And so we bade a fond farewell to the rapidly diminishing granite blocks of St Malo.

Bye, bye St Malo

The ferry was full of Brits and French was slowly replaced by English as the language most oft overheard. We are surrounded by a lot more misery – whether this is from the end of holiday blues or just natural inclination is debatable. Last night in the brasserie, seated behind Mirinda were two English couples who were miserable for their entire meal. They talked, they ate, they drank but never once did they crack a smile or laugh. In direct contrast, a table away sat a French family (mum, dad, daughter) who cheerfully enjoyed themselves.

After waking, packing and breakfast we went for a short walk before climbing aboard a taxi for the short trip to the ferry terminal. Interestingly there was no security or x-ray check, no metal detectors and, except for a cursory glance at our passports by a single French girl in a Brittany Ferries uniform, no-one stood in our way of importing any number of vicious weapons or drugs into Britain. I assume this will happen in Portsmouth, since the Brits are so concerned with terrorist attacks at the moment. Hopefully we won’t get hijacked by some lunatic who tries to sail us straight into a lighthouse in some slow show of defiance for England’s continued presence in Iraq.

We sat in the bar and I wound my watch back to 10am with a celebratory John Smiths which tasted of the gas they use to make it all frothy. That means it didn’t taste very nice but it’s beer and English beer which explains why the French are unable (or unwilling) to tap it properly. French beer is all very well but it IS lager and not my personal choice.

We then retired to our £2 extra reclining salon chairs on deck 8, as the sun in the bar was beginning to fry Mirinda’s arm. I was sent to find a diet Coke, returning a week later with a warm bottle. “I can’t drink warm Coke!” she exclaimed immediately prior to untwisting the top and taking a large swig.

We then settled down, she to a magazine me with Travel in the Ancient World (comparing water crossings with the Greek and Roman experiences). Then from somewhere vaguely behind us came a chirping.

What is it with people who need every hour announced? They have these annoying digital watches that go beep-beep, beep-beep every hour just loud enough to penetrate whatever mental state you’ve managed to attain. Is it a harkening back to ancient times when the bored guard on night duty (and I assume the only one with a watch) would yell out the time every hour. How annoying would THAT have been if you lived opposite the ramparts. Or is it a need to witness every hour as it slips inexorably past. Whatever it is, most of these watch bearers NEVER look at their watches after the tone, none of them have appointments and they all lie back with a “I’ve got that hour counted” smugness which I find beyond comprehension.

Perhaps it’s like trainspotting, accounting for each and every train number. It could be a technological thing. Either “Hey, look what I can do!” or, more likely “I have no idea how to make this stop doing this every hour“. The worst thing is in a theatre. There is guaranteed to be a few in the audience and they are NEVER synchronised, so a simple beep-beep, beep-beep becomes a recurring symphony of various tones that begin 5 minutes before and extend to 5 past every hour.

Halfway across the channel we took a walk around the ship and had some lunch. There was a very smelly man queuing at the food – I’m sure he’s clean but his clothes could have done with a scrub about three years ago. He was about 50 with a wife, or so she seemed, so why do his clothes smell? I had the misfortune of running into him again while off buying my giant Maltesers. I made a big show of holding my nose and avoiding a good vomit but it had no effect on his iron hide and dead nasal passages.

The ship docked half an hour earlier than scheduled and we were waiting at the taxi rank just after 6. No x-ray, no metal detectors, just a cursory glance at passports…again. Of course Mirinda, being an alien, had to fill in a form. Interesting how she had to do this but had no problem with the £3m worth of cocaine in my bag. I guess it’s just red tape: dotting the teas, crossing their eyes.

I forgot to mention that Mirinda watched the ship docking procedure, including the little guy with the moving ramp and it was this that has inspired her to keep a journal. This lasted about 10 minutes.

Our taxi arrived spot on time, (same dapper driver) which meant we had a 20 minute wait, watching a new batch of merry holiday makers, making ready to depart on holiday. The trip home was smooth and only took half an hour. We were home just after 7.

It’s great to go away but getting home is always wonderful. Popped into Sainsburys for supplies – had cold chicken and salad for tea and watched English language TV. Rang mum and dad at 11, read all my emails, bed about 12:30. Wanting to take advantage of no dogs to wake me early!

All in all, this has been a most wonderful holiday and one I will remember with a great deal of fondness.

Hotel Gradlon

Up at 7, Mirinda up at 7:20, breakfasted, packed and checked out by 8:15. On the train at 8:30 having found out where the shortcut is.

Very comfortable train. One of the best things about these trains (along with the comfort, cleanliness, leg room, seat room, speed, toilets, police, and guards) is the automatic doors. That comforting swoosh is all a body needs to feel safe and sound in it’s little cocoon. This is in direct opposition to the trains I catch to work where the only swoosh is the mass of commuters who get on at Ash Vale and rush to the back of the train, leaving the doors open and banging!! Err mm, sorry…

Also just love the fact that there’s dogs on the train. For this trip to Rennes, we had a wire haired terrier and a silky, both sitting in the baggage section with their mistress, good as gold.

It was a very pleasant journey on a rapidly filling train, sitting opposite two girls who Mirinda swears were lesbians. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. One of them looked a lot like Sally Kay…I pass no opinions. Actually the one who looked like Sally Kay kept dozing off but would snore and wake herself up, looking accusatory at Mirinda. How could she possibly know?

A lot of people with brats, some with pleasant children. Countryside all looking most inviting. Rain at Vannes and we cast snide glances at the Hotel Mascotte. Arrived at Rennes a little late, passing on the outskirts massive fields full of new Renaults, all lined up in harvest ready formation. Had a coffee at Rennes while waiting the 1 hour 18 minutes for our St Malo connection.

