride down to the Mediterranean, the biggest and greediest yet, when I finally realised my destiny lay in pedalling round France, eating stuff.






Of course, cycling is a pleasure in itself – as an adult, there’s little as thrilling as freewheeling downhill, wind deafening in your ears, eyes streaming, mouth open in a silent scream of pure joy – but for me at least, there’s as much pleasure in a pint and a pie afterwards, to say nothing of the snacks en route. I firmly maintain that any ride over an hour and a half requires emergency rations; what are you supposed to put in all those pockets if not chocolate and a hip flask? Someone else will always have tyre levers, but not everyone, sad to say, knows the restorative powers of Cadbury’s Wholenut.

Yet, spindly though the pros may be, cycling has always been a peculiarly epicurean pursuit. In the early days of the Tour de France, one wealthy competitor had his butler lay out lavish picnics by the side of the road, while Henri Cornet, winner of the second race in 1904, apparently achieved victory on daily rations that included a staggering 11 litres of hot chocolate, 4 litres of tea and 1.5 kilos of rice pudding. Bernard Hinault, who triumphed five times in the late Seventies and Eighties, glugged champagne on the last climb of the day, while the equally great Eddy Merckx refuelled with patisserie, on the basis that ‘It’s not the pastries that hurt, it’s the climbs’ (it is this quote that later moves me to name my beloved new bike after the great man).

Even in the 1990s, Dutch pro Tristan Hoffman recalls a fellow rider starting the day with that breakfast of champions, two Mars Bars and a litre of Coke. Now, of course, nutrition is taken much more seriously, which is why you no longer get brilliant stories like that of Abdel-Kader Zaaf, who is claimed (slightly dubiously) to have got so inadvertently drunk on wine offered by generous spectators on the blisteringly hot 1951 Tour that he passed out underneath a tree.

Modern pro teams travel with their own chef, whose job it is to keep the supply of low-salt, high-protein, easily digestible food and drink coming: as Sean Fowler of Cannondale-Drapac delicately put it in a 2017 interview, ‘intestinal stress’ is less than ideal in a tour situation. That means rice rather than glutinous pasta, lots of fish and white meat, and definitely no salty ingredients that might lead to water retention. Understandably, no one wants to carry a single extra ounce up an Alp.

Sickly energy gels and bars are handed out to riders en route, along with rice cakes, fizzy drinks (‘for a bit of pleasure’) and the odd ham sandwich, if they’re lucky. On particularly tough stages, however, competitors struggle to find the time to swallow all the calories they need and still keep up with the race – ‘You kind of have to force it down,’ according to current pro Joe Dombrowski. I literally cannot imagine burning 7,000kcal in a day, and not stopping for a bar of Milka. In fact, so much wasted opportunity for sugar makes me feel a little bit weepy.

As a result, I never watch the Tour on TV without a large box of chocolates; though I’m no sports fan, it has a nostalgic pull for me. The occasionally excitable, generally soporific commentary was the soundtrack to the summer holidays of my childhood, turned up loud in the campsite bar to compete with the thwack of plastic on rubber and the squealing ruckus around the babyfoot table. Those endless afternoons eating Mr Freeze lollies and waiting for a turn at ping-pong have left me with a lifelong weakness for men in Lycra and cycling’s most famous race.

The glorious backdrops are a part of it, of course: no one who spent every childhood summer somewhere in l’hexagone can be entirely immune to the attractions of a neat Norman village flashing by at speed, or indeed one of those endless straight routes départementales flanked with poplars and enormous billboards for thrillingly large hypermarchés ‘à gauche au feu’. I see France zip past behind the riders, and my heart aches for it – for the landscapes and people, the Orangina and bad pop music, and most of all, for its glorious, glorious food.






My tour will be in less of a hurry than the actual race – bad for the digestion, and if I’m going to do this properly, there will be a lot of digesting on the menu. When I sit down and try to make a list of my 21 favourite French foods (to match the number of stages in the real Tour), not only is it hard to whittle them down, but those that make the cut come from almost every corner of the country, with the exception of the far Nord, which, despite an admirable facility with the deep-fat fryer, did not particularly wow me with its cuisine on my previous visit.

And whereas a list of my most treasured British dishes would skew heavily towards stodge, this lot, though a little low on salad, is pleasingly varied: (almost*) anything we can do, France does better. They’ve even beaten us on our specialist subject, the spud – I like a baked potato as much as the next noted gourmand, but I think we can all agree that Alpine tartiflette takes it to the next level. (Mostly by adding more cheese.)






The dog and I make a trip to Stanfords in Covent Garden, home of every map under the sun, and pick up a massive road atlas that seems to list every hamlet and track I might possibly wish to traverse, as well as a map of national bike routes, which, it quickly becomes clear, will be of almost no use to me whatsoever. These purchases give me the pleasing sense, as I spread the map out on the floor at home and try to stop Wilf trampling muddy paws across the Bay of Biscay, of embarking on an expedition. They also make terrifyingly clear how large France is.

Taking a deep breath, I open the atlas. Dodging Calais and its horse-fat frites, it makes sense to start off with moules in Normandy, then curve round the coast to Brittany, which does such good crêpes and butter and, even better, crêpes with butter. From the wind-swept Atlantic coast I’ll start to head south, first to the Loire Valley, home of the tarte Tatin, as well as all those famous chateaux everyone goes on about, then down to Limousin to coo over some of its famous cattle, before zipping through Bordeaux towards the Spanish border and Bayonne, the French capital of chocolate.

Having run out of France to the south, and skirting a furry tail currently draped over the Pyrenees, my route turns east for poule au pot, and the cassoulet country of the Languedoc, before hitting the Côte d’Azur, with its rust-red fish soups and deliciously oily ratatouille. Tempting as it is to head for Provence proper at this point, that herb-scented heaven-on-earth where I spent every rosé-soaked summer of my twenties, I fear I’d never tear myself away in mid-June and I cannot ignore the siren call of tartiflette from my second-favourite place in France, the Haute Savoie. I wish I could say that it’s the thrill of the physical challenge that attracts me to the mountains, but it isn’t, it’s the cheese.

From there, the map suggests I’m quite close (i.e. a-whole-day-on-a-train close, due to aforementioned size of country) to Lyon, often touted as the culinary capital of France. Though I’ve only driven past it, my reading suggests it specialises in an extraordinary array of animal parts, and oddly, one of France’s best salads, the lyonnaise, with its bitter leaves dressed with salty bacon fat and rich, runny egg yolk.

The logical next stop on my way north is Burgundy, for all sorts of things cooked in its perfect wine, but particularly beef, sticky, soft and intensely savoury, and then, looking at the route I’ve traced thus far, which flirts with the Spanish, Italian and Swiss borders, it feels like a dereliction of duty not to go and make eyes at the Germans in Strasbourg, too.

It’s a long way to go for some fermented cabbage and faggots, and yet I have a lot of time for fermented things and sausages, especially washed down with cold beer. Also, I note with satisfaction that this puts me in the ideal place to knock off a wobbly quiche Lorraine in Lorraine, and the fluffy little madeleines that occupy such a central place in the national psyche, before making a triumphant entry into Paris via Champagne, which may or may not have invented French onion soup (and God, who doesn’t love French onion soup, all cheesy and oozy and glorious?), but which does, happily, have an awful lot of fizzy wine going for it.

Paris, of course, like any cosmopolitan capital city, is a place where you can eat yourself around the globe, but my ambitions are more modest. I’m hoping, as a crescendo of my trip, to achieve croissant nirvana in the city of light. Certainly, I’ll have eaten enough of the things by then to judge what’s good and what’s not – I’m intending to put away at least one a day, barring any more interesting offers.




PAUSE-CAFÉ – The Croissant Rating System







Pay attention, because you’re going to be seeing a lot more of this. I started rating croissants on the coast-to-coast trip of 2017, for no better reason than they’re reliably found throughout France, I enjoy over-thinking food and most importantly I like them. The perfect croissant is, of course, entirely a matter of taste – professional pâtissières put a lot of store by the lamination of the dough, or how skilfully the pastry and butter have been folded together to create hundreds of distinct layers: according to one equation I find online, the average croissant has 649. Me, I’m less concerned with looks; some of the most disappointing pastries I’ve eaten in London are the ones flaunting their perfect strata of dough all over social media, but which turn out to have very little in the way of flavour. What I look for in a good croissant is:



1 butteriness (no margarine-based croissants for me)

2 a good balance of caramelised sweetness and bready savoury notes

3 a crisp base

4 a slightly damp middle – squidgy but not doughy


In the text that follows, all scores are out of 10: 1–4 denotes a poor croissant not even worth finishing (a croissant contains about 260kcal); 5–7 as a mediocre-to-decent example not worth complaining about and 8+ as a good croissant worth repeating immediately if time permits.

It’s a satisfyingly neat loop around the country, but one, I note, that covers an awful lot of ground. A cursory google turns up the terrifying fact that France is the largest country in Western Europe, a whopping 27 times the size of Wales. Distances are vast – it looks like it might take me at least three days to cycle across Brittany alone.

Unfortunately, I have a day job as a weekly columnist, and a mortgage to pay, to say nothing of a terrier with a truly prodigious appetite; I can’t afford to dawdle around this place like a tourist – I need to be a Tourist. So like the boys in Lycra,† I’ll need the odd lift. Until quite recently I’d assumed the Tour de France actually rode around France, but they don’t; they get on team coaches and doze their way to the next starting line. Me, I’m going to let the train take the strain.

To add to the fun, I’ve hit a summer of rail strikes: two days out of every seven are to be given over to industrial action in a dispute over President Macron’s attempts to open the passenger network up to competition. On the plus side, the dates have been announced in advance. On the minus side, the actual services affected won’t be decided until the night before, which makes the whole thing a bit of a Russian roulette.




PAUSE-CAFÉ – Cycle Touring: A Bluffer’s Guide







If the reactions of my friends and family are anything to go by, anyone who hasn’t ridden a bike since childhood finds the idea of weeks doing nothing but this a bit daunting. In fact, as I always breezily explain, cycling is much easier than running, especially when your feet are actually stuck to the bike. Once you’ve got going, momentum will keep your legs spinning round with surprisingly little effort on your part, and on good roads with a forgiving gradient, you can cover a decent distance without much expertise: it’s not for nothing that 100 miles is said to be the cycling equivalent of running a marathon, though having done both (preens), I can confirm a marathon is a lot more unpleasant.

Cyclists tend to measure distances in kilometres rather than miles, just like they tend to drink espressos rather than tea, and call their silly hats casquettes rather than caps. It’s Rule 24 in the Velominati handbook (the Velominati being a half-jokey online cult to the two-wheeled god) and one of the few that I obey, mostly because 50km sounds a lot more impressive than 31 miles (though they’re also right that all shorts should be black – ‘wet, dirty white Lycra is basically transparent; enough said on that matter’).

I’ve found that, when riding all day, it’s reasonable to cover between 70 and 150km depending on the terrain, weather and how much of interest is along the way, with an average speed of about 15km/h. That said, not everyone falls easily into sitting in the saddle for six hours on the trot, so 50–70km feels like a more manageable distance with company desirous of a nice holiday rather than a wholesale reconfiguration of their nether regions.

My recommendation for anyone thinking of embarking on anything similar for the first time is to make sure you have a bike that’s both light and sturdy: dedicated touring bikes will never be as featherlight as racers, but you can stick a rack on most things, and if you’re staying on tarmac, a robust road bike has always been my choice.

Other things you’ll need, apart from all the obvious stuff you’d take on holiday if you had to carry it round with you:

Panniers and rack. A bar or frame bag is also useful for your wallet, etc., though I like to keep my phone attached to my handlebars to help with navigation/show those all-important Instagram alerts on the go.

Basic toolkit: inner tube, patches, pump, multitool, tyre levers, chain lube. France in particular is well supplied with bike shops; if you’re going somewhere that isn’t, you might want to consider spare brake pads, etc.

Padded shorts and gloves: trust me, you won’t regret these if you’re doing more than a day in the saddle.

Decent lights – naive urban cyclists (me) may be startled at how dark it is on country roads.

Water bottles – I took two and ran out several times. Get big ones.

Chunky but not too heavy bike lock.

Portable phone charger – or actual maps, given that’s mostly what you’ll be using it for.

Tent, sleeping bag, rollmat (only if planning to camp, obviously).

Wet wipes. They hide a multitude of bike-oil-based sins.

Trains or not, it’s still a daunting prospect as I gaze at the little map, stuck with flags like a ham studded with cloves. Yet just the names involved make my heart leap, bringing back happy memories of summers past and journeys taken, squashed sandwiches scoffed on ski lifts and arguments in the hot, sticky back seat of a Vauxhall Cavalier.

