Up and out of the hotel by 9 and at the ferry terminal by 9:30. We checked in and waited then queued and waited then went through security, just missing the bus to the ferry and so, we waited.

The bus returned for the second half of the foot passengers and we duly drove off for the three minute trip to the gangway. As soon as everyone was off the bus with their luggage, a woman with a scanning device told us all something in French and we all returned to the bus with our luggage. It was all a bit frantic and I wondered whether we were being taken back to the terminal for interrogation. Then, as the bus reversed, I spotted the gangway being taken away and realised we were going in the big entrance where the cars go.

This was the scene of more consternation as the bus driver attempted to reverse his vehicle. He eventually gave up after a lot of Gallic swearing and frustrated gesticulation and did a huge u-turn in front of the cars that were waiting to drive onto the ferry. We were unceremoniously dumped halfway up the ramp and made to drag our heavy bags up the corrugated surface meant to stop cars and trucks from slipping.

I was in something of a panic when I thought our only way to the top of the ferry was via the stairs until I spotted the lift. Normally I’d not worry but my injuries were starting to act up a bit with the constant heaving up and down of luggage and the lift was an essential rather than a luxury. It deposited us on the 6th floor where we dumped it for the duration of the trip.

After the first awful coffee since leaving the ferry many days ago, we found our reclining seats and reclined. We should be home in about 9 hours.

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The best bit of a holiday is getting home. After a long and uneventful ferry ride, we docked at Portsmouth Harbour, climbed aboard our waiting taxi and were driven home.

The house was still there (though silent without the poodles) and the mail was high, the grass has grown and the Verbascum banana custard is STILL growing!!!!

I have had no access to the Internet for the last 10 days but will update with my journal entries over the next few days.

Bastille Day. I was greeted by the singing of three French youths on their way down to the beach for an early morning dip. I say greeted…I was lying awake in bed from 5am and they sang by at about 6. When we left the hotel at 8:30, they returned, still singing, with even greater gusto. I’m not really keen on this part of St Malo. There are some pretty impressive mansions, like the one we’re in, but outside the big gates, the life on the street is decidedly lower.

So, today we were FINALLY going to take a boat up the River Rance, through the barrage and into Dinan. We’ve been trying for years but we’ve never been here on the right day. However, we had checked with the TIC before we left St Malo and there definitely was a boat leaving at 9:15 on Bastille Day. We organised an early breakfast and hotfooted it down to Intra-Muros.

We managed to get lost – ok, I managed to get lost and Mirinda just followed – but we still made it. Considering the fact that the bridge to Intra Muros opened and the road disappeared for a bit, this was amazing.

A boat was just pulling in. Relief washed over me like a fresh bowl of cherries. I asked the girl at the booth whether it was the boat for Dinan. She informed me there was no boat for Dinan today. I was confused, Mirinda was confused. There were a couple of signs outside the booth that were clearly as confused because they also said there was. Mirinda went back to the booth.

The facts of the matter were simple. There WAS a boat but the barrage was not going to open today so the boat had to be cancelled. The girl wasn’t happy. Mirinda wasn’t happy. I just ached because of my fall yesterday.

Advertised in the window of the boat booth was a special fireworks boat leaving at 10:30pm to view the Bastille Day celebrations from the bay. Given our knowledge of French, I’m hoping it isn’t the boat from which the fireworks will be launched. So we bought two tickets and will keep our fingers crossed.

We then went for a stroll out along the long pier which was lined in fishermen and crowned in black clouds. Half way along the rain started. The further out we walked, the harder the rain fell. We managed to get quite wet as the fishermen hunched about in the sou’westers. Like drowned rats, we made our sorry way inside the city walls and had a coffee in the place de marche legumes (the vegetable market square). We decided to return to the hotel.

Crossing the bay we stopped and admired the massive private yacht, docked at the quay and looking like a sporty naval vessel. If you had the money for something as big as this thing was, don’t you think you’d paint it a nicer colour than grey?

Sleek, expensive and painted grey

Just as we left the real naval vessel, we passed a woman with Little Orphan Annie hair. I pointed this out to Mirinda who immediately said “Little Orphan Granny”. Genius. I really wish I’d said that!

Back at the hotel, the room was not yet ready for us so we waited, damp and miserable, in the lounge area (at least we had our books) until it was. Finally we managed to relax a bit as the rain fell harmlessly outside the window. A little later we ventured out as far as the patisserie for lunch, which we ate on the bed.

Again it rained but, eventually, the sun streamed in through the window, the receptionists were lying on sun loungers in the rose garden and we decided to go hunting for a bottle of pommeau. Bastille day, being a public holiday, means most local shops are shut. As a result we found no pommeau. We did find a lovely rose garden in the grounds between a convent, a retirement home and a council estate. The roses were out in vivid colour as visitors shuffled their aged relations around in the sun to the accompaniment of loud, odious music from the council estate. The music aside, an enjoyable half hour.

Back at the hotel we rested some more. The boat for the fireworks did not depart until 10:30 so we decided to leave it quite late before venturing into St Malo Intra Muros for dinner.

And boy, was it crowded! Everyone for miles around had gathered for the spectacular fireworks. They were milling around, taking coffee, dinner, ice cream or just wandering aimlessly while their children played an odd game of chase around oddly designed flower beds. We took a stroll around the ramparts, which is always a delight, astounded at the number of lunatics swimming in the ocean.

The beach from the ramparts at St Malo

We sat at the first vacant table we found and Mirinda unsuccessfully ordered 12 oysters. She pronounced twelve perfectly but the waiter had no idea what she was asking for. It took a while for him to get her order. My galette complet was without complication. Given I’ve ordered now for seven years, I should think it would be right. The waiter probably wondered why I didn’t order for Mirinda seeing as my French was clearly superior.

After eating we took a coffee at a nearby café then queued unsuccessfully for an ice cream because we queued at the wrong end then successfully for an ice cream at another place. Mirinda asked for concrete flavour and it took forever for the girl to scoop it out.

We then stood and listened to a fabulous French café jazz quartet comprising a clarinet, violin, double bass and guitar. They were busking under the covered market, which was pretty smart as the rain returned on and off. They really were fabulous musicians and we could have stayed listening for hours but our boat was due so we wandered down to the dock.

One thing that amazed me (and will continue to make me wonder) is the ridiculous fashion for cardigans that appear to have had the wool removed from all but the sleeves and shoulders. What is that about? We watched a woman while we drank our coffee who was wearing one. From the back she looked like her waist went from her hips to her shoulder blades. I guess they are for women who want long sleeves but not the rest of the cardigan. I’m thinking they have not heard of long sleeved t-shirts or shirts. I bet her partner just agreed with her that it looked terrific while inside was silently wondering what the point of such a garment was. I know I would be. If anyone is reading this and wants to buy one of these monstrosities, don’t. They look bloody stupid and only serve to increase the profits of the cardigan makers because they can create a garment for less than half the wool and sell it for twice the price of a normal cardigan. Great business, fashion. Like lingerie. There’s not much to it, it’s rarely seen and it costs a fortune the smaller it is.

