Pre-amble
The May Day bank holiday brings opportunities and challenges for a quick dash to France on the wheels. The Cherbourg Ferry begins its summer season to Portsmouth, which opens up Normandy nicely. Combine that with the long daylight hours and freshly re-born, almost empty and unsoiled campsites, and all looks good to go. There is, then, just the small matter of the weather. This time last year it was short sleeves and shorts; this time around, the night time temperatures are forecast to hover just above 0 on the first night with a nice deluge during to follow on the second night.Moving seamlessly into the past tents, we summoned a train to Plymouth and rolled on to the 20.45 crossing after enjoying the sights of Union Street. Recliner seats on the overnight ferry have to be booked at £5 per backside, while cabins start at around £55.00 for two. Best to book accommodation early and take advantage of BF’s deposit system. There is a reasonably priced restaurant and the bar is OK too though the beer is questionable.
If you are too excited to get off to your cosy cot or recliner, Brittany Ferries serve up all kinds of talent-contest level entertainment. In the main bar with its stage, we were transported to the mysterious alternative magic world of a conjuror who magically stunned his audience into silence. After he had disappeared in a puff of blue smoke, we were treated to an acoustic duet that had, sadly, not been silenced by the previous act. The overnight ferries are very popular with school trips and the antics of coachloads of over-excited teenagers who’d escaped the clutches of their safe European homes for the first was more entertaining.
The cabins are a bit cramped for two sets of pannier sets and male grooming kits but everything is clean, neat and tidy and the powerful showers give you an appropriate kick up the derriere to get you wide awake for the French roads at 8.00.
We constructed a route combining bits of the Tour De Manche velo route and some short cuts to get us to Dol de Bretagne over three days for a train to Caen.
My panniers were bulging with extras – sleeping bag and thermal quilt, fleece tops, trousers, thermal socks, thermal shirts. During preparations, I had also cast an eye over my selection of tents, just as Harry Palmer would do with his wardrobe full of suits in one of those spy capers in the 1960s. My selection – two in all – covers both types of weather: wet and dry. With a ‘wet’, in this case the Vango Banshee 300, I can pack everything up including the inner tent without ejecting any baggage while the heavens open. I can also do this comfortably kneeling and without contorting myself. Possessing such advantages, this huge tent is heavy and requires temporary planning permission, almost.
The geography of Brittany and that of SW Devon and Cornwall are quite similar in that some very short rivers produce disproportionately sized estuaries. The Fal, Fowey, Helford and Kingsbridge have their counterparts in The Morlaix, Treguier, Trieux and Gouet. Both regions are also very hilly, possessing plenty the short sharp shock variety for the hilaholics.
Day 1 Roscoff to Luannec
Roscoff to Morlaix is an easy, pretty starter for ten. South, down the Roscoff peninsula through Saint Pol de Leon and across to Carantec, the route joins the Morlaix river estuary that takes you south into the town with its impressive railway bridge, built in 1861 and a national monument, that dominates the skyline.
Morlaix to Luannec crams nearly 4000ft of elevation into 40 miles. Brittany is hilly with short severe climbs both on the coast and inland with many towns perched up high. Unlike its neighbour, Normandy, Brittany survived WW2 pretty much intact and the ups and downs will take you through very tranquil sleepy old unspoilt villages.
Rather than go back up the Morlaix estuary on the east bank we cut across country on the D46 to head for Kernu and Bel Air and our first couple of steep climbs. The roads at this time of year seem quiet but that may have been because of the gloomy and chilly weather. We eventually met the coast at Moulin de Rive.
The sea off the north coast is pockmarked with rocky outcrops that eventually take on a pink hue further east on the Pink Coast. We stayed by the sea and the bays, which managed to look picturesque despite the grey sky, until Saint-Michel-en-Greve then cut across to Lannion.