These places might sound familiar, but I know they’ll look different from a bike. A cyclist’s pace is swift enough to make satisfying progress, yet slow enough to enjoy it, to notice the landscape changing before and, of course, under the tyres – it’s hard to get a sense of the terrain when it’s flashing past you in the car, or on the train, but when you’re forced to really feel it in your legs, it’s hard to ignore. Places seem to stamp themselves on your consciousness with startling firmness, as Graham Robb writes in his book The Discovery of France, which is to be my only constant companion, despite his admission that it’s ‘too large to justify its inclusion in the panniers’ (yep, thanks, Graham, I noticed): ‘A bicycle unrolls a 360-degree panorama of the land, allows the rider to register its gradual changes in gear ratios and muscle tension, and makes it hard to miss a single inch of it, from the tyre-lacerating suburbs of Paris to the Mistral-blasted plains of Provence.’

A cyclist can embrace the leisurely passage of time on the smaller roads, weaving as they do through hamlets on the way to nowhere, past tumbledown chateaux and fields of somnambulant cattle, and then stop for refreshments in a prosperous little town, watching the world go by at some bustling café in the soothing company of small dogs.

A bike also, of course, offers a unique opportunity to plod miserably through Zone Industrielles in the rain, and dodge lorries on a road that turns out to be bigger and scarier than Google Maps is prepared to admit, to say nothing of the ever-present and exciting possibility of eating lunch outside a Total garage because nowhere else will let you in dressed like that. They’re pretty good at both highs and lows, bikes, and that’s what makes them fun. I can’t wait.

Robb describes the actual Tour de France as ‘a joyful beating of the bounds that millions of people with no interest in sport still enjoy every summer’. Mine feels rather like that, too: a way to see how the country fits together, how the Wild West of craggy Atlantic granite and wide ocean beaches becomes the south-west of duck fat and complicated Basque consonants, to get a feeling for the state of regional French cooking, so long lauded around the world, yet as vulnerable to the very 21st-century pressures of time and convenience as anywhere else.

Is it still possible, I wonder, to find roadside places full of what the redoubtable Fanny Cradock described as ‘heavily tattooed, burly camion drivers … where the soap is attached to a string in the communal loo and the tablecloths may be of paper, but where an excellent five-course meal can be found for well under a pound’? Will I eat better in France than I would at home, and come back two stone heavier, with incipient scurvy?






My tour will have several, not insignificant diversions from its more famous namesake. For a start, as described above in luxuriant detail, my route is going to be based solely around the greatest hits of French cuisine, rather than its landscapes and local politics. Secondly, though there will be a rag-tag peloton for the most scenic bits, I’ll be mostly on my own, as it seems most of my friends, very inconsiderately, have proper jobs that preclude going away for five weeks. Thirdly, I’m going to have to lug everything with me, including a tent and sleeping bag, to leave me more to spend on food (pro teams sleep in hotels where they don’t even carry their bags upstairs themselves). And lastly … I’m a 35-year-old food writer who spends most of her working week testing recipes – and when I say testing, I mean eating them all up and licking the plate while the dog looks on with jealous eyes. Tour riders start off with about 4–5 per cent body fat. I suspect mine, though mercilessly unmeasured, is more akin to a pot of clotted cream.

The problem with this last point, of course, is that it means my power-to-weight ratio – that most vital of statistics in modern sport – is sub-optimal. I’m going to be hauling a lot of unnecessary baggage round France, which is unfortunate when, according to British Cycling, ‘one of the best ways to get quicker on the bike, especially on hills, is to drop a few pounds’. I have a go, I really do, but there’s the small matter of six weeks’ worth of recipes to write and perfect before I go, and eventually I concede defeat, which is unfortunate, because the rather chi-chi cycling outfitters Café du Cycliste, based in Nice but with a smart little shop in East London, are kind enough to step in at the last minute with the offer of some gear. I’m not quite sure that I’m exactly the clothes horse they had in mind to sport the two elegant outfits they’ve picked out. ‘Does … does this come in large?’ I ask tentatively, stepping from the changing room in something so skintight you’d be able to count my ribs if they hadn’t disappeared some time in the late 1980s.

More pressingly, I don’t have a proper bike. My last true love was trashed by couriers on the way back from Marseille last summer and my first reserve, the Pashley, which weighs over 20kg even without a dog on board, is clearly not up to the task. I seek expert advice from friends like Rich, who’s into long, long rides and recommends various bikes that are eminently practical and reasonably priced, Jon, who’s into spending money on really sexy-looking bikes, and Max, who’s into cycling up mountains with the minimum of kit, and then I ignore it all in favour of one that makes my heart flutter when I look at it, and my accountant weep, despite my parents’ generous contribution in lieu of all future Christmas and birthday gifts.

Eddy (named for the pastry-loving Merckx) is a steel-framed (more flexible than aluminium on bumpy terrain, less risky than the pricy but delicate carbon frames used by the pros) Condor touring bike in Paris Green, a colour which feels auspicious. I spend an expensive afternoon in a basement on the Grays Inn Road being measured up (‘your arms are … really long’) and then a nervous month praying he will be ready in time for the off after discovering belatedly that delivery is scheduled for around the time I should be in the Loire Valley.

Fortunately, after I look ready to burst into tears in front of other customers, they manage to hurry things along and he arrives a week before the off, a thing of rare and lustrous beauty, though unfortunately I’m so hungover after a work party the night before that I fail to listen when they explain technical points about how to trim the chain, on the basis I have no idea what this means and am in no state to learn. Instead, I have a vivid flashback to telling a completely sober Nigel Slater that I loved him, over and over, and clench my fists around the handlebars in hot shame.






So I’ve got the bike and the kit and the rudimentary vocab, having enrolled in a panic cramming course at the French Institute in South Kensington and ploughed my way through various Inspector Maigret mysteries instead of packing. This at least means I’ll be able to discuss murder weapons with confidence on my journey, if required.

Yet such is the rush before I go that I don’t quite make time to check if all my gear will fit in my new bright yellow panniers. Sitting in the corner of the bedroom gathering dust, they look vast in comparison with the one I’ve used previously, yet I have a sneaking suspicion that once I’ve included important morale-boosting items like Marmite and sloe gin, there might not be an awful lot of room for luxuries like spare inner tubes and plasters.

Naturally, instead of dealing with the problem, I insist on throwing a Royal Wedding Party for the nuptials of Harry and Meghan, to the evident dismay of my friends, who nevertheless come and support me, because that’s what friends do. Gemma even brings me a tiny bottle of Echo Falls rosé to stick in my panniers.

‘I’m really looking forward to it,’ says Matt, who is accompanying me for the first few days and claims he’s ‘all sorted’, as the three of us – the last survivors of the Happy Event – sit outside the pub at dusk, drinking snakebite and black (it seemed funny when I ordered them).

I giddily watch the dog begging for crisps on the other side of the bar, and vaguely wonder who he belongs to. ‘Yeah, me too,’ I say. ‘Do you think I should go home and pack?’

* (#ulink_a1028f49-7d9e-5976-b02b-38fe582d2312) With the exception of breakfast, picnic food and cakes, all of which I reckon the UK has the edge on.

† (#ulink_501f4fc9-1034-544f-a0bf-78f95267b0eb) Don’t get me started on the iniquities of the Women’s Tour.











STAGE 1

The Grand Départ, London to Cherbourg (#u90f5a66f-df1b-54dc-9eb7-cab0c4582dda)










Douillons aux Poires – or Pears in Pyjamas


The Norman equivalent of an apple turnover but with a much cooler name. Considered rather homely fare, you won’t see them on many restaurant menus, but you may well find them in boulangeries. They’re best eaten warm from the oven, with a big dollop of crème fraîche.

It’s 3 a.m., and things are not going according to plan. Instead of the sound night’s sleep I’d been planning, perhaps after a couple (definitely just a couple) of farewell drinks with friends, I’m sitting glumly on a pile of new Lycra, chilled fizz unopened in the fridge, the bin overflowing with packaging, struggling to keep my eyes open and wondering if I should just open the Echo Falls and be done with it. An old friend who offers to pop in on her way home from a night out to say goodbye ‘if you’re still awake!’ gets a couple of paces through the door, regards the chaos before her with visible alarm and declines my kind offer to stay and chat – ‘you look like you’re a bit busy’.

Frankly, I don’t know how I do it, let alone find the time to post a jaunty photo of my almost-empty fridge on Instagram (‘I hope those ferments don’t explode,’ someone comments, once it’s far too late to be helpful) and send friends a mad-eyed selfie wearing my ridiculous new sardine-patterned cap … but somehow I get a couple of hours’ kip before getting up to check yet again that I have the essentials, like a salami knife and a pot of pink nail varnish, and enjoy a final, vast cup of tea.

It’s a solemn moment. I start every day with a mug of English Breakfast, the colour of damp – but not wet, not even soggy – sand, made with boiling water and fresh milk, which definitely rules out anything from the train catering trolley, let alone any prettily tinted tisanes the French might serve under the name of thé. This will be my last cuppa until July, and let me tell you, it’s emotional. Though to be honest, that could also be the exhaustion setting in.

Pushing past Eddy waiting patiently in the hall, I go to meet a friend and her baby who’ve come to wave me off – and, listening to the gory details of the birth, feel relieved to be able to spend a few minutes revelling in someone else’s suffering instead of my own. I’d planned to have a symbolic full English, but in the end, thinking of what’s to come, I wimp out and go for avocado on toast with a feral-tasting kombucha on the side as a final taste of Islington.

Back home, while Hen changes Gabriel on the sitting-room floor (there’s about as much dignity in being a baby as a long-distance cyclist, it seems), I change my own clothes from those appropriate for breakfast with a friend to those needed to ride a Grand Tour – or at least the 4.73km I’ll be covering on the way to Waterloo. To their credit, neither of them laugh when I emerge.

Sweetly, Hen obligingly takes several photos of me standing proudly with my unwieldy steed outside the house as passers-by gawp, trying her hardest to find a good angle for a food writer clad entirely in Lycra, and then I can delay no longer – it’s time to leave. Eddy and I wobble unsteadily out of the gate and down the kerb, I manage a half-wave and smile for the camera, and ride straight into the back of a stationary double-decker bus – thankfully at very low speed, denting nothing but what little is left of my pride.

After peeling myself off an advert for an evangelical concert in Leytonstone, I discover, within two turns of the pedals, that my shiny new yellow panniers are on wrong. As I said, I didn’t have much time to prepare, what with asking the dog if he was going to miss me 63 times and spending 13 minutes staring vacantly at socks in the wee small hours. Luggage situation sorted and finally over-taking Hen and the pram, I race across town – a familiar journey fraught with new significance. I become obsessed by the idea that I’m going to have an accident of some sort before I even leave London (it’s not beyond the realms of possibility dressed like this; at least two vans make an attempt on my life on the Farringdon Road), so it’s with some relief that I finally unclip my feet in SE1 and click-click my way into the scrum within to pick up the train tickets.

Here I encounter a new problem. I haven’t had the chance or indeed inclination to ride Eddy fully laden before, and the vastly uneven distribution of weight means I’m destined to spend the next five weeks battling his desperate desire to plunge to the floor at every given opportunity. Waterloo station on a Friday afternoon is not, I discover, the ideal location to kick off this particular fight.

Tickets safely stuck in my back pouch, I locate Matt, a university friend and a veteran of that fateful first Brussels trip. He’s recently been working so hard doing something mysterious for the Civil Service that he hasn’t had much of a chance to get on a bike full stop, though I have in my possession a text claiming he’s been to a spinning class that ‘nearly killed me’. In the circumstances, it’s kind of him to offer to accompany me on the Grande Départ, and cheering to find someone who looks more nervous than me. I perk up immediately.

We’d both talked the talk about bringing a proper British picnic for the train, but clearly this hasn’t happened thanks to a mutual lack of organisation, so, once the bikes are installed by the inevitable foul-smelling lavatory, and we’ve found seats a safe distance away, we make do with wistful chat about Fortnum’s Scotch eggs and how to make a perfect cheese and pickle sandwich instead (mature Cheddar, sliced rather than grated, Branston, no salad). Once I’ve exhausted him on chutneys, Matt is keen to know my plans and I’m equally keen to divert attention away from the glaring lack of them, so the journey proves a polite clash of wills, broken only by the first sight of the sea.

Pushing through the Bank Holiday crowds at Portsmouth Harbour, we climb gingerly onto our bikes for the last leg on home soil, pedalling past the defeated-looking Victory Shopping Centre on a classic British cycle lane that terminates abruptly in the middle of a junction. How I’ll miss these soon, I think nostalgically as an ancient Toyota Yaris lurches across my path without indicating.