Anyway…back to St Malo. Intra Muros is very protected from the wilder elements of nature and you are taken somewhat unawares when you venture out of the city walls into the teeth of a blustering wind and fiercely pounding waves at the ferry dock. I was reminded of the film The Perfect Storm as the tiny boat came alongside the dock and a small band of brave souls clambered aboard. This included the family with the small, excitable dog and two women dressed as balloons.

Mirinda claims some sort of Viking ancestry. I’m assuming she didn’t inherit the sea-sickness from that side. We were fine sitting outside though it was cold and windy but the moment we sat inside, so she needed to move outside, her oysters starting to lurch somewhat.

Our little boat finally reached a spot about 5 miles off the city and sort of floated back and forth for half an hour. Then the lights went off and the fireworks started. As a spectacular fireworks display, they were pretty good (though of course, it’s always hard to judge them alongside the Sydney effort), moving from single flashes of light to big flowers of colour, spreading out across the sky and drifting down to the sea. It was a spectacular, as the guy on the boat kept saying. If there was music, we did not hear it.

After a good three quarters of an hour, the explosions stopped, the lights cam back on the boat and we headed back for land. The first stop was Dinnard then to St Malo. As we drew close to the dock, a huge crowd of people stood, waiting to storm the boat. They had been to the fireworks and were desperate to board the final ferry home. There was a bit of argy bargy as the crew tried to secure the boat and provide some sort of safe exit ramp for the few remaining fireworks spectacular viewers. As we stepped ashore and made for higher, dry land, we watched the ever increasing crowd straining to board. I’m pretty sure a few of them would have ended up swimming home. All in all, it was a very eventful and wonderfully strange way to spend a Bastille day evening.

The walk back to the hotel was quick which was a lot better than the journey for anyone stupid enough to drive into St Malo for the night’s festivities. Queues of barely crawling cars stretched for miles out of the city.

We made it back to the hotel at around 12:30 and fell into bed.

As we sat for breakfast, Madame asked if we heard the cows in the garden this morning. Mirinda told her about last nights experience and Madame was shocked. It was one thing to find them in the garden (they, fortunately, did not fall in the swimming pool) but quite another to think they had been roaming all over the property through the night! Madame had called the farmer who was in a bit of a fluster with regards to the whereabouts of his cows. He came and collected them. Madame was a bit surprised at how they managed to gain access to the property as they have gates everywhere. Clearly someone does not know the country code! Or the cows are quite dexterous.

We left shortly after breakfast and after long goodbyes, headed out of Pordic, towards the N12 freeway around St-Brieuc (and thank the gods it goes around St-Brieuc because it looks like an awful place). We were headed for Cap Frehel which is a nature reserve at the end of the Cape Frehel, surprisingly enough. It is supposed to be lovely; “the one truly exceptional spot along the cote d’Emeraude…” so the Rough Guide says.

The Rough Guide is correct. The coastline leading up to the lighthouse and then around the other side is beautiful. The cape itself is covered in heathland and granite footpaths, hewn from the rock just for the tourists. And there are a LOT of tourists. We parked the car and joined the throng heading towards the lighthouse. It was not very pleasant. We walked a little way and then turned back. There were far too many people. The beauty of a place like this is the desolation. It had none.

View from Cape Frehel

As we retraced our steps to the car park, dopey Gaz, busy looking at something in the viewfinder of the video camera, fell over. This would normally be fine as he regularly falls over, being pretty clumsy, however, along the granite paths runs a thin piece of cable, joined in places with a thick metal joiner. As well as grazing my knee and stabbing my arm with gorse spikes, one of the big metal joining things bashed me in the chest, winding me and causing some discomfort whenever I lower my left arm.

Anyway, I dragged myself to my feet, shrugged off the help that did not immediately appear from the French couple behind me and trudged on, my knee looking the worse for wear. Under my breath I cursed the witch woman back in St Malo and wished I’d not accidentally bumped into her.

Gary's wounded knee after the fall at Cap Frehel

Taking another footpath out of the car park rewarded us with a more empty area of the cape. Even so the crowds eventually appeared, but while they didn’t, we managed to enjoy a little peace.

Back in the car we pootled off back down the D786 towards St-Cast-le-Guildo, where we were going to stop for lunch. For the last few days, the D786 has been our constant companion through Brittany. It will be sad to bid it farewell. Well, as much as one can feel sadness at the loss of a road, that is.

We found St-Cast-le-Guildo, parked the car and wandered around the one way streets for a bit, unable to find anywhere to eat but finding a MASSIVE beach down a narrow little alley. We trundled back up the steep hills and had lunch in a creperie opposite where we’d parked the car.

Now, from the outside, the creperie looked more crap-erie than inviting but, both of us agreed, it served the best galettes we’ve had in Brittany so far. Fantastic. There are regional variations to the way the crepes are prepared so I’m guessing that explains it. Whatever it is, if you ever find yourself in the top car park at St-Cast-le-Guildo, pop into the creperie opposite, you’ll not be disappointed. The staff were also very friendly. As we left, everyone came out to wish us au revoir.

Apres galettes, we set off on the final leg of our journey back to St Malo. We crossed the Rance barrage, something I’ve wanted to do for a while. Way back when I was studying for my BSc, one of our modules looked at alternative power supplies and a whole lesson was devoted to the barrage. It was the first in the world to use tidal energy to provide power to a national grid. Sadly it came up lacking as it was supposed to be a viable alternative to nuclear energy and it only managed a small percentage of what was required. However, its success was being the first and proving that the science was sound and workable. In Britain, for years now, they have been debating whether to build some sort of tidal barrage across the Severn, in order to tap the energy of the Bore but, unfortunately (I guess) environmentalists would rather preserve the local flora and fauna rather than the world as a whole.

Anyway, we drove across it and it was a great moment for me. Mirinda didn’t appreciate the moment at all. It lasted about 30 seconds.

We then had the arduous job of finding the hotel in the St-Servan area of St-Malo. St-Servan was the original site of the first settled area (back before the Romans, even!) not that any of that is left. There are lots of little pokey back streets, one way traps and mad French drivers to negotiate. We managed it with only a few wrong turns and found the hotel.