The Garmin, which had been behaving particularly badly until then, managed to guide us through the town’s alleys and paths. From Lannion it was a simple hour’s ride north to the municipal campsite at Luannec. We were the only tents and there was just a smattering of caravanners in this pleasant spot right by the beach. The skies cleared for a beautiful evening as the temperature headed for 0. The sweep of the shore that extends around to the adjacent town of Perros Guirec has plenty of evening fare and there is a Carrefour Supermarket over that way.
Campsite – about €18 for three tents and blokes and electricity. Low Season.
Day 2 Luannec to Saint-Quay-Portrieux
We had the best of weather for this cross-country route to the east coast. It wasn’t possible to follow the coast but we joined it a few times as the road dropped down to a beach. By now we were on the Cote d’Armor, which extends eastwards to St. Malo.
Just beyond La Semaphore the road is a ford across an inlet. Apart from being too deep at the time, bikes and salt water do not mix unless you have immediate access to freshwater. So we cut south to Penvenan, as time was also pressing, and were immediately faced with a short 20% climb. Penevan was in the throes of market day and the ubiquitous coffee and croissant had to be postponed. France and Britain are noticeably different out in the sticks. Being a nation of shopkeepers means that Britain’s villages will at least have a shop and a pub. For some reason all you are likely to find its French counterpart is a coiffure – handy if you are desperate for a short back and sides or highlights for your mullet.
The D70 took us around to the dramatic estuary at Pont Saint Francois before the bridge over the larger Treguier river.
The sun was still around but the clouds were gradually filling the blue gaps ominously. Once again the hillage was slowing us down. I had given up with the garmin as a navigation device and milometer as it kept crashing embarrassingly. The crashing was one thing; the five minute wait for it to make re-establish contact with a herd/flock/gaggle of satellites was just too much.
The Bellevue campsite in the northern hills of Saint Quay-P had just opened up for the first day of the season so everything was spotless. The campsite lies atop a cliff with nice views eastwards. The town and bars etc is a mile or so further down the coast.
Campsite – €20ish for the three tents and blokes plus electricity. Low Season.
Day 3 Saint Quay to Lamballe
Just after I returned to my cocoon of man-made fibres from the usual midnight ramble to the shower block, the silence of the night was infiltrated by the pitter-patter of tiny raindrops upon the stretched membrane of my Banshee. By morning this had turned into a downpour. And so began the slow, meticulous process of striking a tent from within. I am a cyclist that happens to camp and not camper who happens to cycle and so this was not enjoyable. To this end I cut corners; I commit blasphemy: I don’t bother with the folding of tentage - I stuff the inner and outer loosely into my front panniers then worry about the drying some other time.Needless to say the deluge delayed our departure. The route through hillage to the south-east was the continuing Tour de Manche. Today it was particularly rambling and fickle, taking us all over the place and so time was rapidly vanishing. The GPX route for each section is available at the TourdeManche site but beware as it is quite unforgivingly steep in places.
We made it to Binic mid-morning just in time to reach the cover of a rock music bar, where our cafes au lait were served with sugar, a biscuit and a guitar solo, before another downpour drifted over. From Binic the wanderings of the TourdeManche cycle route became just too erratic – and steep - and so we cut inland to follow a decidedly unattractive but direct path beside a red road to get to Saint Brieuc.
On the IGN map Saint Brieuc looks as if it is a continuation of the Riviera-style resorts that we had just passed through. But, the rusty neglected hulks of yesterday’s yachts on the dry docks below the town were a prelude to an ugly place in which dodgy geezers hung about under bridges and in poorly lit doorways exchanging small packages. If you can avoid Saint Brieuc, do so. One redeeming feature of the town is the railway station – not only because it provides a quick getaway but because the building was relatively impressive. We had intended to catch a train to Dinan due to the heavy rains that were stalking the Cote d’Armor that afternoon but the train was not for three hours. We had a choice: cycling in rain down busy dangerous roads without having had lunch while already wet so as to pick up the train at Lamballe – or spend three hours in Saint Brieuc. We cycled. 