I soon get my revenge as we sail past it at the ferry terminal, and straight into the usual lines of idling cars, the occupants sitting on the tarmac in their folding chairs, gawping at each new arrival like paparazzi at the world’s worst film premiere. We attract particular attention; I’d like to think it’s because we look so dashing, but they might well just be rubbernecking at my Lycra (Matt, meanwhile, is dressed like a normal person).

Having breezed through the ticket gates with the kind of cheer that a pair of rogue cyclists in a queue of cars often seem to be met with, my heart sinks as we approach the customs post. I have never managed to make it past one of these on two wheels without being pulled in for checking, less (I think) because of my shifty demeanour and more because it’s considerably quicker and easier to search a pushbike than a four-by-four with an Alsatian in the back. As the finger of suspicion inevitably beckons us over, I remember the trusty salami slicer stashed somewhere behind me – though it’s a modest blade of the sort you’ll find in the window of newsagents all over France, often along with child-sized versions labelled ‘my first knife’, I have a nasty feeling these chaps won’t appreciate how essential it is to a decent picnic.

‘I’ll take the gentleman’s right pannier, and your left one,’ the officer says, once we’ve finally managed to prop the ungainly bikes upright against their corrugated lair. I frantically try to remember which pannier contains the offending item, but they both look identical until I hoist the left one onto the conveyor belt for scanning and hear the clink of tent poles within. Of course it’s in this one – I try to look nonchalant, but it’s with a sinking sense of inevitability that I obediently pull out the catering bag containing Marmite, Tabasco and my lovely Opinel for inspection.

The man in charge goes from bored to outraged in under 10 seconds, even as I point out – quite calmly, I think – that it’s a steak knife. ‘There’s no way that’s for cutting meat,’ he counters, staring at the tiny blade as if examining it for incriminating marks. Before I can testily reply that in that case it’s probably quite safe, I’m saved from myself by Matt, a man never known to lose his temper, who gently points out the name of an Alpine restaurant carved onto the wooden handle. The guard, perhaps a vegetarian, is unimpressed (though, as I decide not to point out, it’s in the Michelin Guide and everything). Just as my bottom lip begins to tremble embarrassingly, he calls his supervisor. ‘Oi, mate, over here a second.’

The boss appraises the situation with a cursory glance.

‘Look behind you,’ he tells me. ‘What’s in there?’

I turn to see a Perspex box a little over half full of vicious-looking flick knives and something that appears to be a large cutlass.

‘Offensive weapons?’ I suggest tentatively.

‘THEY’RE THE SAME,’ he says firmly. (They’re totally not.)

It seems because my little knife has a locking function (useful with a crag of Alpine cheese, or a well-matured saucisson), it’s illegal under UK law – but possibly because I’m at serious risk of Making a Scene, and seem unlikely to stab anyone but customs officials, I’m eventually allowed to keep it on the strict basis that I never attempt to travel with it again. As the homeward leg seems laughably far off, I make the promise in good faith and we’re allowed to pedal off with picnic kit intact. Matt swears blind he hears one of them mutter that it was more trouble than it was worth to fill in the confiscation paperwork, but I prefer to believe that I just don’t look like the kind of girl to go on the rampage with a steak knife. (In Paris, five weeks later, this same knife is waved through by security guards at the Musée d’Orsay, who presumably realise any civilised person likes picnics too much to want to slash Manet’s Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe.)

After this drama, I accept the official prohibition on cycling onto the ferry itself without a murmur, so my final, anticlimactic contact with British soil comes while battling to keep Eddy upright as I wheel him onto the ramp, his generous rear end trying desperately to remain in Hampshire as I steer him onwards to adventure. Lashed to a large pipe on the back of the ship, perfectly positioned to catch the salty swell over the stern, I quietly forget Condor’s advice about never letting him get wet in favour of skipping up the stairs to find the restaurant.

In the absence of any pork pies, I’ve been distracting Matt with titbits about Brittany Ferries catering, lovingly detailing the glorious buffet of hors d’oeuvres awaiting us on board, plates groaning with prawns and smoked trout, Russian salad and devilled eggs, and as much baguette and Breton butter as you can fill your boots with. After ranging the length of the Normandie Express, dodging excited children and clicking up and down stairs in shoes already beginning to annoy me, I’m forced to concede that this particular vessel boasts little more than a bar – so as the engine finally grinds to life, and Portsmouth’s Spinnaker Tower recedes into the distance, we head out on deck to raise a bottle of ‘Gourmandie’ cider (see what they did there? I didn’t, until Matt pointed out) to the success of the expedition instead.

Once on the open sea, having realised Matt knows an awful lot about the Royal Navy and its various aircraft carriers for a man who allegedly works in another department entirely (definite spy), the cider and the excitement soon catch up with me, and I spend much of the rest of the voyage passed out in a reclining chair, waking up only once when my companion brings a microwaved boeuf bourguignon back from the café, and then, apparently only seconds later, finding myself staring at the foggy harbour walls of Cherbourg in puzzled stupefaction.

‘Why does it say port militaire in English?’ I ask Matt, discreetly wiping the dribble from my cheek.

‘I think you may need a coffee,’ comes the polite reply.

If cycling onto a ferry is a joy, disembarking is the reverse: there’s nothing like a boatful of Brits eager to get to their chateaux in the Dordogne to put the wind up you when you’re not quite sure which side of the road to choose. Special as we may have felt among the cars in Portsmouth, turns out we aren’t the only cyclists to have made the crossing, just the tardiest, and as we wait in line for passport control we discreetly size each other up. Only one woman has more luggage than me, and, sensing the chance for some friendly one-upmanship, I try to get close enough to ask her what she’s up to, but on seeing her American papers, the gendarme whisks her to one side to fill in various forms and we stream past, casually flapping our maroon passports. ‘Wonder what it’ll be like next summer,’ I hear a man behind me say.

The rumbles of continental geopolitics come a distant second to those of our stomachs, however; having not eaten more than a few peanuts since that avo toast back in King’s Cross, I’m ravenously hungry – which is, of course, the very best way to arrive in France. After only a few angry honks, we lose the stream of ferry traffic to the autoroute and find ourselves in a prosperous-looking little port, the quayside thronged with people strolling in the evening sunshine, boats bobbing in the breeze. I check Eddy into the luxury of the hotel’s laundry room, where I suspect he’s gearing up to leak chain grease onto the stacks of clean sheets, hang up my Lycra ready for tomorrow (spoiler: this is the last time it will be thus honoured until my mum gets hold of it in the Alps), and go downstairs to find Matt already halfway through a bottle of La Cotentine Blanche, named after the Norman peninsula we’ll be tackling over the next few days.

First beer polished off at appropriately British speed, we repair next door to the Café de Paris, recommended as ‘a true seafood brasserie – invigorating!’ by the Michelin Guide. The dining room is full to bursting with tables of merry French eating seafood.

‘Well, this looks good!’ said Matt cheerfully as we’re led to the back of the dining room … and then up some curved stairs to an empty room decorated in the height of 1980s ferry chic, all pale pine and frosted lights and napkin fans on the tables.

‘Do you think this is where they put the British people?’ he whispers, his voice echoing around the space.

We laugh and order kirs (because one celebratory drink is never enough), and are halfway down them when another party is ushered in, men and women alike clad in faded chino shorts, pressed polo shirts and expensive waterproof sailing jackets. Before they even begin to speak, Matt winks. We are indeed in the Anglo-Saxon ghetto.

The food, happily, is pure French, and proves a distraction from their disappointingly dull boat-related conversation. Star of the show is a magnificent platter of fruits de mer bedecked with fat oysters and tiny crunchy little prawns barely bigger than Morecambe Bay shrimps, and just small enough to pop in whole in all their whiskery glory. Below sit bigger prawns, firm and salty-sweet, the best winkles I’ve ever had (too much information?) and a selection of curiously round clams I later discover are known as dog cockles in English, and more poetically in French as almonds of the sea. On the side, half a baguette and a bowl of piquant yellow mayonnaise.

The punchy Calvados sorbet that follows, melting into granular fruity sweetness on the tongue, is pure delight – the first in a long line of shots of local firewater masquerading as desserts that make me wonder why we don’t make more of the digestif tradition in the UK. I, for one, would certainly order a sloe gin slushy if I saw it on the menu.






Strong liquor it may be, but excited to be off at last, I spring eagerly from bed the next morning as the chilly light of morning brightens the eaves (happily ignorant of the fact that this will be the last such springing for several weeks) and pull at the curtains to reveal … a misty grey world of damp slate rooftops. Oh well, I think cheerfully, yanking on the Lycra, at least this will give me the chance to make a pretentious joke about the Parapluies de Cherbourg when I see Matt. Every cloud and all that.

Clearly, it’s important to start as I mean to go on, so, joke dispensed to only moderate acclaim, the second item on the day’s itinerary is to find a croissant. After politely rejecting the hotel breakfast, I don’t feel brave enough to solicit a recommendation from Madame, so we wander the backstreets in search of something, anything open. Cherbourg looks rather more down-at-heel than in the honeymoon glow of last night, though among the boarded-up businesses we do stumble upon a rather spectacular basilica: as one TripAdvisor review notes, ‘inside is calm and smells of history – so does the entrance that reeks of urine’.

Following an old lady with a large wicker shopping bag, we finally hit what passes for a jackpot in my world: a Saturday market full of spider crabs imprisoned in lobster pots, trays of cockles and mussels, wheels of cheese and a big terracotta dish of something with a burnt orange, wrinkly skin that I bookmark for further investigation once we’ve fulfilled a more immediate need.

Having located a boulangerie with an impressive display of patisserie, which often augers well for the general standard of baking, I secure the first croissant of the trip, along with a douillons aux poires – unseasonal in May, perhaps, but we are in Normandy, apple and pear country, famous for its cider-based sauces, often gilded with lashings of cream, and fruity patisserie. It’s also the home of the aforementioned apple brandy, christened for the region of the same name, which is so punchy the local apple crop was apparently requisitioned during the Great War to make explosives for armaments. (As I said, it’s good stuff.)

Once money has changed hands, I can finally draw breath and explain the art of the petit déjeuner to a slightly twitchy Matt. I will also share this wisdom – accrued through much trial and error, disappointment and pastry-based joy – with you, gentle reader, lest you find it helpful.




PAUSE-CAFÉ – Breakfast in France: A Beginner’s Guide







In general, the best breakfasts in France are bread based – yes, you might well enjoy a bowl of sun-warmed figs and sheep yoghurt at your villa in Provence, but just so you know, most people around you would regard this as an eccentric way to start the day. God gave us the boulangerie for a reason, and that reason is breakfast. (The sensible French householder also keeps a stock of pain grille, or toast crackers, which can be purchased in the biscuit aisle of supermarkets, to guard against the terrible eventuality of ever running out of bread.)

Baguette with butter and jam is a lovely thing, but on the move, it’s handier to go for something with the butter already baked in. I never deviate from the plain croissant, the apotheosis of the baker’s art, but you could also go with the child-friendly pain au chocolat, the sugary almond croissant (which, according to my friend Caroline, who worked for a spell in a Parisian bakery, is yesterday’s leftovers drenched in syrup and rebaked) or any number of regional specialities. Indeed, the benefit of cycling long distances is you can usually justify several items: I even have a Paris–Brest for breakfast one day, though I’m not sure I’d recommend it unless you want to feel slightly queasy for the first few kilometres.

If you’re in a hurry, or simply wish to take your bounty for a scenic picnic, then you may get lucky and find the boulangerie has a coffee machine as well. The coffee is usually mediocre (see here (#litres_trial_promo), Pause-Café – Coffee Break), but certainly no worse than the average British stuff, and this does cut out the next step, which is trying to find somewhere to provide the liquid element of proceedings. Note that in my experience, boulangeries in the south and east seem more clued into the coffee wheeze – I didn’t find many in Normandy or Brittany – and not all have milk.

If you want to sit down and enjoy your breakfast like a civilised person, then head straight to the nearest bar, which isn’t just a place to booze – though you are likely to see a surprising number of respectable-looking people sipping beers or glasses of pastis first thing – but a place to drink coffee, read the paper and catch up with friends. Kind of like a pub, if the British were made differently. (Because of this you won’t see many dedicated coffee shops in France, or at least I didn’t, though there’s the odd Starbucks in Paris.)

As long as they don’t serve breakfast themselves, it’s perfectly acceptable to sit down, order a coffee, and bring out the stuff you bought round the corner to enjoy with it: no need for snatching furtive bites under the table while the waiter’s back is turned, though you might want to take the empty bags with you, especially if you hope to repeat the experience tomorrow.

A suitable café is located, overlooking the market, and business concluded fairly satisfactorily, though the croissant itself proves a mere 7/10 – rather soft and bland by French standards. Still, brushing the crumbs from my lips and tucking the petite galette that accompanied my café crème in my pocket for later, it feels like a good start.