What a lovely hotel! The building was once the home of a merchant mariner (they did rather well at St Malo though I’m pretty sure we’d probably call them pirates) and is grand on a grand scale. But we didn’t have long to enjoy the ambience as we were once more off, to fill the car with petrol and return it to its rightful owners. We were fortunate that they didn’t notice the pigeon dust and the bit that fell off the front in Binic. We then caught a bus back.

Before dinner, we went for a wander around St-Servan. Not far from the hotel, we passed through an arch and onto the beach area. Of course, being low tide, it was all beach and not a lot of water. A little further around from the beach is the impressive Tour Solidor. I stupidly mistook it for Norman when it was, in fact, built in 1382. Apparently, in cross section it looks just like the ace of clubs. I’m not sure how anyone would know this.

We stood for a while and watched a boat off load the biggest load of crabs we’ve ever seen into a fridge truck on the dock. It seems that this is a favourite past time in these here parts as we were not the only ones.

Off-loading lots and lots and lots and lots of crabs

A little way up the hill, roughly where the original town of Alert stood, are the ruins of a medieval cathedral which stood on the original site of a Roman villa, dating from the 3rd century. Flooded with history, we wandered back to the beach front.

To make up for the rubbish meal we had last night, we went to a fantastic restaurant tonight. While not as inventive as Margot’s Table, the food was still superb, the wine perfect and the service wonderful. We both had an enormous meal and staggered home under the weight of it.

Spent a lot of the day being damp and/or wet due to the rain which came and went. Worst weather day of the entire holiday…so far. Still, we never let that stop us.

Today was Isle de Brehat day. We took off up the main coast road to Paimpot and then out the other side towards the Pointe de l’Arcouest, from where the ferries leave. There is parking of various kinds; we took the 24 hour option and wandered down to the dock where we bought a ticket which includes a circumnavigation of the island before landing.

We managed to get a reasonable enough seat outside, on the top where we were entertained by the tannoy in French which we understood at the rate of about one word in 20. Made it very difficult so we gave up translating and made up our own version instead.

The Isle of Brehat at low tide, seen from the sea

It was very low tide so a lot of rocks were sticking up out of the water. They all disappear at high tide. The island is really two islands joined by a small bridge. When I say small, I mean very small. It’s about 15 metres and, while we were there, only crossed a load of mud.

We landed at the low tide dock which meant we had a long walk onto the island proper, along a winding dock where the high tide mark towers many metres above your head. The first thing you see is the Hotel Belle Vue so the first thing we did was sit down to lunch with the beautiful view looking back towards the mainland.

Lunch was lovely and the entertainment was pretty enthralling as well. A young couple were on the dock opposite having an argument. We couldn’t hear them so we had to make up most of the dialogue – actually ALL of the dialogue – but we could follow the action pretty closely from the body language. Not as closely as the two chaps standing about ten feet away from them who we should have quizzed. They’d have known what it was actually about.

Anyway, there was a lot of her with her arms crossed and him sitting, his legs hanging over the edge of the dock. Her feet were planted firmly on the ground and his hang dog expression was pitiful. And then he rose to his feet (he was at least twice her size) and the argument took on a more physical aspect. I don’t mean they started punching each other out! They just started waving their arms in the air.

At one stage he waved a load of objects at her that resembled cassette tapes. I can only assume he had made her a load of party tapes and she had left them behind and he was upset about it. Perhaps because she didn’t have a cassette player or didn’t know what a cassette player actually was. Then, having made the point about the party tapes, he deposited them in various places about his garments.

And then, just as we figured they had finished with each other for good and he was going to swim back to the mainland while she ended up working in the lighthouse at the bleak end of the island, they hugged. Then came the reconciliation. Lots of touching, hair brushing, kissing, hugging, lifting off the ground (he lifted her, she did not reciprocate) and, finally, they came over to the restaurant, sat near us and had lunch.

We finished our lunch, bemused and confused. We set off for the lighthouse via the bourg. The bourg in this case, is the centre of the island where the shops are. Interestingly the Isle de Brehat allows no cars. This is quite good as the island is not very big and the roads are minute. Sadly it means the locals take great joy in herding people off the small streets using their tractors. I don’t blame them. I think I would too. A lot of people visit this place and, apart from the people selling little for lots, it must drive the locals mad. Most of the ones I saw looked mad.

And I must not forget the bicycle riders. Millions of them. Like flies but far bigger. They fly all over the island, taking right of way unless surprised by a tractor, getting annoyed that some of us actually walk.

Just one of the annoying bike riders on the Isle of Brehat

I’m making it sound horrid but it wasn’t. The island is lovely and the walking fairly easy. It’s only small. It takes about an hour to walk the entire length! The houses are lovely and the absence of traffic is wonderful. The island is home to some beautiful wild flowers and tended gardens and lots of birds.

We walked all the way to the lighthouse Paon which looks like it was created as CGI for a Lord of the Rings film. It nestles into the pink granite like so much celluloid fakery. A wonderful structure, almost art nouveau in its design. To cap it all off, the rain started as we wandered around the base. Wind and rain lashing us from the sea, we fought to maintain our footing. Some less brave French tourists huddled under the only shelter on the lighthouse – the lintel over the door. It looked about as effective as a Kleenex.

Crazy tourists huddling for shelter under the lintel of the Paon Pharos

Damp and happy, we slowly wandered back, stopping for the smallest coffee I’ve ever had, in the smallest creperie just before the lighthouse. It was pretty strong just concentrated in a tiny cup – like an espresso – and took longer to wait for than to drink.

As we reached the dock for home we were greeted on our long march by the ticket collector from the ferry telling everyone to walk back, the dock had moved because of the rising tide. Mirinda was sure a sign would have worked better but I think this guy did a wonderful job pushing us all back. Besides the sign would get washed away twice a day.

We were a big throng, waiting to board the 5 o’clock ferry back to the mainland. Most of the throng was related to Stefan, who was nowhere to be found. Judging from the people who were very concerned about his whereabouts, I think he probably stayed on the island to escape them all.

We had our doubts we’d fit on the ferry but fit we did and we were soon chugging back to where the water had risen so much that the gangplank was almost vertical when we left the boat.

The dock at Pointe de l’Accouest at low tide, returning from the Isle of Brehat

Walking up to the car park was a bit of an adventure. I didn’t think walking up the road was a good idea so I followed a sign that pointed the way for pedestrians. When we reached a fork in this path with an arrow pointing right, Mirinda dismissed this vital bit of information, demanding that we go left. Left we went and the nicely laid path ended in a dead end. Clearly we were not the first stupid people who thought the path that headed towards the car park was, in fact, a path to the car park and not to a large metal shutter over an opening in the hill, because we found a path worn in the mud and between the trees leading us on, into the foliage around the car park. We slid down the final hill and found ourselves where we needed to be. As we reached the car, the rain started again.