After a takeaway pizza eaten in the forecourt of an exhaust fitter while enjoying a fine drizzle, the sky brightened for a great ride to Lamballe, where we hopped on a train to Dinan to avoid getting caught up in torrential rain. It is always wise getting to a station early and find out from the operatives where to stand with the bikes as space is limited and best to get in first.
It started to chuck it down as we arrived in Dinan, an extraordinary step back in time about thirty miles from coast on the Rance river. All kinds of half-timbered buildings leaning, warped and weathered, over narrow cobbled streets – all the buildings that is, except our hotel, the Duchesse Anne, – a most peculiar establishment of linoleum floors, check table cloths and funny looks, but one that served big frothing glasses Leffe. Cyclists turning up in a hotel foyer, one of whom has plastic carrier bags wrapped around his feet, while the other two simply drip, must enforce a momentary clench of the buttocks in the concierge’s underpants. I must try the caper at Claridges or the Ritz. We opted for three singles as we all had stuff to dry.
Dinan centre ville is crammed with well-preserved medieval buildings and it has also retained its imposing 13th century battlements and ramparts, which overlook the Rance river. There is a Cotswoldy feel about this tourist magnet with its bijou eateries, clotheries and souvenireries. The Breton shirt is a catchy little number. Breton galletes are tasty buttery biscuits. It is all very rather nice. The Duchesse was not so cheap (£67 each including a perfunctory breakfast). Even if you are camping, if you know you are heading for a particular town, avail of the free cancellation policy of many hotels at booking.com and pencil in a hotel just in case of a meltdown in the temps. In ours, we had left the campsite earlier that day with a lot of wet gear that was quietly fermenting away deep down in our panniers and it had poured down through the evening – just as we would have been putting up our damp tentage and so the hotel was a no brainerie.
We grossed out in a cute little number on one of the squares, finishing off with crepes with Chantilly cream.Day 4 Dinan to Dol de Bretagne.
The weather was inexplicably brilliant – a cloudless sky welcomed our early start. The roads were still damp after the nocturnal drenching as we took to the river down below. This could have been Matlock Bath but for the enormous viaduct traversing the valley. We headed north on a cycle path along the river – bays of yachts, tranquil lagoons – the usual eyeball pleasing fare, which all looked fantastic in the rich colours of the sunny morning. We eventually had to rise up to the road so as to cross the splendide/superbe vintage suspension bridge at La Pommerais.
From there we duck and dived our way, courtesy yet again of the well-behaved Garmin, to Dol de Bretagne – an attractive town despite having more fast food outlets than the Mile End Road. We opted for lard and chips from Eddy’s of The High St. Today’s mission was to get to the ferry at Ouistreham at about 10pm. So, we could dawdle – and we certainly did – and we also had time to sit the worst of the rain out, which seemed to have appeared, as if by magic, from nowhere. We took the train from Dol to Bayeux and headed up to the increasingly unappetising coast, being, as it was, suffocated below a blanket of heavy grey cloudage. It was my second time on this somewhat eerie coast. Off the shore the debris of the D-Day landings can still be seen and you might pass the occasional nasty Nazi bunker. Going east from Arromanches there are Gold, Juno and Sword beaches, where British and Canadian troops hit the shores, with plenty to see in the way of museums and memorials.
This was my second time in crappy weather along this coast and so the afternoon graveyard shift really did drag, cycling along the same paths recalling what a drag it had been in the drab weather the time before. The cycling along the coast shares the front with pedestrians and it pleasant even in naff weather but occasionally the path comes back on to the main road.
This stretch of coast is dull and featureless for the most part but that is more than made up for by the sense of history. One other saving grace are the weird houses along the front at Lion sur Mer. Creepy looking Gothic horrors mixed with mini chateau-style houses of the grand style – and all seemingly very empty. Unlike most of the coastline here – east and west, these houses managed to make it through the war in spite of the DD landings.
We arrived at Ouistreham with plenty of time to eat. And, plenty of time for the rain to invade the evening. Waiting for the ship to board, we were drenched.
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