Douillons aux Poires, or Pears in Pyjamas


This buttery, lightly spiced Norman classic, which can be made with apples or pears, is usually served warm, rather than scoffed straight from the boulangerie bag as we did, and is lovely with a glass of sweet cider or perry.

Makes 6

6 small, hard pears

500ml cider or perry

100g sugar

1 egg, beaten

Crème fraîche, to serve

For the pastry (or use 500g bought puff)

250g plain flour, plus a little extra to roll out

¼ tsp fine salt

85g caster sugar

150g well-chilled butter



1 Put the flour, salt and sugar into a mixing bowl and grate the butter into it. Stir with a table knife to coat the butter, then drizzle over 2 tablespoons of cold water and keep stirring, gradually adding more (probably about 3 tablespoons more) until it starts to come together. At this point you can use your hands. Wrap and chill for at least 30 minutes.

2 Meanwhile, peel the pears and core from the bottom, leaving the stalks on. Bring 500ml of water, the cider or perry and sugar to the boil in a pan just large enough to hold all the pears, then add the fruit. Poach until just tender, but not soft; how long will depend on the ripeness of your pears. Drain and dry well with kitchen paper.

3 Preheat the oven to 200°C/180°C fan/gas 6. Roll the pastry out on a lightly floured surface to about 3mm thick. Cut into thick strips, long enough to wrap round the base of each pear, then roll up to encase it, leaving the stalk sticking out at the top. Pinch together with damp fingers to seal. Brush with beaten egg.

4 Bake for about 35–40 minutes, until deep golden. Serve warm, with crème fraîche.









Km: 7.3





STAGE 2

Cherbourg to Avranches (#litres_trial_promo)










Moules Marinières


Moules marinières is not an exclusively Norman dish – you’ll find it all over northern France and Belgium – but Normandy has been exporting mussels to the discerning diners of Paris since at least the 16th century, so they probably know what they’re doing by now.

Aptly, the first 30 minutes of my epic journey are in the wrong direction. A route that looked simple on the map proves easily lost once the signs, so assiduous for the first couple of kilometres through central Cherbourg, stop abruptly, as if the person responsible knocked off for lunch and never came back. All options are thrillingly open as we circumnavigate a busy roundabout searching in vain for clues, eventually ending up in a grim retail park inadvertently following signs for Oncle Scott’s ‘1er restaurant franco-américain aux ambiances country de la longue liste des restaurants en France’ rather than Bricquebec, the town I’ve earmarked for lunch.

My falsely breezy claim that getting out of cities is always the worst part of any ride doesn’t make either of us feel any better, especially after a promising-looking cycle path down the side of a fast dual carriageway is belatedly revealed to be a works entrance when several pieces of heavy machinery overtake us at speed, horns blaring. Thank God, then, for the kind fellow cyclist who, seeing my face contorted with rage over my phone, stops and points us in the right direction: through a housing estate and a dark, dank tunnel under the road, from which we emerge, blinking, into the countryside.

And what countryside! Normandy has turned on a full charm offensive, as if in a belated attempt to erase this morning’s carwashes and tile showrooms from our minds – we pedal past sleepy cottages with chickens pecking away placidly in their shadow, through banks of tall rhododendrons in full flower and, very soon, behind iron railings and a placid lake, hit the bullseye: a real-life chateau, all pointy turrets and grim stone. I insist on stopping to get a picture, and promptly fall off my bike, as I yet again fail to remember that I have 25kg strapped onto the back wheel.

It’s all bucolic as hell: Normandy is a soft, lush landscape of culinary riches – salt-marsh lamb, seafood, dairy, and dry cider. In fact, in terms of raw ingredients, it’s not a million miles away from the milder regions of our own South-West. More than one source I consult mentions the ‘gargantuan appetites’ of the heartily sized locals, which may be attributing too long a reach to Vikings who settled here in the 10th century, but if I lived in this land of Camembert and Calvados, I’d probably blame my corpulence on genetics, too.

The sun finally comes out as we bowl along hedge-fringed country lanes, attracting barking dogs to their gates like Pied Pipers with pockets full of sausages. I’m particularly taken with one tiny Yorkshire terrier whose warning sign declares it to be ‘en psychoanalyse’. At one o’clock precisely, we hit Bricquebec, a prosperous town with a 12th-century castle that feels like it ought to be full of restaurants, but oddly enough isn’t, with the exception of a forbidding medieval cellar with definite pretensions to grandeur that don’t quite feel appropriate to our clothing or general odour. Mindful of the five weeks of dining out ahead of me, I push for a picnic, but Matt is a man who likes to eat properly, and he tells me so, albeit in such incredibly diplomatic language that it takes me a while to get the hint.

Needless to say, he wins and we end up at a bar that sells pizzas and smells promisingly of toasting Emmental. Thin and crisp, they come laden with unapologetically French toppings. I choose one with Camembert, potatoes, smoked ham and cream, which arrives with a glossy egg yolk goggling at me from the centre. Throw in a cold Orangina and a big bottle of Badoit, and the disastrous start is all but forgotten.

To Matt’s considerable relief, given the strength of the sun and the fact that he’s packed so light he hasn’t even brought suncream, the route climbs on to an old railway line after lunch – ‘They’re always flat!’ – and shepherds us in shaded comfort almost all the way to the coast, with just a brief break for a drink in Saint-Saveur-le-Vicomte. I say a drink – Matt appears from the bakery with the requested Perrier, plus a surprise box of cakes: lemon for him, rhubarb for me, both crammed into our mouths standing up as if we’d just climbed Mont Ventoux rather than slow-pedalled 25km across a pancake.

We’re staying in a chambre d’hôte this evening; the French equivalent of a bed and breakfast, in the tiny marshy village of Saint-Germain-sur-Ay. Unfortunately, neither of us has even a whisper of signal out here, and though I insist it’s likely to be signed, it really isn’t, forcing me to duck into the only shop in sight to ask for help. The place is totally empty apart from a startled child stacking shelves who points mutely through a doorway to the village pub. At the bar, nursing drinks, sit the international standard measure of grumpy old men.

They perk up as I explain our situation, arguing among themselves as to where this place could be, until one of them has the bright idea that I can come and stay with him instead, a suggestion that makes the rest of them laugh so hard they can’t speak. The landlord takes advantage of the brief wheezy silence to tell me it’s the second right, out over the salt marshes, down a road which we later discover spends much of its time underwater. I make a hasty exit, thanking them all for their kindness over my shoulder.

It feels a bit like we’re riding into a dream as we cross the lonely marshes, grasses whipping in the breeze, the only sound the mournful call of birds settling down to roost, and I’m relieved to finally see a sturdy-looking building on the horizon, though owner Nathalie tells us it’s taken a lot of work to get the old barn that way. ‘The first year was all mud,’ she says, showing us a series of traumatic photos straight out of the Grand Designs living-in-a-caravan-on-a-building-site-with-a-small-child playbook, ‘but I like … how do you say …? The wildness here.’

It is indeed a lovely spot if you haven’t read The Woman in Black, and fortunately not so lonely that there isn’t a fancy hotel restaurant a 15-minute pitch-black walk away, neatly saving us from a cosy night in the village with my helpful knights in shining armour. On a fine Saturday in May, it seems we’re lucky to score a table at La Ferme des Mares with its immaculately gravelled courtyard and spotlit wisteria: thank God we’ve decided not to cycle, or we might have been forced to hide the bikes behind the row of shiny Range Rovers to avoid embarrassing ourselves.

The series of low-beamed dining rooms, with windows set in massive stone walls, are politely full, the tables spaced discreetly across a thick carpet, which contributes to the general hush. It all feels expensive (it is), and I’m firmly of the irresponsible mindset that if you’re going to blow your budget, you may as well do so in style, which is why I immediately order the house aperitif, an amber flute of apple syrup, apple cider, apple brandy and a shot of apple and green walnut liqueur for good measure. As a statement of decadent intent, it’s perfect: simultaneously sweet and tannic, fruity and a little bit nutty, and so very delicious with a bowl of papery-skinned roasted almonds that I almost forget about the menu, despite the fact that this hardback tome takes up half the table.

It kicks off with a list of suppliers and their distance from the restaurant, culminating in the jaunty humblebrag: ‘not forgetting the slightly weird-looking vegetables from our vegetable garden – 0km!’

These, and others from further afield, are, I’m pleased to see, unusually abundant in the dishes that follow: my rabbit comes with two different preparations of the (locally) famous carottes des sables, grown in sand and fertilised with seaweed, which, along with a scattering of tiny green leaves, almost qualifies it as a salad in this part of the world. It’s light, elegant and very tasty indeed: modern French cooking at its finest.

Light is all very well, of course, but being in Normandy, we can’t bypass the cheese trolley – and what a feast of softly stinking delights glides over the plush in our direction, crowned by … it isn’t, could it be …? ‘Oui, c’est CheDDAR!’ our waiter announces proudly. I express surprise at finding this black-waxed interloper in one of France’s great cheese-producing reasons. ‘Ah, mais monsieur le chef, il est anglais!’ he explains.

Certainly, the Cheddar has been hacked away at energetically for other diners this evening, but nevertheless, I stick to local boys Livarot, a sticky, spicy washed-rind cheese, creamy salty Neufchâtel and an exceptionally powerful Camembert (my general tactic with a cheese trolley is to keep going until the curator starts to look anxious), all of which come in squidgy slabs, rather than slices. Not that I’m complaining.

A lesser person would have regretted also ordering dessert in advance, but not me: and I see away the presqu’îles flottantes, a big wobbly pile of beer-flavoured custard and caramel topped with snowy meringue, without even breaking a sweat. That said, the walk home, moon hanging high above huddled sheep, is silent. Both of us, perhaps, have reached our elastic limits.

Fortunately, we bounce back quickly, because the next morning Nathalie presents us with a breakfast of raw-milk Camembert from the next village (‘It’s the best around here’), toasted on nubbly brown homemade bread with a few slices of apple: I’ll give it to the French, they really get behind their regional specialities.

Powered by cheese, it’s a fast run down to Créances, home of all those sandy carrots (and a few leeks, too, if the enormous mosaic of them on a roundabout is to be believed), where we join the coast road, looking out over vast empty beaches and seas of wind-blown grass that remind me strongly of North Norfolk. There, the rush is to get a good spot outside the pub for a few pints of Wherry and some whitebait; here, I’m quietly nudging the pace to taste what it’s claimed are the best moules frites in France. Not only is it a sunny Sunday, but it’s slowly dawned on me through the drip feed of roadside advertising that it’s Mothers’ Day here, and if I were a Norman maman, I’d be dropping hints about this place from Boxing Day onwards.

The road narrows as we approach the spit of land on which La Cale perches, and suddenly every car that overtakes us feels like a potential rival. At 11.15 a.m., a time when I’d barely be thinking about a mid-morning coffee at home, the beach car park is almost full. I wonder how many of those loitering I could see off should it come to fisticuffs over the last table: a lot of them look quite old, and there’s a fair smattering of infants, so I’m fairly confident of our chances. Perhaps, I think, if it comes to pleading our case, I could pretend to be Matt’s mother.

The restaurant itself, still firmly shuttered, is a utilitarian shed of a place with a rickety collection of mismatched and largely unstable furniture outside. We retire to the café next door for a tense cup of coffee, interrupted when I spot someone emerge from La Cale with a cigarette. The veteran of a hundred ‘no-reservations’ London restaurant queues, I spring into action like a greased whippet, leaving Matt to pay up. Bursting through the doors, I ask one of the young men leaning casually against the counter if they’re open, fumbling with the unfamiliar words in my nervousness. He looks startled. ‘Oui, bien sûr, Madame!’

I race out onto the sandy, and completely empty terrace, and fling myself dramatically over a table right on the edge of the beach, then semaphore frantically at Matt to make haste. After all this, it’s somewhat embarrassing to discover there was no rush at all: though tables fill up quickly, no one else leaps across the decking as if fleeing from a fire and I suddenly feel a very long way from home.

Having ordered at the bar, underneath a cheerful sign assuring clients that all rats have passed a hygiene inspection), we can sit back and enjoy ourselves, making leisurely work of a cold beer and a dozen oysters between us. They’re good, as oysters always are by the sea, plump and cool, with a marine tang answered by the air, but the real treat arrives afterwards: two huge pans of mussels in a heady, wine-soaked sauce with a great dollop of yellow crème fraîche left to melt on top.

The flesh is small and sweet, and we barely pause to pick at the hot crisp fries alongside. Perhaps it’s also the location, seasoned by the wind sweeping off the beach, the smell of the lamb shoulder cooking on the wood fire inside, or the sense of satisfaction as latecomers hang around waiting disconsolately for a table, but I don’t think I’ve ever tasted mussels so good. Here’s a recipe anyway:




Moules Marinières


Such a simple dish, but such a delicious one, with the added theatre of the whole shelling operation, which I never tire of. I like to use Norman cider and drink the rest with it, but if you prefer, you can use a dry white wine as at La Cale. Chunks of baguette or (or preferably and) hot salty fries to mop up the liquid are, however, mandatory.