As we pulled up by the car park kid to pay him, the rain came down harder than any rain I’ve ever seen in Europe. The car was slowly filling up with water as the kid counted out my change by the cent.

Only one slightly bizarre incident marred an otherwise uneventful drive home. At one stage a wood pigeon dive bombed the car. According to Mirinda, it suddenly dropped from a tree. I figure it must have been commiting suicide. It hit the side of the car, leaving traces of the white powder that birds lose from their wings when they run into windows, on the side of the car. Otherwise there was no other damage.

We had a rather disappointing dinner tonight. We had spotted an Italian restaurant on our first visit to Binic so we thought we might try it out tonight as a change from Breton food. I really, really wish we hadn’t. It was pretty bad. Mirinda had ravioli – the sauce wasn’t bad but the pasta and filling was not in the last tasty. I had saltimbocca, a favourite dish which I also cook. It wasn’t saltimbocca. Although it was veal, it was a different dish that the waiter had clearly taken down incorrectly, and it was tough. The sauce was not very nice. All round, the meal was ghastly. We didn’t bother with dessert, coffee or a tip.

We went to the ice cream place instead where Mirinda had white chocolate and Ferrera Rocher flavours and I had pink bubble gum and popcorn. Fabulous. I am SO going to miss the ice cream place at Binic.

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Sleep was disturbed! Mirinda woke in the middle of the night firmly believing there was a bush fire in the woods next to the chateau. It was not a bush fire, however, it was a bunch of mischievous cows out for a night on the razz. And, no, they weren’t trying to light cigarettes under the shelter of the trees. The flickering light was caused by loads of fishing boats out at sea. The bush fire noise was the cow’s hooves through the undergrowth as they walked deeper into the woods. This place is so ridiculously quiet that Mirinda was disturbed by their breathing. Needless to say, I slept through it all.

Actually I had a great idea for the first episode of a sitcom but I shall not write about it here!

Rain! Outside, through the window, we can no longer see the sea. All we can see is the rain. It is only light but there is a lot of it. How depressing! It didn’t last too long. We had breakfast, sat in our room for a bit studying and then it stopped. We went out.

Today we saw something that Mirinda has wanted to see for years. The chapel at Kermaria-an-Isquit, dedicated to Itron Varia an Iskuit, which is Breton for St Mary of Healing. I had no idea. The thing that makes this little place famous – and the village is very little though the car park is quite large – is the frescos on the walls of the church. They depict the dance of death; the danse macabre. A long line of people holding hands with cadavers as they all dance a jig. The paintings are high up the walls of the church. Originally, each picture would have had text beneath it and the rest of the walls would have been brightly patterned. At some stage, the walls were covered in whitewash and it wasn’t until 1856 that someone found them and, by doing so, saved the church from destruction by an overzealous parish priest who’d rather have a new one.

Part of the Danse Macabre fresco at Kermaria-an-Isquit

What is left of the fresco is amazing. You can clearly see the skeletons between each type of person (the king, the bishop, the beggar, the lady, etc), all of them holding hands. The idea is that we are all equal when it comes to mortality. You can be the pope or you can be a rope maker but we are all going to die sometime and will wind up dancing a polka with a skeleton sooner or later. It really is fascinating.

Another amazing thing about this church is the porch. The Rough Guide reckons it is the best preserved in all of Brittany and, from the ones I’ve seen, I’d agree. It is rare to find a porch which retains its statues but this one does. It is very impressive.

After a long stay at Kermaria, we drove on a little further up the D786 to the small village of Kerity where the ruined Abbaye-de-Beauport is located. Fantastic place. A little like Tintern Abbey in that it was an abbey and it’s now a ruin. Very similar bits left.

Interestingly, Beauport was established as a way-point for pilgrims on their way to Spain from England. Because of this, the abbey received regular payments from four parishes in Lincolnshire. When the monasteries were dissolved, this cash instantly dried up and the Abbey had to survive on its own wits. It doesn’t appear to have had many. It soon fell into disrepair – the sea wall collapsed a number of times because they did a lousy job fixing it.

Cloister in the Abbaye-du-Beauport

What is left is a lovely romantic ruin with lots of wildflowers, bushes and wildlife invading it. We spent an age wandering from room to room and managed to work up two big appetites. Luckily, just across the road, is the Abbaye Creperie. What a coincidence. We had galettes and coffee. The creperie is memorable for more than its food. I’m ignoring the woman in the strange red shorts and the long wait to have our order taken.

More memorable is the fact that the light in the toilet is somehow connected to the lock on the toilet door. This means you enter the toilet, shut the door and, in complete darkness, lock it before the light will come on. Classic. I like the originality of the arrangement and would like to try something similar but, it does occur to me that if one could connect the light switch to the lock, one could just as easily connect it to the door handle.

Full, happy and slightly bemused, we drove on, still following the D786, to the small town of Treguier. It has a lovely medieval square and a pretty sizeable cathedral. The beauty of this cathedral is that it has the tomb of St Yves who died there in 1303. He was so trustworthy, he became the patron saint of lawyers. His skull is still there. On display. He had quite a small head. The jokes about him are far too obvious so I’ll not indulge.

The other thing about Treguier is the statue of Ernest Renan who was born in the town in 1823. He was a writer and philosopher who worked tirelessly trying to marry the dual concepts of religion and science. He became quite famous so at the beginning of the twentieth century, the local townsfolk erected a rather interesting statue of him – it looks like he’s walked up the steep streets from the quay and collapsed exhausted on a bench, a beer bottle having been added quite recently. Incensed that such a heathen should get a statue outside the cathedral, the Catholics of the town put their cash together and, in retaliation, erected a Calvary of Reparation, which seems to have made them feel a lot better. I really hope the same person made both statues. What a great job.

The statue of Ernest Renan in the centre of Treguier

We had a lovely wander around the twisty streets, admiring the half timbered houses with the impossibly sloping floors. We admired the art class, dabbing at their easels being watched over by a clapping art teacher. We walked back to the car and drove off. All the way back to Pordic and the apartment for a bit of a rest before we going out to dinner.

Happily rested we bound down to Binic, eager to once more savour the offerings to be had at Margot’s Table. Imagine our horror when we found that it was not open on Sunday nights! But it gets worse. They are also closed on Monday nights which means we will probably never eat at Margot’s Table again! Unless we find ourselves near to Binic one day at dinner time. Not likely but possible.

So we ate at Le Grande Large which, to my limited French, appears to be called The Big Big. Anyway, the food was good, like most French places (though not quite like Margot’s) and we supped well, before heading to the giant ice cream parlour for an after dinner glace. I had Smurf and Crème Brulee while Mirinda had Snickers and Violet. All of it was truly odd but delicious in that way that only ice cream knows how.

I’m not one to generally moan about the cost of things. I figure you can afford them or you can’t and if you can’t then you don’t buy them. Simple philosophy. However, sometimes the sheer audacity of some people gets right up my goat. Take the small sandwich shop along the main road in Pontivy. Today there was a market – a lot-of-tat type market not fruit, veg and all things yummy – and it was very hot (33° at one point). People were milling in their thousands (or at least it felt like it). Mirinda wanted a diet Coke so she went into a Tabac and was told to go to the sandwich shop across the road.

One of the things we have a bit of difficulty with in France is numbers. Up to ten is usually ok but after that you really depend on any shop signs or the cash register. This sandwich shop had neither, just a cheery French girl who spoke rapidly. Now, a can of Coke in Britain would normally cost under 50p (unless you’re stupid enough to buy it at Waterloo station), 75p tops. At the present exchange rate, that’s pretty equal to the Euro. For people in Australia, remember the cans are quite small (33cl) and not the normal size.

I handed the girl a €1 coin. She inspected it, wrinkled her nose and said something which clearly meant this was not enough. I gave her 50c more and still her nose wrinkled. By this stage I was pretty shocked and amazed her nose could wrinkle quite that much without twisting off. This wasn’t a gold plated can I was buying and I wasn’t in Harrods. I decided to just give her a €2 coin and hope it wasn’t more than that. She handed back the shrapnel and some change. The small can of coke had cost €1.60! Unbelievable. And it didn’t even have any sugar in it. I fancy it was because they are the only shop selling cold drinks and the temperature was above 30.

So, dear traveller, be warned, when buying a diet coke in Pontlivy, don’t. It’ better to take your own from somewhere outside of town. Sadly, I discovered that this is the standard price for Coke Light in Brittany. When you can get it. Some places they’ve never even heard of it.

Apart from the little episode above, we had a lovely day. After breakfast we both worked on our separate assignments in the room overlooking the oyster farm (Madame said it was okay for us to hang about till noon as the cleaner wouldn’t be getting there till late) and then slowly packed and left.

On the way to Pontlivy, we thought we’d drop in and see the famous Venus of Quinipily near Baud. It gets a big mention in both the Michelin and Rough Guides. Sadly the sign pointing to it is very well hidden and we didn’t see it until we were about three miles further down the road. The traffic through Baud was pretty tight and crowded as well so we weren’t about to turn around and go back. Next time, maybe, we shall see the famous Venus of Quinipily. She is apparently something to see.

Baud was pretty much a blur of traffic and tight Breton roads, winding in and out of pretty Breton houses and then, we were out in the open again. Most of the driving throughout today was through open countryside or forest. Both could have been anywhere in England. It’s remarkable how similar the landscape is…though not so remarkable when you realise that the land was joined once and was all part of the same mass. Though, of course, there was no-one building houses or selling Coke then.

We continued up to Pontivy and parked in the huge square at the bottom of the very big market. We love the way that in Brittany parking is designated either white or blue. If it’s blue, it tends to require payment, if it’s white, it’s free. Both colours are generally together except the white is always further away. Not a problem for us. Fantastic. So, of course, we parked for free and set off in search of some lunch.

Pontivy on market day

We fought our way up the street, passing the covered stands full of over-coloured lingerie, kids’ t-shirts, weird labour-saving devices for the kitchen that take longer to wash than anything else in the kitchen, and the general rubbish you find you just have to have, until we reached the top of the street and a restaurant. Exhausted we were shown to a table.

We were served very quickly and our drinks arrived but then the long wait. Two weeks later, our lunch arrived. It was lovely, it just took a looooooong time. We ate, we paid, we left. It was then time to find the Chateau de Rohan.

The chateau was built by the Rohan family, who also built the fairy tale chateau at Josselin (see our previous trip to Brittany) and it looks very similar from the outside. Inside, however, it is just a shell. A nice shell, though. I remember Josselin and having to be taken around with a guide. This place is much better. You just roam around. Excellent. Not that there’s a LOT to see. The biggest surprise was the impressive fireplace that came from somewhere else and was installed in the Chateau in 1960! The art installation by Koki Watanabe is worth noting as well. He has a big thing for water, clearly.

Chateau de Rohan, Pontivy

We had a jolly good wander around and then wandered back to the car. Getting out of Pontivy was a bit of argy bargy but eventually we were on the open road once more and headed for Pordic, our home for the next three nights. This meant going around the massive city of St-Brieuc. Thank the gods for the by-pass! What a hot and snarling mess of cars, trucks and motorbikes. The most traffic we’ve seen all trip. And a traffic jam! Our first in France. But it all ended soon enough and we arrived in the delightful little village of Pordic.

We had some very detailed instructions on how to find the place we’re staying in, for which I’m eternally grateful. We didn’t have much of a signal so Mirinda’s little friend was of limited use.

Tonight we had one of the best meals we’ve ever had. At a restaurant in Binic, a port about 10km from Pordic. The restaurant is called A la Table de Margot. Unbelievable. We will probably go there again.

We thought we’d missed breakfast this morning. There is only a narrow window of an hour and we woke at the end of it. However, Madame kindly allowed us to have our petit dejuener late. I was very glad, given I’d not had a coffee for quite some time and we would have to drive into Trinite-sur-Mer for an emergency caffeine injection. We were saved this, however, and had a pleasant wake up rather than a growly navigator type wake up.

After fortification, we had to pack up and move. The room we are in has been booked by someone else so we are moving into the much bigger, with private terrace, kitchen and fridge, two doors down. We would have happily had this room for the full three days but it was booked by the banana custard couple from Farnham. Anyway, this is luxury and we are very pleased. Having a fridge for beer and milk is a bonus.

I should explain the banana custard reference. The couple have a sporty type car (obviously I have no idea what it is given I know nothing about cars) that is slightly yellower than the Lotus, mustard yellow. It reminded Mirinda of our verbascum banana custard and so the couple, clearly being named for the colour of their mode of transport, became the banana custard couple from Farnham. Sadly, if they did the same, we would be the grey couple from Farnham.

We decided today we would look at some dolmen and menhirs. Locmariaquer, which is just down the road, has heaps of them. It is also on the edge of the Gulf of Morbihan, which we cruised around during our first visit to Brittany.

We flew past the car park for the big stuff and ended up wandering around a point of land at the bottom (Pointe de Kerpenhir), looking out to sea, sweltering hot, searching for a single rock (Menhir Men Letionnec). As we gave up our fruitless search and headed back to the car, we spotted it in a hedge. It wasn’t as impressive as the map would have you believe. We then went to the proper place.