Serves 2

1kg mussels

4 long shallots, finely chopped

300ml dry cider or white wine, e.g. Muscadet

50g crème fraîche

A small bunch of flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped

Baguette or chips, to serve (or both)



1 Rinse the mussels in cold running water, then give them a good scrub and scrape to remove any barnacles or dirt. Discard any with broken shells, and give any open ones a sharp tap: if they don’t close, throw them away too. Pull out the beards – the fibrous little appendages which the mussels use to attach themselves to ropes or rocks – by pulling them sharply towards the hinge end of the mussel. If you want to prep them ahead, leave them in a sink of cold water until ready to cook.

2 Put the chopped shallots and the cider or wine into a large pan and cook gently for 10 minutes, then turn up the heat to medium-high.

3 Drain the mussels and tip into the pan. Cover and cook until most of them have opened: about 3 minutes.

4 Add the crème fraîche and put the lid back on for 30 seconds to allow it to melt. Add the parsley and shake the pan well to distribute, then season gently and serve immediately, discarding any mussels which remain closed.







Matt professes himself defeated by this point, but having spotted the children on the table next door chasing their oysters down with bowls of the mysterious orange dessert from the market in Cherbourg, I remember some unfinished business. Teurgoule, the man behind the bar tells me, means ‘twisted mouth’ – he purses his lips like a baby given a lemon – in Norman dialect, ‘because it’s very spicy!’ What arrives is a very slow-cooked rice pudding coloured with liberal amounts of cinnamon and nutmeg that sits like a stone in my stomach all afternoon. It’s too delicious to leave, however, and La Cale’s owner Remi, who lives up gratifyingly to his eccentric TripAdvisor reputation, is visibly impressed by my greed. ‘Welcome the English!’ he shouts happily as he threads his way among the tangle of tables. ‘We love you!’ On the way out of the car park, I notice he’s not joking: La Cale’s van, a huge battered Renault, has been graffitied with the legend ‘Rosbeefs welcome … Frogs too’.

The afternoon continues to heat up as we turn in from the coast, and there’s a lot of ground to cover after a relatively leisurely morning. I’ve already warned Matt that our destination for the evening is up a huge and sadly unavoidable hill, hoping the unbeatable views of the majestic Mont-Saint-Michel will soften the blow, but along the way there are other, unannounced hillocks that Google has hidden from me, and about four o’clock, he screeches to an emergency stop in a small town. ‘I need a drink,’ he says firmly and, like a homing pigeon, heads to the nearest bar.

While I vainly try to prop the ungainly Eddy upright against a house, he tosses his gloves and helmet onto a nearby table and goes in to order. I seat myself and regard the woman boldly doing justice to a large glass of red in the 30°C heat. So French, I think admiringly – so I’m startled when her husband comes back with a beer and broad Kent accent.

Two days away from home, and I can’t resist striking up a conversation with my long-lost countrymen; turns out they’ve been here over a decade, and have no plans to return to the UK, though their older daughter is about to move back because she can’t find work. I ask, in what I hope is a neutral tone, if the prospect of Brexit in less than 12 months’ time worries them. ‘No,’ the lady says, with commendable sanguinity, ‘we don’t hear much about it here. I suppose it will be okay.’

They’re more anxious about us getting run over by what they call ‘milk floats’ – the tiny, whining voiturettes you can drive in France without a licence, making them, they claim, popular with those banned for drink driving. ‘They’re lethal, those things,’ she tells me as we leave. ‘Watch your back.’

This slightly sinister warning, as well as a vast, bloated dead cow I spot out of the corner of my eye as I roll past a farmyard on the outskirts of town, make me feel quite nervous and when I lose Matt on a long climb shortly afterwards, I become positively paranoid. Just as I’m about to turn around to see if he’s been flattened by a drunkard on a milk float, he comes round the corner looking a bit pink, and asks, very politely, how many more mountains we have to climb before the big one. I have to confess I have no idea, but there’s certainly no mistaking the thing when we finally reach it: Avranches is a very pretty town, if you don’t mind heights.

The road in winds up round the lower suburbs like a snake, though this gradient is at least preferable to the shortcuts Google Maps keeps trying to divert me onto, all of which appear near vertical. When I finally make it to our budget hotel, I’m puce, and there’s no sign of Matt. ‘Do you have a bar?’ I ask Madame, sweating onto her registration forms. She looks genuinely apologetic as she shakes her head, so I head upstairs for a cold shower instead.

Somewhat revived, I look out of the window to check Eddy is still in the courtyard three stories below, and see Matt sitting on the terrace sipping a large glass of orange juice and looking rather pink. ‘She just offered it to me,’ he shouts up in response to my aggrieved question. ‘I think she went to get it from her own kitchen. I must have looked like I was having a heart attack.’

In the circumstances, it seems wise to head no further than the café across the square lest we lose even an inch of gradient before dinner. I happily put away yet more potatoey pizza, and Matt polishes off not only a sausage version, but a big bowl of ‘pasta General Patton’, named after the leader of the US liberating forces in 1944, which might also explain, now I come to think of it, the large tank parked up on the roundabout opposite our table. With a fair quantity of carb to walk off, we stroll through the town to try to find that famous view of Mont-Saint-Michel before the sun goes down.

As it sinks lower in the sky, almost bouncing against the horizon, we force our protesting legs into a final dash through the botanic gardens, tripping over bits of ancient stonework in our hurry, and just manage to catch a glimpse of the celebrity island across the bay before it disappears into the darkness. The sea is silvery under an apricot sky, and from here, on the edge of Normandy, we can see the Breton coast stretching away westwards in the sunset.

Give or take the odd farmhouse, it’s a landscape that doesn’t look much like it’s changed in centuries. ‘Nice and flat anyway,’ says Matt with some satisfaction as we turn for home.



Km: 157.5





STAGE 3

Avranches to Dol-de-Bretagne (#litres_trial_promo)










Omelette Soufflée


The omelette is an ancient dish, known and loved long before Mont-Saint-Michel was even a twinkle in a monkish eye, but the island has been famous for ‘the exquisite lightness and beauty’ of its version for over a century. These are not the creamy baveuse omelettes of classical French cookery, but puffy soufflés, whipped until they rear from the pan like sea foam, and finished over a wood fire with copious amounts of Norman butter.

One of the benefits of staying at the top of a huge hill, of course, becomes evident the next morning, when we speed out of town like racing demons, Matt shooting past too fast for me to see the smile on his face. We’ve already learnt one valuable lesson today: many things in France, including, incredibly, boulangeries that even open on Christmas morning, are closed on Mondays (see here (#litres_trial_promo), Pause-Café – French Opening Hours). How I’ve never realised this before is unclear, but after wandering disconsolately around the shuttered streets for half an hour, we finally spot a man with a baguette under his arm and sprint to catch up. My reward for accosting a complete stranger in a foreign language before I’ve had so much as a coffee: a pretty decent, very flaky 8/10 croissant. Coffee, however, remains a distant dream.

After crossing the handsome stone bridge at Pontaubault where we finally wave goodbye to the Cotentin Peninsula, the road swings right and climbs briefly out of town before dropping abruptly down into the bay of Mont-Saint-Michel. Suddenly we find ourselves pedalling into a sea mist; the only sounds the plaintive bleating of sheep somewhere to our left and, briefly, the hullabaloo of a convoy of Americans on hire bikes too busy complaining about their ‘sore asses’ to greet us as they pass. As the sound of their protests recedes into the gloom, and I shrug on my jacket for the first time, things begin to feel a little bit creepy.

On the plus side, when the Mont does finally show itself to us, it seems gratifyingly close – until we notice the cycle route sign: 17km. ‘Hang on a minute,’ Matt calls to me. ‘Didn’t that last road say it was only 9km?’ I check my phone, still wobbling slightly every time I take my hands from the bars of my poor, overladen steed. ‘Yeah … I think possibly the cycle one takes the scenic route.’ There’s a short but loaded silence from behind, then, ‘How scenic?’

He has a point: for all the Dutch caravans and British estate cars, these are hardly superhighways winding us through the polders, and I’ve made our lunch reservation on the Mont stupidly early for reasons I can’t now remember, so we’re easily persuaded off the bike route and on to the main road, which takes us past an enormous fragrant biscuiterie churning out delicious buttery galettes. Sadly, there’s no time to stop and investigate the factory gift shop; I content myself with breathing in deeply instead.

Several kilometres from the island itself the road comes to an abrupt end in north-west France’s largest car park. Once upon a time you could drive right up to the foot of the rock at low tide, and chance your vehicle being washed into the great beyond if you lingered too long over the postcards (indeed, as we discover later, there’s still some very entertaining footage of exactly this online). These days, you have to park on the mainland and take a shuttle bus across the sands: visitors are allowed to cycle the 800-metre causeway before 10 a.m., but as you can’t leave your bike at the other end it’s a largely pointless exercise unless you’re desperate to add another couple of kilometres to the day’s total, and we’re too late anyway, so we ditch them in the parking area, lugging our bags with us as the lockers are out of action ‘due to high security level’.

Though the bike racks may be quiet, the bus is busy, and we cram on behind a great muscular man with a shih tzu in a rucksack, who tuts every time anyone inadvertently brushes against the dog, which, thanks to the density of humanity on board, is fairly often. I stack my mysteriously weighty panniers on my foot, hold on and pray that the bus moves swiftly, which of course it doesn’t, stopping almost immediately at the row of rapacious gift shops a few hundred metres from the visitor centre, where more people attempt to squash in. It’s amazing, I think, how quickly even a regular passenger on the Northern Line can get used to the glorious space and solitude of the open road.

The shuttle doesn’t take us all the whole way to the Mont; it stops some distance from it, allowing everyone to rush over to the railings for snaps with the most famous island in France, a fortress that repelled every invasion attempt during the Hundred Years War with England. How things change; outside Paris, Mont-Saint-Michel is the most-visited site in the country.

Much as I love watching people pose for selfies, we’re in a hurry, surging forward through the great stone arch at the vanguard of this particular wave of heathen marauders. The restaurant, La Mère Poulard, is easy to spot, thanks to the crowd standing outside with cameras, snapping the action in the open kitchen, where huge numbers of eggs are being beaten in copper bowls ready for the lunchtime rush.

This place has been known for its omelettes for over a century: the eponymous Mère Poulard set up shop cooking for pilgrims and tourists in the late 1800s, and gained a reputation for her omelettes in particular – an easy thing to put together on an island with no grazing or agricultural land. The hotel she ran with her husband, in a prime position just inside the gates, was perfectly placed to take advantage of the tourist boom, and her dining room was soon mentioned as a must-visit in contemporary travel guides (as, in fact, was the rival establishment run by her brother-in-law, though clearly he was less good at marketing).

Poulard is said to have ruled her establishment with an iron whisk: when King Leopold of Belgium demanded to eat outside, on a terrace reserved for the taking of coffee, he was apparently given short shrift by Madame. She must have been a tartar in the kitchen, too, because those omelettes look like bloody hard work. The recipe is a closely guarded secret; despite my best efforts in wheedling French, all I can get out of the wolfish young chef closest to me is that he has to beat the mixture for 15 minutes before it’s ready. He winks – I’d make a joke about his wrist action if only I could remember the vocab.

Hanging around for slightly longer than feels entirely polite, I watch the process with a keen eye, taking notes as the team beat out a syncopated rhythm with their whisks. Each long-handled pan is heated in front of the massive fireplace until the butter inside sizzles, before the well-whisked mixture is added and the pan stacked neatly on a shelf at the side of the hearth. Once the omelette is cooked, it’s briefly toasted in the flames, and then served immediately.

Having apparently learnt all that there is to be learnt from the tight-lipped staff, and shortly before someone calls security, I make my way up to the slightly sepulchral dining room, where Matt is sitting reading The Times in the company of a pair of Korean girls charging their phones on the table, a family of voluble Italians and a grumpy British couple who look like they’d dearly like to ask him for the features section. Almost every inch of wall is covered with photographs of grandees who have been lucky enough to feast on the famous Poulard hospitality, ranging from Trotsky to Marilyn Monroe and Margaret Thatcher, who came as a guest of President Mitterand, apparently to ‘discuss the problems of the world over a good omelette’ – one hopes they weren’t served by the same rather pungent waiter that we’ve been assigned by the deliciously superior maître d’. ‘I wouldn’t mind,’ Matt says in a manner that suggests that even if he did he’d be too well mannered to say so, ‘but at this time of day surely it must be the beginning of his shift.’ I’m just glad he smells worse than us, I say.