Searching for the missing rock at Pointe-de-Kerpenhir

The Locmariaquer Megaliths is simply amazing. A long barrow (longer than a football pitch), a table like dolmen covered with stones and an enormous monolith (over 20 metres high when erect and weighing more than a jumbo jet) collapsed on the ground, in three pieces. The whole thing is pretty much a mystery of how, why and for whom this whole place was built. No-one even knows if the big monolith was pushed over or if it fell from natural causes (earthquake, big wind, very heavy rain, gravity well, etc).

They were built around 6,000 years ago and most of the big rocks were transported both across land and water, several kilometres using pulleys, logs, some sort of boats and sheer man power. Archaeologists have found various areas of ground which seem to indicate a place were the large stones were dragged. It’s pretty amazing when you try and get your brain around the problems associated with such a massive endeavour. Try working out how you would move a jumbo jet, without wheels and the ability to fly, from one hill to another with water in between. Then turn it on its end.

The two burials have been reconstructed and you can walk into one which has rock carvings at the end which were present in the original. Being burial chambers means they would have been used for a dead person then the entrance filled in. The electric lights now installed would not have been necessary; the dead can see as much as they need in the pitch black.

Reconstructed burial chamber at Locmariaquer

Anyway, it was an amazing place and we enjoyed wandering around it. Mirinda particularly enjoyed the gold bracelet she bought which is a recreation of a find in one of the burial chambers. It is particularly beautiful and delightfully simple.

After sweltering in the sun without benefit of any liquid, we headed into the small town of Locmariaquer for lunch and a much needed drink (we really should take water everywhere with us, given that French sites rarely sell refreshments). Lunch was delicious and taken on the terrace of the Hotel D’Escales, overlooking the bay and the islands of the Gulf of Morbihan. It was about as perfect as you could possible get. I had a lovely grilled salmon and Mirinda had a salad which included scallops and langoustines. All delicious.

We then wandered back through the town (via the small seafarer’s church), stopping off at the Spar for tea, coffee, milk, coke zero, beer and a tuba, before heading back to the apartment.

It is truly amazing how many places around this part of Brittany begin with the letters ‘Ker’. In just the area where we drove this morning there is Kerpenhir, Kerere, Kerivaud, Kerhelle, Kerlogonan, Kerlaval, Kerhern, Kerveresse, and so on. I could keep listing but it’s going to get pretty annoying. Upon reading the Michelin guide, I have discovered that ‘Ker’ means village in the Breton language! Sort of like ‘ham’ means village or settlement in Anglo-Saxon and most big places in Australia are named after titled English people. Lots of houses are named ‘Kir’ something and not sure what that means unless it means house rather than village because the ‘e’ has been replaced by an ‘i’.

After a little rest at the apartment, we drove off to the Carnac Grande Plage (the big beach at Carnac) for a swim. Big crowds! Lots of family groups pottering around with sand castles, shovels and buckets. Kids with nets running hither and thither declaring they’ve caught a shark…actually that’s an assumption as my French isn’t very good and they could have been yelling “Look, mum, I’ve managed to net a handful of gravel!”

It’s nice the way the French seem to invite their entire family down to the beach. From the smallest children in caps, t-shirts and swimmers right up to the ancient grandparents who seem not long for this earth as they totter around the edges of the tide. It all feels very safe and pleasant. Of course, this could be because there’s no surf to speak of and not a lot to interest the young. The bars are also well back from the beach and not lining the beach. This clearly makes a difference here in Carnac.

One old couple I watched while Mirinda was snorkelling about, I called Lemon Sherbet (her) and Violet Cream (him). This was mostly because of the clothes they were wearing which were, strangely matching although different colours and patterns. While they were very, VERY old and pale and not used to being in the sun, it was obvious they loved spending time with the little ones. Violet Cream was particularly keen on digging a hole with one toddler’s shovel. In fact he kept digging even after the toddler had gone in for a swim. Lemon Sherbet, definitely a bit more sprightly, was having a fine old time helping in sand castle erection. It was all very sweet.

Back at the apartment we showered, changed and set off for our last dinner in this part of Brittany. We liked Locmariaquer so much, we decided we’d eat there again. And what an excellent choice. The food was superb, again. Very confusing, however, was the Irish waiter who started speaking to us in French then switched to English. Disconcerting to say the least!

Following a very fine dinner, we wandered the streets for a bit, amazed that the carousel was attracting children to ride at 9:30, then drove back to the apartment. A marvellous day. Tomorrow we’re off to Pordic.

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And then came the night of the strange visitation. I was fast, deeply, asleep, immersed in some wonderful place where the archaeology lies scattered on the ground, ready for me to pick up rather than dig for. Suddenly something moved in my t-shirt. This woke me up quick smart! I thought it was a moth or some other night time bug. I patted the back of my shirt, trying to rid myself of it. I couldn’t feel it anymore and assumed it had gone. I once more closed my eyes, eager to rejoin the weasels in this easiest of digs.

Something furry brushed against my face and I leapt up, narrowly missing the low sloping ceiling. Running across the back of the bed was a grey furry mass, determined to reach Mirinda, sleeping soundly next to me. I reached out and grabbed it, swinging myself out of bed at the same time.

I found myself holding a wiggling, squirming mass, teeth and claws trying to find purchase. Madame has a new kitten. She has been ‘training’ it not to enter the guest rooms. Clearly it hasn’t learnt much so far. We had the terrace window open (it was too hot to have it closed) and the kitten must have invaded that way. It wasn’t that keen on being chucked out but chucked out it was.

I stood guard at the terrace window for a bit, sitting at the small table. My eyes were not keen on remaining open so I soon went back to bed. The cat was not seen again and sleep soon returned.

At 8am, I opened my eyes and looked out the huge windows. I could see nothing but what appeared to be, milk. I figured it was cloudy and the angle I was lying meant I was looking straight up into the sky. Getting out of bed made no difference. It was fog. Good and thick. I could just see the fishing cages across the road but of the river, there was nothing. Oh, great, I thought, the perfect day to go wandering around prehistoric boulder alignments. I needn’t have despaired. By the time we had breakfast (about 9), it had all gone and the skies were bright azure and the sun was starting to beat down.

We seem to be doing something right on this trip. We are always one step ahead of everyone else. This means we get breakfast straight away, we see the stones straight away, we find parking easily, we get served beer quickly, etc. It’s like we’re ten minutes ahead of the crowds. This is a GOOD thing although quite accidental.