I open the menu and confirm what I already know: that at €34 this omelette is to be the single most expensive dish I will eat on my entire trip, and that includes a Michelin-starred birthday treat a month from now. (The price makes the three-course menu at €48 feel like a bargain, just as it’s designed to, though in fact I probably don’t need a poached egg and samphire salad and a frozen Calvados soufflé to push my egg consumption for the day into the danger zone.)

The American journalist and gourmand Waverley Root, recalling the ‘luscious omelettes’ of 1920s Normandy in his classic work The Food of France, feels confident enough to recommend the Mère Poulard version 30 years later, ‘providing that the passage of time and of a good many thousand tourists has not wrought havoc on it’.

I can confirm that, almost a century later, mass production does not seem to have been to the detriment of quality. I suspect price inflation has been disproportionate, yet given the criminal mark-up, it’s disappointingly delicious. The outer shell is almost leathery, in pleasurable contrast to the moussey interior, and gilded with salty, slightly burnt butter – it’s almost like an American-style half-moon breakfast omelette rather than the classic runny French cigar, but stuffed with an egg-white foam rather than gooey cheese. A dish of potatoes and bacon fried in lard arrives on the side; for a few euros more I could have had scallops or foie gras instead, but, really, there are limits. My advice is, go to Mont-Saint-Michel, watch the spectacle, then go home and make one yourself.




Omelette Soufflée à la Mère Poularde


For all its carefully cultivated mystique, the world’s most famous omelette is surprisingly easy to reproduce – all you need is a bit of elbow grease (or an electric whisk). I haven’t suggested any fillings, as adding extra ingredients to the pan will knock the air out of the eggs, but a few chopped herbs on top are very welcome, and you can serve fried potatoes and cured ham, or sautéed mushrooms, or indeed foie gras if you must, on the side. I tried finishing it under the grill, to replicate the flashing of the pan through the fire, but concluded this was just for show, though if you want to get the blowtorch out, be my guest.

Per omelette

3 eggs

A pinch of salt

Oil, to grease

Generous 1 tbsp cold butter, cut into small dice



1 Crack the eggs into a large bowl with the salt, and begin whisking vigorously. Once they’re fairly foamy, oil a heavy-based frying pan about 20cm wide and put it on a medium heat.

2 Keep whisking the eggs until they’re very thick and bubbly, almost like a mousse. This will probably take just under 4 minutes with a hand whisk.

3 Pour the mixture into the pan and leave to set until it begins to come away from the side of the pan, then gently loosen the edges with a spatula and slide the butter underneath, shaking to distribute it evenly beneath the omelette.

4 Once it’s deep golden underneath but still foamy and wet above, carefully shake it on to a plate, fold over and serve immediately.







Almost €150 lighter, we stagger down the stairs with our panniers, the elegant maître d’s eyes sliding tactfully away from us as we lurch in his rarefied direction, and attack the Mont proper, which is, even on a Monday afternoon in May, fairly swarming with visitors. The single street is one long gift shop, and it’s a relief to pay the entrance fee for the abbey simply to shake off a few school parties – the man doing the bag search is all smiles when I explain we’re cyclists, and lets us go through with our massive burdens, despite their bulk being in clear violation of the security regulations (to say nothing of the deadly salami slicer at the bottom of mine).

With such a burden, it makes sense to take turns in the church; I stand outside, enjoying the sea breeze and the relative peace and watching groups of excited human ants racing round on the treacherous sands below. Next to me, a British woman tells children more concerned with chasing seagulls that ‘apparently the thing to do with quicksand is not to panic and try to move – it agitates the sand and turns it liquid so it sucks you down’. Clearly the ants didn’t get that particular memo, I think, half hoping for a minor emergency to brighten the view. Suddenly an incongruous crocodile of heavily armed policeman, clad in what appears to be riot gear, march through the gardens beneath the wall on which I’m leaning. Be careful what you wish for, I think with a shiver, remembering the earlier warning about elevated security levels.

At that moment, Matt reappears blinking into the sunlight to rescue me from my morbid thoughts, and I slip into the abbey. I have a bit of a thing for monastic architecture (why, since you ask, I do have a favourite: the lovely light-filled Cistercian Abbaye du Thoronet in Provence), and this place delivers in spades, particularly in the quieter nooks and crannies, like the draughty room in the cliffside once reserved for the laying out of dead monks. I close my eyes and try to imagine the gloomy scene; the stinking guttering candles, hooded figures and howling winds. Above a child wails, ‘Bird BIT ME!’ The moment is lost. Time to go.

As we break free from the mercenary Mont without so much as a commemorative fridge magnet between us, clouds begin to gather above, and by the time we’re back at the bikes, it’s ominously dark. It’s not far to Dol-de-Bretagne, our ultimate destination, barely 30km in fact, but shortly after leaving Normandy, and well before we get there, the heavens open to discharge rain so hard and all encompassing that we’re forced to seek refuge in a handily placed bus shelter until it slackens off. Parents waiting for the school bus in their warm, dry cars watch us watching the rain, and for the first time I wish I wasn’t on a stupid bike. It certainly won’t be the last.

Finally, we tell ourselves it’s definitely getting lighter on the horizon and push off miserably into a road already lit for evening at 5 p.m. in the dying days of May, arriving in Dol-de-Bretagne damp rather than actively dripping, though clearly still a sufficiently tragic sight to merit the sympathetic offer of a hot coffee as we check in. Though our beds for the night are considerably cheaper than our lunch, the hostel is a sweet place: new and clean and cleverly designed, and Matt is even kind enough to let me have the top bunk, which immediately puts me in a good mood. If there’s an age when you grow out of the thrill of sleeping near ceilings, I’m still waiting to reach it.

I duck into reception to ask about food. There’s a terrifying pause as the staff confer, and then I hear the glorious word crêperie: ideal, given this is Matt’s first and last night in Brittany. Monsieur is even kind enough to ring to check they’re open on a Monday evening – ‘you must hurry; they are open, but it is quiet, so they want to close soon’. In fact, once installed in the cosily lit, low-beamed dining room with the customary bowl of cider in front of us (‘Are you sure we’re meant to be drinking out of these?’), we prove to be quite the trendsetters, and thanks to the crowd that pour in after us, the poor proprietors of Le Dol’Mène aux Saveurs don’t get their early night after all.

I order a galette with cheese, ham, egg (another egg! I think belatedly – why do I do this to myself?) and a local speciality, the andouille de Guémené, a sausage made from 25 layers of intestine and stomach, smoked, yet not sufficiently to mask the odour of its main ingredient. It looks strangely beautiful, like an optical illusion made from offal, but tastes more challenging – and I’m keen for Matt to at least smell it before he goes home.

He’s not exactly effusive, but actually, fried until crisp, these andouilles are markedly more pleasant than my previous experience of them cold from the butchers, and they certainly don’t dent my appetite for a sweet crêpe with apples and the famous Breton salted caramel sauce. Matt goes for one flambéed at the table with booze poured from a little copper pan, which embarrasses him no end to my actual and lasting delight, and we celebrate with a glass of cider brandy before wobbling back through Dol’s charming half-timbered, solid little main street, with its medieval houses and plaques proudly celebrating the town’s unlikely links to the Scottish House of Stewart. Haggis crêpes, there’s an idea, I think as I fall asleep with my nose pressed up against the ceiling.



Km: 48.4





STAGE 4

Dol-de-Bretagne to Saint-Malo (#litres_trial_promo)










A Platter of Oysters


Oysters need little introduction, save to say that Brittany produces some exceptionally fine examples, which are best – as with all oysters in my opinion – served naked or perhaps with the merest dribble of shallot vinaigrette, preferably within sight of the salty waters from whence they came.

The next morning brings two excitements. Firstly, it’s Matt’s last day, a terrifying fact that I’m trying to avoid staring full in the face, and secondly, this comes just as he’s proved himself indispensable with the information that there’s a drive-through boulangerie round the corner. A DRIVE-THROUGH boulangerie. I literally could not be more thrilled if he’d added they were giving out free croissants.

The reality is even more perfect than I’d imagined: as a former petrol station repurposed to dispense human fuel, it even looks the part. Obviously I make Matt hang back to take a photo as I pedal up to the window. The girl serving seems amused to see me pop up in front of her: ‘No, we don’t get very many bikes!’ she says cheerfully, handing over the goods for me to clutch awkwardly in one hand while steering with the other. Matt and I reconvene on the forecourt as a huge dog in the car behind actually attempts to climb over its owner and through the hatch: my croissant is a bit burnt, but I have absolutely no regrets – 10/10 for both novelty and practicality (and 7/10 for the actual goods).

That said, Matt’s imminent departure seems a fair excuse for a second crack at a final breakfast, especially when we pass a boulangerie whose window proudly displays golden laurels for baking the second-best baguette tradition (see here (#litres_trial_promo), Pause-Café – French Bread: A Bluffer’s Guide) in all of Brittany. Their croissant isn’t bad either (7.5, well flavoured, let down by a slight sponginess in the middle), but it’s overshadowed by my impulse purchase: a golden kouign-amann apiece, sporting a jaunty Breton flag, which I immediately stick on my handlebars.

If I think too hard about the 30-odd years of my life spent in ignorance of these unassuming-looking pastries, I start to feel a bit sad; like a sweeter, crunchier version of the best croissant you’ve ever eaten, soaked in buttery syrup and baked until crisp, they’re incredibly rich and stupidly delicious, and I can’t in all conscience let Matt leave Brittany without trying one. Even I struggle after two croissants, however, and the second half of the little cake ends up in the bag on my handlebars for later – something that will happen so often in the weeks to come I’m surprised I don’t have a fully-formed bread-and-butter pudding in there by the time I get to Paris.

On the way out of Dol, wobbling through pretty but uncomfortably cobbled streets, we pass a huge cathedral with a tower that looks like it’s been abruptly snapped off. Actually, as I discover from the information boards with which Dol is well furnished, it was never finished, due to ‘insufficient funds’ (or the devil throwing an enormous menhir in the works, depending on whose version you believe). The unexpected grandeur of the church is explained by the fact that, until drainage work took place in the 11th century, the sea reached as far as Dol-de-Bretagne, making this morning’s route a ghostly seabed.

Having undergone serious adjustment at the hands of the hostel receptionist, who refuses to check us out until he’s politely pooh-poohed my plans, this meanders towards the modern coast by way of Mont Dol, which, at 65 metres tall, counts as a significant peak in this part of the world. Indeed, once upon a time it was an island, just like Mont-Saint-Michel. Apparently, St Michael, patron saint of France as well as sensible knitwear, fought a duel with Satan at the top, but Matt doesn’t show much enthusiasm for climbing it to see the ‘certain curious marks’ the battle left in the rock, so we leave it be and head for the sea instead.

The D155 is one of those glorious roads that spools out in front of your wheel, allowing you to see exactly where you’re heading for miles before you get there, lined on one side with squat granite houses staring out across the marshes and clusters of corrugated sheds advertising ‘creuses de Cancale: vente au detail’ (creuses, or hollow oysters, being the French name for what we call rock oysters).

The air is heavy with the iodine reek of shellfish, whetting my appetite for what I hope lies ahead of us in Cancale, known across France as the oyster capital of Brittany – though first we have to contend with one of Google Maps’ helpful cycle routes, which takes us up a road at first stony, and then muddy, and finally all but impassable on a delicate beast like Eddy, whose mudguards quickly fill up with the stuff. Eventually I have to get off and push before I’m thrown off like a questing knight who has finally pushed his patient steed too far.

Though I haven’t got round to mentioning it to Matt, I’ve plotted a course that just happens to pass right by La Ferme Marine de Cancale, which, its website promises, offers ‘a fantastic one-hour-and-a-half tour!’ Fortunately, it’s well signposted from the road, allowing me to discover it with delighted surprise, a surprise that becomes all too real when I learn that it’s closed, so instead of prying into ‘the secrets of the oysters’, we pedal on to the town of Cancale proper, and the not-so-secret oyster market at the end of the harbour (‘#1 of 11 things to do in Cancale!’). The wide road along the bay is fringed with seafood restaurants gearing up for the Tuesday lunchtime trickle, culminating in the market, a clutch of striped tents above the concrete slipway, facing inwards against the wind.