Anyway, we set off for the Carnac alignments, which are not very far from where we are staying on the outskirts of St Philibert. They are a series of stones, erected in lines around 6,000 years ago. No-one knows why. Most people, flaying around for a reason, claim it is religious. I expounded the theory that they represented the dead like gravestones do now but without the body. When we bought a guide book it appears that in the 1950s children would sing a song saying pretty much the same thing. In fact, these cheery rustic children would wait by the stones for the tourists and then force them to listen to their song about the dead. Reminds me of the Christmas carol singers of Haslemere.

Just a few of the thousands of Carnac alignments

There are three main sites and we visited all three. You can’t walk amongst the stones any more because of the erosion caused by all the feet but you can get pretty close. They do have guided tours where you can get close to them but they are rarely in English. In fact, the next one is in a weeks time. So we just wandered around. Back at the apartment, it occurred to me that we could have easily gone on a French tour and ignored the guide, just to get up close and personal to the stones.

Legend has it (there’s quite a few legends, actually, but I quite like this one) that St Cornelius hid in an ox’s ear from a load of Roman soldiers and, to thank the ox, created an ox cult. The only link with the stones is the legend that he turned a bunch of pagans into stones as he was escaping and also that some have been found with the image of oxen carved into them – the stones not the pagans. I love these strange stories. I particularly love the fact that god said we should not worship anything except him and then this Cornelius guy (who became pope in the 3rd century) decides it’s ok to start worshipping cows. The Roman Mithras cult was a soldier’s cult of the bull…that seems awfully familiar. And how big was the ox for this guy to be able to hide in it’s ear, anyway?

But, back to the real world…I do wonder why people want to touch these things. It’s the same at Stonehenge. Are they expecting some sort of transference from the ancients? And, if so, transference of what? A closeness to nature we no longer have? Or how to sacrifice a goat to the great god Baal? I don’t know. Although I’ll admit that I like touching them too, but have no idea why.

As the crowds gathered, we climbed into our little French car and headed off to the beach. The coastal part of Carnac is called Carnac Sur Plage and the Grande Plage is grande indeed. A lovely sweeping expanse of white sand with a few isolated dots soaking up the sun. We had a quick drink in a bar and then wandered barefoot along the edge. The water was quite cold at first but was soon refreshing our toes.

I think they need a bigger umbrella!

We walked into a small street of beach side shops which were, strangely, not beside the beach – that’s where the houses are which seems far more sensible – and settled on La Bolero for lunch. We sat beneath the shade of the orange cover and watched the world walk by. It was lovely.

After lunch I bought a pair of white trousers which I tried to find in Farnham but was unable to, and then we wandered back to the car. It was then back to the apartment for a wee siesta. Nothing quite like sleeping through the hottest part of the day.

We woke and went looking for a beach for a bit of an evening swim. We found a lovely little beach back around towards Carnac called Met du. We settled down on the sand then realised that the tide was going out. The water was up to your knees as far as the eye could see. About a mile out to sea, people were bending down picking up mussels. It was quite odd. Still, unperturbed, Mirinda went for a swim. She actually went for a snorkel without a snorkel, or so she said.

It was all very refreshing and, alarmingly, the tide continued to go out as I sat on the sand watching for the return of my wife. As she didn’t have her glasses she managed to get completely disorientated and was wandering in the wrong direction before I managed to rescue her.

Back at the apartment, we sat around with the other guests (all English and two of them from Farnham!) and had a drink and a chat before setting off for dinner. Being a simple soul, I took just a big wodge of cash, which proved insufficient for the restaurant Mirinda decided on. We had to eat a bit more down market than we had anticipated. Still, the pizza with 15 types of cheese was interesting, to say the least. The fact that the dessert menu was offered then not brought over was annoying, particularly when they started putting them away for the night. We assumed that what the waitress had said, rather than “Would you like to see the dessert menu” to which Mirinda answered “Oui”, was “Do you understand, we must put the desserts to bed?” to which Mirinda still answered “Oui”.

We wandered for a bit, enjoying another ice cream from the ice cream place then back to the apartment to a beautiful sunset staining the river scarlet and purple. Joy.

Sunset over the oyster farm, St Philibert

The morning was spent lazing around St Malo, walking the walls, having coffee. We checked out of the highly recommended Hotel Chateaubriand at 11 and caught a bus to the station where we were to pick up the hire car. This all went remarkably smoothly, possibly because Mirinda sat and read her book, only rising to sign where she had to sign, and I took care of all the formalities. Anyway, we didn’t take long and were soon on the road in our little light grey Corsa.

Getting out of St Malo is always a bit of a pain – lots of traffic, many roads to choose from – but we were soon beyond the snarling traffic and pootling down the motorways of Brittany, on our way to St Philibert.

Lunch was had following a rather bad navigation error which had us travelling in the opposite direction to that which we wanted to go. Fortunately I spotted the error and Mirinda suggested we rely on her ‘little friend’ for the rest of the trip, which possibly saved us from divorce. I should explain that Mirinda’s ‘little friend’ is her iPhone and it has a version of SatNav on it. It knows where we are (sort of) and can show us how to get to places (also sort of). While it led us into a huge mess in Ploёrmel, most of the journey was fine and we pulled into the small town of St-Meen-le-Grande, which has a very old abbey that is not mentioned in either of the guide books we have.

The town hall in the centre of St-Meen-le-Grande

We went for a wander down to the abbey first – stretching our legs after the hours spent in the car. It’s an 11th – 12th century abbey and, while pretty unremarkable on the whole (it actually just looks like a church) there is a wonderful series of frescos in a small chapel off the main aisle. Had it not been for Mirinda’s insistence, I would have missed them. They were fantastic. Clearly I shall have to find out some stuff about this abbey as there were no guides in the place (in English or in French).

We had lunch in a small bar. The woman wasn’t too pleased (I think their lunch time ended at 2pm and I trundled up to the bar at 2:15) but I managed to sweet talk her husband in my poor excuse for French, into getting us some food. We sat out on the footpath and enjoyed our drinks, Mirinda her salad and me my Croque Madame, which is a Croque Monsieur with an egg on top.

The temperature, according to a roadside thermometer, has risen above 30° and I’m rather glad the car has air conditioning although it should be against my principals to use it. We drove through the stunning French countryside until we reached the small fishing village of St Philibert. The directions given to us by the owner were excellent and we managed to find the place without a problem.

The room is big, light and airy, compliments of the pair of big windows that look out over the river. It didn’t take long for us both to drift off into sun drenched slumber for an hour or so. We were then into the shower (which is fine but couldn’t possibly compare with the Chateaubriand shower…no shower ever will compare) and off to La Trinite-sur-mer, a lovely little port.

Some of the boats moored at Trinite-sur-Mer

The first thing that strikes you about the place is the amount of boats. According to the Michelin guide, there are 1200 moorings and I think most of them were filled. It is like a forest of masts, a yachty woodland. Incredible. So many boats. Of course this set Mirinda off on her ‘let’s buy a boat and sail round the world’ thing.