PAUSE-CAFÉ – The Mysterious Fruits of the Sea







For some reason, this is the kind of vocabulary that runs in one ear and out of the other like the tide – possibly because I’m not quite sure what the name for all those little shells is in English, let alone French. Here’s a crib sheet:

Coquillages – seafood

Moules – mussels

Huîtres – oysters (creuses are rock oysters, plates what we know as natives, the flatter, rounder shells that aficionados believe to boast a sweeter, more complex flavour than cheaper, pointier rocks)

Bulots – whelks

Bigorneaux – winkles

Coques – cockles (amande de mer is a common variety known in English as a dog cockle, though disappointingly it bears little resemblance to either a dog or an almond)

Crevettes – prawns (géante tigrée or gambas suggests the larger variety, crevette rose are average-sized North Atlantic prawns)

Crevette gris – shrimps

Langoustine – Dublin Bay prawn (like a little lobster)

Palourdes – clams

Couteaux – razor clams

Homard – lobster

Crabe tourteau – brown crab (sometimes just listed as tourteau)

Araignée de mer – spider crab

Crabe mou – soft-shell crab

Their custodians loiter in front, waiting for customers. I experience the same mild panic as when confronted by a weighty wine list in a smart restaurant – how on earth is one supposed to choose between baskets of bivalves? I do a slow circuit of the stalls, trying hard, like everyone else, to look like I know what I’m doing, and end up back at Aux Délices de Cancale, run by two brothers, Fabien et Gildas Barbé, attracted not by the subtle curve of the shells on display, or the quality of their barnacle build-up, but by the fact that they have the largest oysters I have ever seen, propped out front to draw in the kind of shallow people impressed by size. People like me, in fact.

I go for half a dozen ordinary number 4s (they’re graded by size, from fat 00s to tiny 6s, and in general, I think smaller shellfish have a better flavour) and one complete beast of a pied de cheval, or horse’s hoof. Come on, it had to be done!

People gather round murmuring in wonderment as the stallholder, who has opened the others as easily as a can of Coke, braces Monsieur Big against the back wall and sets about him with a chisel. ‘How old is he?’ I ask as he hammers away with gritted teeth. ‘Oh, about 15.’ Fifteen! I think. That’s the same age as my oldest nephew! When this animal was born (spawned?) I still naively thought I was going to have a proper job by 30.

Holding his prize carefully lest it spill out, Gildas, victorious over the shellfish at last, explains that the creature weighs about 180g, well over twice as much as the others, and will need to be tackled with a special knife, which he will lend me for the purpose. The assembled crowd goggles as I escort my victim over to the sea wall, where Matt is already sitting with his slightly more modest order. He raises one eyebrow, which in Matt terms is pretty serious stuff, and don’t I know it. I like oysters you can eat in one gulp, that are easy to chew and slip down as smoothly as an ice-cold martini, not ones with the strength to fight back in your digestive system. Nevertheless, I’ve paid to have this chap’s shell wrenched off, and he deserves to be done justice, if you count being eaten alive as justice, though now definitely isn’t the time to go into that particular argument.

I unfold the sturdy knife Gildas has provided and nervously begin to divide the creature into vaguely edible portions, silently begging for forgiveness as I perform this gruesome but necessary live butchery, and then, conscious of the expectant gaze of not just Matt, but several other diners, tip the first chunk into my mouth and begin to chew. It’s better than I expect, more scallopy, but with a definite meaty texture, and a surprisingly harsh, almost tannic finish. Not unpleasant exactly, but for reasons as much psychological as gastronomic, I can’t say I enjoy the remaining four bits. After a bit of a breather (if only I’d known you could buy chilled wine to take away at the shop round the corner), I tackle his smaller, sweeter relatives, who prove far more to my taste, though frankly, once the last shell is tossed onto the beach below, joining the thousands already piled up there, I feel I wouldn’t be sorry not to see an oyster again for a good while.




A Platter of Oysters


Though fun to order in restaurants for the sheer decadence of it, it’s far better value to eat oysters at home – they’re not expensive. I like natives, which have a slightly sweeter, more complex flavour, but rocks are cheaper, and almost as good.

As many oysters as you feel you can eat (3 per person as an amuse-bouche, 6 for a starter, between you and your god for a feast)

2 banana shallots

100ml red wine vinegar

1 lemon per dozen oysters

Very thinly sliced brown bread, spread with unsalted butter and cut into decorous triangles



1 Keep the oysters, flat side up and tightly wrapped in damp newspaper, in the salad drawer of your fridge (between 1° and 4°C), refreshing the newspaper every couple of days as it dries out. In theory they’ll be fine for 10 days, but the longer you leave them, the greater risk you’ll have to chuck out some dead ones, so I’d advise eating them as soon as possible.

2 When you’re ready to shuck them, if this is your first time, I’d highly advise watching a video online if possible. A stout oyster knife will make life easier too. Wrap the oyster firmly in a damp tea-towel, as much to protect your hands as to provide a firm grip, then gently insert the tip of the knife into the hinge at the pointy end of the shell. Slowly work it in, twisting it slightly, until you hear the shell pop. Remove the top shell, cutting away at the oyster if it sticks, then slide the knife underneath its body to detach it from the bottom. Carefully place it on a platter, making sure not to spill any juices – if you’re feeling fancy, the oysters look lovely on crushed ice, which seems less wasteful than rock salt.

3 To make the shallot vinaigrette, peel and finely chop the shallots and put them into a small bowl. Pour in the vinegar and season well with freshly ground black pepper (no need to add salt, the oysters will supply plenty). Cut the lemon into wedges and serve with the oysters, with the bread on the side (don’t forget a little spoon for the vinaigrette, and somewhere for people to put the oyster and lemon shells if they’re not sitting down).







We sit in the sun, quietly digesting, trying not to think of the bivalves splashing about inside, and watch the bustle on the beach below, which is less of a place for sunbathing and sandcastles, and more a giant oyster factory – long, low racks stretch right down to the low tide mark, laden with huge wire bags of bivalves. Workers in waders rolled down to their waists in the sunshine wander among them, turning the odd bag and loading a few that have clearly passed some mysterious test onto the tractors that chug in a steady train down the slipway behind us – one flops off onto the road with a great jolt, and a chino-clad tourist runs to the driver’s aid. His spectacular failure to even get the bag off the ground, and the nonchalance with which she picks it up and tosses it back onto the trailer, have us cheering like a seaside Punch and Judy show.

In fact, all this activity proves sufficiently fascinating to persuade Matt to cycle back to check on the museum before we head on to Saint-Malo – at which point it begins to rain, and not just rain, but pour. Shoving our bikes hastily behind an abandoned boat, we rush in the direction of the entrance, only to find it still locked up. When I eventually locate a living being in a shed nearby, she tells me, and a vexed-looking French couple who have followed me in, that they’re not actually opening for another 30 minutes. The French observe this is not what’s printed on the board outside. She happily agrees it isn’t.

The terror of missing out on the opportunity to get better acquainted with the many creatures currently dying a horrible death in my stomach must show on my face, because Madame suddenly relents and offers to let us into the museum early instead. I’m delighted: not only will this offer entertainment (though, given that it turns out to be largely devoted to a collection of seashells from around the globe, it doesn’t actually provide very much of that), but it’s warm and dry, too. Perfect.

Once we’ve exhausted the gruesomely detailed biological diagrams of the oyster and mussel, both of which make me heartily regret my dietary choices over the last 24 hours, we stand and watch the rain until a sufficiently large number of pensioners in sensible waterproof clothing have gathered to make a tour. This begins with a lengthy video in French, during which I think I learn that the bay of Mont-Saint-Michel produces about 15,000 tonnes of oysters a year. Their superior quality is attributed to the dramatic tides, which work the muscle holding the shells shut, rather like one of those electric six-pack machines advertised on daytime television: ‘Strong muscles are important,’ the narrator explains ‘as they might be in transit for up to three days if they’re destined for Japanese tables.’ Things could have turned out worse for my 15-year-old, all things considered.

I read on the way out that oysters are ‘your best friends if you are slimming … the queen of all diets, with only 70 calories per 100g’. So French.

Outside, the rain losing heart now, we squelch down to the shoreline to peer at the racks in the distance, where bags of tiny oysters grow into adults, helped by the farmers, who regularly turn and move them to more spacious accommodation to encourage expansion. Once they’re big enough for sale, the oysters are brought up to spend a week or so in an oxygenated, temperature-controlled tank (5–8°C is apparently optimal) to ensure they’re in tip-top health before they’re sorted, with workers weighing each shell in their hands to check they’re heavy, and thus full of water – any suspiciously light ones are discarded as probably dead.

‘In the run-up to Christmas, we employ 69 people here, and they grade 1,800 an hour,’ our guide explains, ‘so they don’t have much time to chat.’ Matt shoots me a meaningful look as the party moves on to the climax of the tour: the dégustation, the oysters already laid out on long tables for our gustatory pleasure. Frankly, I’m relieved to make our excuses and hurry off, though Madame is shocked that we’ll miss the best bit. ‘Ah, les fous Anglais,’ I imagine her muttering as we hastily exit through the gift shop, but I’m content to live up to the national stereotype if it means I don’t have to look another oyster in the frilly gills for a day or so.

Though his check-in opens in half an hour, and we’re still 15km away from the port, Matt confidently assures me as we unlock our sodden steeds that his ship doesn’t actually sail for hours, so until Google Maps sends us down the side of a farmer’s field with mud as deep as our pedals, we make a fairly leisurely pace west.

Fortunately, once we divert on to the main road my phone is so keen to avoid, it’s a fast run into Saint-Malo, although the town sprawls wider than I remember, and the ferry terminal sits bleakly, in the manner of such places, on a dual carriageway with nowhere for a farewell drink but a warehouse advertising cheap crates of beer to British booze cruisers. For the last time, I give thanks for my companion’s unerring nose for ‘just a quick one’, which leads us up the hill to the distinctly un-Gallic Cunningham’s Bar from where we can enjoy the sight of Matt’s boat patiently waiting for him as we raise a cider to my continuing adventures.

When the funnel begins to smoke, I reluctantly suggest we should probably make a move and insist on chaperoning him all the way to the ticket gates, more for my benefit than his. As he disappears cheerily through them on his way to that much-anticipated buffet, I feel cast adrift like a tiny oyster larvae floating free in the bay. Here I am, on my own, in a strange place, not knowing where I’m going to stay or eat tonight, and a whole month stretching terrifyingly ahead of me. Well, nearly alone. I still have that pied de cheval to keep me company.



Km: 51.8





STAGE 5

Saint-Malo to Redon (#litres_trial_promo)










Crêpes Complètes


Buckwheat crêpes were once the bread of Brittany, a region too poor and damp to support much in the way of wheat cultivation. Indeed, Anne Willan claims in her excellent guide French Regional Cooking that they formed the basis of whole meals, starting with yesterday’s crumbled into soup, followed by a main course of fresh pancakes spread with salted butter, and concluding with a second filled with butter and sugar or jam. They remain incredibly popular, though buckwheat is now generally saved for savoury dishes: look out for the galette-saucisse, the Breton equivalent of a hot dog, at markets throughout the region.

It feels weird not to have someone behind me as I pedal towards my first campsite; terrifying yet also strangely exhilarating. If the last five days have been half-holiday, a gradual easing into this new normality, then the tour proper starts now – and a wet evening in a tent feels like an appropriate baptism of fire, or damp squib, depending on your perspective.

Riding past Bernard Hinault’s son’s bike shop, which saved my silly bacon in 2016, when I’d brought a bike with no functioning brakes on a cycling holiday, I thank God I have no need of it today. I do, however, need somewhere to lay my head before the rain starts again.

Saint-Malo’s municipal campsite may be some way outside the city limits, but to my relief it is at least open, something not entirely clear from its website. The nice chap behind the desk, visibly surprised at a lone female camper, directs me to ‘a very quiet’ pitch behind a hedge, among the trees, which is kind of him, except, as I realise when I get there, it’s overrun with mosquitoes and separated from the rest of the site by a small but significant bog. No matter. I open the pannier with the camping stuff in it for the first time since KnifeGate at Portsmouth, and merrily tip the contents out on the wet grass. Rookie error, but I’m so proud that it only takes me 10 minutes to pitch my tiny tent that I promptly message last summer’s touring buddies to tell them so. ‘Challenge: down to 8 mins in a week,’ one of them responds immediately. Tough crowd.

As it’s raining again, I repair to the bloc sanitaire to wash almost everything I own, and in the meantime, perch stylishly on a plastic chair in nothing but a waterproof jacket and towel, taking advantage of the warmth and free electricity offered by an unplugged* tumble drier to try to plan ahead. There’s nothing to eat on site, and the huge oyster is still making itself comfortable in my stomach, so I end up spending about three hours in there, squinting at train timetables and maps, before finally dousing myself in mosquito repellent and taking my bundle of clean laundry to bed. It occurs to me as I lie there in the dark that perhaps a secluded corner of the campsite is not the best place for a single woman to pass the night, but to be honest, I’m too sleepy to care.

Something I’d conveniently forgotten about camping, though, is that however tired you are, the local birds will still be up with the lark. In fact, given the noise they make from 5 a.m. onwards, possibly they are all larks – in any case, my bijou residence, which has in the past been unkindly compared to a body bag, isn’t really somewhere for a luxuriant lie-in, so after taking at least three times as long to strike camp as to set it, and allowing myself five minutes to sit on a pannier and eat the other half of yesterday’s kouign-amann, I make my way back to Saint-Malo, where I have a reservation on my first train of the trip to Finistère, home to the best crêperie in Brittany, and thus France, and so, I think it’s fairly safe to say, the world.

The department takes its name from the Latin finis and terre, or ‘end of the earth’. Unsurprisingly, it’s not the easiest place to get to, and last night’s reality check in the laundry has put paid to any fantasies of exploring mysterious Arthurian forests. It’s a shame; Brittany, which feels a lot to me like Cornwall – it even has a region called Cornouaille – is a place with a lot to offer the greedy visitor: apart from the aforementioned oysters and kouign-amann, and the inevitable crêpes, its rocky coastline gives forth fabulous fish and seafood, and the land is famous for its butter and cream (though, interestingly, Brittany does not have a great history of cheesemaking: indeed, the old Breton word for cheese was lait pourri, or ‘putrid milk’. Yum!).

Instead I’ll be whizzing through all that on a TGV bound for the port city of Brest, on Brittany’s westernmost tip. It doesn’t leave Saint-Malo until mid-afternoon, leaving me with a lot of time to kill, and not a boulangerie, café or restaurant in sight. For all my grand plans of reacquainting myself with the old town, the remarkably persistent rain makes me disinclined to explore much further afield than the immediate vicinity of the railway station, which is how I end up sitting in the Relay convenience store with an acrid espresso, an Innocent smoothie (the closest thing I can find to fresh fruit) and a family packet of St Michel galettes au bon beurre for breakfast, probably produced in the biscuiterie we passed near the Mont.

After waiting in vain for the sky to brighten, I make an executive decision to retire to the médiathèque round the corner for an executive planning meeting. Even in the May gloom it’s a lovely light-filled building that would be a peaceful place to wile away a few hours if it wasn’t filled with gossiping, flirting teenagers from the local college, fortunately too absorbed with each other to notice me and my very loud shoes. It’s amazing how long everything seems to take – I’m in there four hours, and come away with three restaurant reservations, a campsite for tomorrow night, a strange apartment-hotel for this evening, and some train times scribbled in my journal. All in all, it’s not a great start to my first day on my own. I’d hoped to feel like Paddy Leigh Fermor; instead, I just feel like myself, in a bad mood.

On the plus side, the train is a swanky new one, and I seem to be the only bike booked on it – fortunately, as on locating the correct carriage I realise there’s only one space.




PAUSE-CAFÉ – French Trains







I’m not saying I’m an expert – the French railway is a byzantine operation – but it may be helpful to pass on some of the scanty wisdom I acquired after six weeks of travelling the network.

First off, if possible, speak to an actual human being rather than doing battle with the SNCF website or (even worse) one of their various apps, all of which are hard to navigate, even in French, and can be temperamental.

Secondly, if you’re taking a non-folding bike, you’ll need a reservation for it (€10) on high-speed TGV and other grandes lignes – unless, that is, you want to take it apart and transport it in a housse, or bike bag, maximum dimensions 120 x 90cm, in which case it travels free. Though the website makes great claims about how many spaces each train has (marked with a blue bicycle symbol on timetables), I found they were rarely available, so make sure you check ahead.

That said, if you don’t mind travelling at a snail’s pace, you can take your bike on any regional TER service for free – the bike carriage is usually at the far end of the train, and newer ones have hooks to hang your front wheel from (top tip: take your panniers off first). Though the steps can be a nuisance to navigate on older rolling stock, there’s almost always staff around to help. Try to lock the bike to something, or itself, if you’re going to sit elsewhere; it’s generally safe, but I have seen things stolen in the past.

Both ferries and Eurostar require separate bike reservations – the latter may claim you’ll need to take the bike apart for travel, but quite often they don’t when you actually get there. Bear in mind that the place you’ll need to collect the bike from or drop it off at Paris’s Gare du Nord is so far down the left-hand side you’ll think you’ve gone wrong – follow signs to ‘Bagages Enregistrés Eurostar/Geoparts’. (Note that, at the moment at least, they only take bikes between London, Paris, Lille and Brussels.)

As I gaze out at the countryside through the steady stream of water running down the window, I’m reminded of an old joke from Robb’s book in which a visitor to Brittany demands of a passing infant, ‘Boy, tell me, does it always rain like this here?’ ‘I don’t know, sir,’ replies the child. ‘I’m only eight.’

It only gets worse as darkness falls, and thanks to the sea mist smothering Brest to its damp bosom, I end up seeing little of the city beyond my front wheel. The ‘apart-hotel’, the cheapest of my very few options for tonight, is clearly aimed at commercial travellers, perhaps staying a week or two, and its strip-lit corridors are full of the smells of cooking. When I ask if there’s a garage for my bike, the lady behind the desk shakes her head in apology, before adding, almost as an afterthought, ‘Of course, you’re welcome to take it up to your room if you don’t mind that.’ I can’t believe I’ve heard right – really? She looks puzzled by my reaction and points out the lift as if I might be above hoiking him upstairs. I don’t need telling twice, and Eddy spends his evening in three-star comfort, propped against a trouser press. The French know how to treat a bike.

Having patted him dry with a hotel towel, I turn to the urgent matter of sustenance: I haven’t eaten a proper meal since the crêperie in Dol-de-Bretagne, but this is not a neighbourhood replete with restaurants, and having lugged Eddy all the way up here, I’m loath to take him out foraging in the rain. Thankfully, Madame at the desk saves my bacon for the second time by pointing me in the direction of a supermarket, which, small as it is, offers an embarrassment of options for anyone as easily thrilled by food shopping as me.

I wander its aisles in a distinctly suspicious daze, picking things up, putting them down, goggling at the possibilities (Provençal fish soup! Microwave tartiflette! Instant noodles!). Experience has taught me that the opportunity to ingest vegetables is not one to be sniffed at in France though, so after about half an hour, and just before they chuck me out, I approach the checkout with half a kilo of spinach, a packet of potato pancakes, some salted cream cheese and a block of Brittany butter, and then go back for a bottle of local cider, because I feel like I deserve a drink.

I won’t pretend it’s the most gourmet feast I’ve ever prepared but I do feel better for having swallowed almost an entire bag of spinach drowned in butter and cheese, even if Eddy doesn’t prove the most loquacious of dining companions. It’s nice to see him there when I wake up at some ungodly hour though (curtain check: still raining, but perhaps a little less), and at least I don’t have to share the rest of the powdery pancakes, which are, as with so many things, much better slathered in butter and Marmite.

My first proper solo ride is to Le Faou, a ‘village of character’ about 30km south-east of Brest whose chief attraction is La Frégate crêperie, run by Christophe Beuriot, three times crowned the best crêpier in Brittany. As it’s closed from Sunday to Thursday in winter (which apparently lasts until June here), I’ve grabbed the first free table they had, and after reading woeful reports of people being turned away, even out of season (‘Drove 150km for a nice lunch …’), I’m keen to be on time, which means an early start – it’s not far, but I have no idea of the gradients along the way, and of course the weather still doesn’t look too jolly.

Though it’s rarely pleasant cycling into or out of a city, Brest has the great advantage of being on the coast; even I would struggle to get lost following water, despite the fact I can’t see more than a couple of metres beyond my handlebars. A huge bridge gradually looms out of the fog: the pedestrianised Pont Albert-Louppe, partially destroyed by the German Army in 1944 to halt the Allied advance, has a satisfying 888-metre span, bookended with rather grand 1920s gatehouses – and, on a wet Thursday morning, I have it entirely to myself. Though the tarmac is slick with standing water, and the views all but non-existent, it’s still a buzz to look out and imagine Newfoundland somewhere out there to the west, though in fact, when I look at a map that evening, I realise a fair bit more of Brittany stands between me and my romantic Canadian dreams.

On the other side, I discover that Finistère is a spiky place – the highest hill may be a mere 163 metres, but it gets there with commendable rapidity, and by the time I reach the top, it’s so muggy I tear my waterproof off with claws of desperation. While stuffing the damp garment into a pannier, I get the funny feeling I’m being watched and look up to find myself an object of intense interest for a field of cows, who have silently gathered near the fence for a better look. I feel the weight of their judgement upon my red face, and hastily move on.

Now that it’s finally stopped raining, I can see what I’m riding through: a landscape of stone walls and dripping trees and old-fashioned blue-and-white enamel signs to places with too many vowels stuffed into them – Kerouant, Goarem Goz, Stangmeur, Squivit.

The constant up and down slows the pace, and I succumb to low-level but mounting anxiety regarding my 12 o’clock reservation. The last 10km or so seem to stretch out forever, so I’m relieved to finally see the magic sign proclaiming I’m in Le Faou, twinned with Modbury, UK, and somewhere else in France, just in case Devon proves too exotic. I cross a medieval bridge, pass a 16th-century church and there, at the end of the main street, is the equally ancient-looking building housing La Frégate, the first floor overhanging the ground floor, and the second floor overhanging that, all rising to a slate-tiled point. A wrought-iron frigate in full sail dangles from the corner gable, and outside, men from the town hall are installing great boxes of flowers ready for the summer season.

As I tie Eddy to the tiny stretch of railings they’ve left unencumbered, I watch an elderly couple slowly peruse the menu outside. Had they then walked away, I would have been tempted to run after them to stop them making a terrible mistake, but fortunately they’re already seated by the time I bumble in, covered in chain grease.

Though the restaurant is otherwise deserted at 12.01, I’m still gratified when Madame remembers my reservation, and leads me to a table right by the open kitchen. Perfect. Once furnished with a bowl of cider, I turn my attention to the weighty menu, which kicks off with a lengthy mission statement outlining the criteria La Frégate has had to fulfil to be recognised as a Crêperie Gourmande. These include devoting at least 76 per cent of the menu (!) to crêpes and galettes, and retaining a crêpier with a solid knowledge of local and regional products, such as those provided by the list of suppliers underneath. It concludes with the plaintive note that ‘a Crêperie Gourmande is not a fast-food restaurant – thank you for your understanding’.

There are a handful of seasonal specials – a crêpe with wild asparagus, locally cured coppa pork and Parmesan, and one with abalone (ormeau, a new piece of vocabulary for me), purée of chervil root and more of that asparagus – on top of the standard menu, which offers 48 different possibilities, from ham and egg to seaweed and scallops. I feel panicky, much as I did when confronted with all those oysters, and briefly flirt with the idea of ordering them all in the name of research.

Fortunately, help is on his way, in the form of Christophe himself, who is doing the rounds of the rapidly filling restaurant to greet his guests and show off the ingredients of the moment – the spindly asparagus and fleshy abalone, a sea beast popular in Asia, though these hail from nearby Plouguerneau – ‘€75 a box, shell-on!’ – and a box of the chervil root: ‘Very, very rare!’ he says excitedly. ‘Not common at all.’ I agree I’ve never heard of it. Should I have it? Well, he says, abalone is abalone (unarguable); me, I’d have the asparagus and coppa. It’s made by a friend of mine up the road, and it’s really good.

I feel a great weight lift from my shoulders; the asparagus it is. Relieved, I sit back and indulge in a bit of people watching. There’s a party of pensioners, arguing over who’s going to order what, and a couple next to me signing at each other, which is annoying, because I can’t earwig on their conversation. Opposite is a lone man who looks like he’s on his lunchbreak. I smile tentatively, and then remember I’m covered in mud and oil, and go and discreetly try to mop some from my legs in the loo.

To be honest, he doesn’t look much more impressed on my return, but I don’t care because Madame has brought my crêpe, whose dark golden colour reveals the principal ingredient to be buckwheat. It’s a particularly fine-looking example, a neat triangle, with leggy stalks of asparagus snaking out from underneath a blanket of crisply fried coppa on a mattress of melted Parmesan. There’s even a proper salad, with batons of candy beetroot and discs of purple radish, rather than the usual limp green leaves. God, it’s good – the crêpe itself the best I’ve ever tasted, crisp on both sides, but soft within, its earthy flavour gilded with generous amounts of butter. I think I’d love it even without all the bells and whistles on top, delicious as they are.

I confirm to the young waiter that, yes, as the empty plate suggests, I enjoyed it very much, and naturally I have room for pudding, thank you for asking. On the sweet crêpe menu, which is barely less extensive than the savoury one, a summer special of local Plougastel strawberries with vanilla ice cream tempts me, but then my eye alights upon the Bretonne: a scoop of Breton butter biscuit ice cream, sautéed apples and salted caramel sauce, a description that suggests copious amounts of butter. The reality proves even better: there’s a shard of unadvertised almond brittle, plus a buttery little biscuit that crumbles in the mouth like a sweet and salty sandcastle. The crêpe, finer textured and softer than the buckwheat version, is consequently less interesting, though I still manage to polish it off without too much trouble.




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