We rather fancied The Quai, a cute little restaurant opposite the marina but it was clearly very popular and, therefore very full. We wandered along the avenue until we found a place that seemed ok. It was, basically, a bar that served food. However, the food was lovely and the service was splendid…what more could you want? Mirinda had her moules (this time with Roquefort sauce) and I had an interesting tuna thing in a curried béchamel sauce with broccoli! Yay! I love the broccoli.

After dinner we strolled around the marina and the market that was just packing up and ended up at the ice cream seller. A lovely double cone with pistachio and caramel, just about finished my day off. An odd thing about the main street through Trinite-sur-Mer is the raised medium strip that divides the traffic. It has bollards at either end, split only for pedestrian crossings. Just in front of the Tabac, there is a fairly long section that is just right for a car. In England, people park half on the footpath when they have to just run in and buy fags or whatever, in Trinite-sur-Mer they drive their car up onto the medium strip, scraping the bottoms of their cars in the process and sit astride it. We saw this happen a number of times so it wasn’t a one-off. The mechanics and panel beaters must love them for it.

I realise that I haven’t mentioned the weather! It has been glorious blue skies and sunshine so far. True holiday weather. Tomorrow we’re going to brave Carnac and take in a few ancient alignments.

According to Mirinda, our cabin was like a prison cell…if the prison cell had a flat screen TV, pink sheets and no window, maybe. On other trips, we’ve had a double berth cabin, which means I’m stuck pressed against the ceiling. This cabin, down in the very bowels of the ship, is a four berth jobbie, which means we both had bottom bunks. Very comfortable…although I spent most of the night listening to the scuba divers scouring the barnacles off the bottom of the boat.

We arrived, disembarked and strode into St Malo. We wanted to have our usual galette at the Unicorn but it was not yet up and running! We had a coffee next door and then, having left our bags at the Hotel Chateaubriand, decided to go for a wander around the city walls. We managed to get all the way around in 45 minutes.

Back at the Unicorn we tucked into a lovely breakfast of galette complet and coffee. Excellent tradition.

We couldn’t get into the hotel until 2pm so Mirinda decided it would be a good idea to visit the aquarium. After a long chat with the trainee tourist person at the TIC, we boarded the number C2 bus and managed to find the aquarium stop.

As aquariums go, it’s a good one. While not a very good indicator, on the Gaz scale, it’s not as good as some but it’s a hell of a lot better than the one at Lyme Regis. We wandered all through it, in and out of the fish tanks full of exotic things. I particularly liked the big doughnut room where you could lie on the floor on cushions and watch the fish swim round and round. Very relaxing. Well, it was before the 30,000 ravenous children arrived.

Mirinda tries to steal a scallop from St Malo aquarium

The highlight of the aquarium (for me at least) was the nautibus. This is French for submarine. It is at the end of the trip through the aquarium. It is a ride, like the ski lifts at the Jorvik Centre in York, except it’s underwater. You start from within a sort of cave where you step from the bank into a shell-like structure with spiral staircase going beneath the water. These are floating by, like rides in a funfair. Down the stairs are four seats and a small window.

A voice starts and the dials go crazy as you feel like you are descending deep into the water. The small window clears and you see fish, statues, shipwrecks and many other bottom dwellers. It’s a bit odd but fun. Sadly, it only lasts five minutes.

Mirinda tried to steal a scallop but otherwise we managed to make a clean escape onto a bus back to St Malo where we checked into the hotel. And what a lovely hotel it is! The room is gorgeous. It looks out over the plaza and has a little terrace. We can even see the sea!

After a short granny nap, we ventured out to buy some lunch. We managed to find the greengrocer from three years ago, bought some fruit then a baguette. On the way I nearly bowled over a very small, very old French woman and her freak of a dog. I also dropped Mirinda’s baguette on the ground and had to go back and buy another. I thought it strange that after 19 years of marriage she was still astounded that I was clumsy.

I am convinced that the old woman was a witch and the evil spitting dog was her familiar. Rather than “Oh, I’m awfully sorry. Do forgive me,” I think what she said was “I curse you, English scum! The next time you are carrying a baguette, it will leap from your bag and roll all over the filthy floor! And you will be sworn at by your wife for your stupid clumsiness!” And it worked. Fortunately, as I explained to Mirinda, these sort of curses are only good for one incident and I was lucky it happened so soon after seeing her. Sadly, this was not true as my inherent clumsiness would once more rear its ugly head in the days to come. But enough of this evil devil worship…

Interestingly, the hotel has WiFi and a very strong connection but nowhere in the room or when I registered, do they tell you about it. You need a login and password so, I assume, it costs extra. Why then do they not advertise? We’re only here one night so I’ll not bother. How much easier would it be if they used the login screen to advertise, firstly the hotel’s facilities and secondly, the wheres and hows of the WiFi connection. They could even have a start page with lots of different flags, denoting the language. You click your own flag and are then taken to a page of instructions just for you. This would be really, really easy and cost virtually nothing. Makes you wonder why they don’t bother, doesn’t it. It could have a menu for the restaurant, a TV guide, rates for the WiFi, local taxi numbers, etc, etc. They could even sell ad space for local businesses. I really should be in marketing…

We had a bit of a feast in our room and a general relax until a parade invaded our window at about 6pm. Very loud bands and, presumably, lots of people. It was all just out of sight but it cleared the street beneath our balcony for a good half an hour.

The shower in our room is a sort of waterfall affair and is absolutely fantastic. I wanted to take it home. Nothing to complain about in the bathroom.

We had a lovely stroll along the beach all the way down to…well, whatever is down there but quite a long way passed the Intra-muros. We spotted a rather odd woman walking her cat. It was on a lead with one of those harnesses that small dogs sometimes have. It was most peculiar.

It was then to dinner. We went to the Café le Lion d’Or and Mirinda had oysters followed by a chicken while I started with grandma’s coddled egg (which was seriously delicious) followed by suckling pig in honey (again, sensational). We were both too full for dessert so we settled for coffee then a stroll. Mirinda also decided to have a cocktail for a change. It arrived with a sparkler in it. A bit disconcerting. Very alcoholic, she said.

Mirinda had an interesting chat with a couple about their poodles. They had a black and white one. Mirinda was trying to talk to them in French (both the couple and the poodles) but it turned out they were actually Polish. Fortunately they (the couple) spoke English so Mirinda stopped pretending she was French. Of course, she discussed poodles. The black one was only a year old and was a 30th birthday present. The white one was about 8 and had turned up in Krakow, lost and looking for a home. She adopted it.