Interestingly, Rennes appears to have a non-smoking room as opposed to the rest of the world. It is a glass box with seats in it. It was empty. Actually, Rennes station is exactly what a cross roads should be like. People changing trains, going up from one platform then crossing to go down to another. A lot of people milling around the newsagent, not buying, just waiting for announcements. And some weird individuals.

A guy who’s head seems too big for his body shovelling two sandwiches into his mouth at once. I found that a bit weird. You can’t eat any more than a mouthful. There’s a family of funny looking chaps who seem to be speaking some middle eastern language. Very happy and cheerful and centred around a short guy with an extremely dapper cravat, sports jacket and beard. Sort of midget cross between Saddam Hussein and Noel Coward.

The train ride to St Malo was very uneventful except as we were about to depart Dol station. A man and a child (perhaps awakened from a deep sleep) starting pounding on the automatic doors. “Merde!” the man cursed as he tried desperately to escape from the carriage. A group of people on the platform eventually drew the attention of the guard to the man’s dilemma and some other guy (without a uniform) appeared with a key to let him out from the inside. As Mirinda wryly commented “Wouldn’t happen on a slam door train.”

At St Malo we had intended to catch a bus back to the city but we did not reckon on the wisdom of Breton holiday timetables. Apparently it’s a lot of fun to timetable ALL buses to arrive only on the hour. As we arrived at 25 past the hour, we figured a taxi was the better option. We got back to the hotel, dumped our bags in the room directly above the room we previously had, then went out for crepes at the Unicorn Café.

The population of St Malo has increased to around 400 million since last week. All of France is here; man, woman, child, dog. There’s not as many cars on the cobbled streets but only because there’s so many people, there’s no room! We had yumbo crepes then walked around the shops and finally walked out along the ‘cobb’ to look back at the walled city in the dark light of black clouds. Yes, that’s correct.

After 9 brilliant blue days, the black clouds started to lumber in and we had an actual shower of rain that lasted 5 minutes. We grew tired of the multitudes and went back to the hotel and both dropped off to sleep for a few hours. We woke up at 6 to a return of the blue skies – I’m assuming the black clouds have gone to south east England.

Mirinda performed her (almost) nightly ritual of trying to find The Simpsons on the tv and, as usual (except for that one time) was unsuccessful. All she could manage was Woopi Goldberg in Sister Act dubbed in German. Interesting.

Went out for dinner at 7, as usual missing the crowds. Went to Les Voyageurs Brasserie and sat outside. Mirinda had oysters for the final time while I had a warm goat salad which, strangely, had more cheese than goat. After a yummy duck main, we went for a final walk around the ramparts in a lovely sunset. We said au revoir to all the lovely bits of St Malo which have become so familiar. We finished, naturally, with an ice cream.

From the ramparts

Back at the hotel about 9.30 and to sleep.

Up at 8. The celebration of Easter appears very muted around these parts. Actually our hostess at the Gradlon Hotel hadn’t actually known it was Easter until yesterday when she accidentally spotted a couple of Easter eggs in a nearby chocolate shop window. I guess it’s the public holiday thing: if you don’t get one there’s no natural reminder, especially now that church is no longer mandatory. If Christ died for our sins what does that say about the sin of forgetting the fact that he died at all? Maybe it’s because the date changes every year. Imagine if your birthday was determined by the movement of Mars. I’d forget mine! Actually I forget mine anyway so let’s just leave it there.

Breakfast was the usual bread, butter and coffee. Very nice bread, butter and coffee. Mirinda rang Bob and Claire for Easter so I went for a walk around town. Quimper starts to wake up from 10am so it was like strolling through yawns and stretches.

The guy who invented the stethoscope was called Laennec and the café in the piazza is Café du Finistere – Finistare being the area of Brittany we are in. I sat next to the impressive statue of Laennec while lots of little kids screamed with mixtures of delight and abject fear on the Jules Verne Carousel to the accompaniment of two boys terrorising pedestrians on their micro scooters. Actually the 7 year old was teaching the 6 year old HOW to terrorise.

Laennec

Looks like another lovely blue sky day with a cool breeze, keeping the temperature bearable. One little kid sitting in the cockpit of the slightly bigger Jules Verne bi-plane had vanished as the carousel completed a rotation and his father freaked. He leapt heroically onto the spinning contraption then, relieved beyond belief, dragged his child up by the shoulders, out of the hollowed insides of the ride. It was hilarious…but perhaps you had to be there.

At 11:15 the cathedral bells went crazy, the massive doors opened and masses of mass goers poured forth. Suddenly the quiet, deserted Quimper was noisy and full. Then after 10 minutes, the bells gradually stopped; like an ocean liner trying to brake, it took quite a while.

Mirinda joined me at about 11:30 and we went to see the cathedral – finally. By the way, all well at Dural – Mirinda told her nanna we were in France to which she said “Ah, yes, I’ve been to Florence.” Mirinda then corrected her saying, “No, France.” Her nanna then replied “Yes, Florence. I’ve been there.” in true Monty Python fashion. Think of the secret service sketch.

The cathedral has to be the lightest we have ever seen. It is painted with light colours, has acres of stained glass and even electric lights. It made a very pleasant change from the usual dim and dark places we tend to find. The cathedral is dedicated to St Corentin who, legend has it, was sought out by king Gradlon who, on finding him, begged him to become the bishop of his capitol, Kemper (Quimper). Interestingly Corentin was a hermit who caught the same fish in the same well every day, ate half and threw the rest back which miraculously reformed for the next day and for this he was canonised. I guess he was the compleat angler. Anyway, Corentin became the first Bishop sometime between the 5th and 7th centuries.

The construction of the cathedral started in 1239, stopped for a bit during the French Revolution in 1793 then continued well into the 19th century with the construction of the marvellous twin bell towers. An amazing sight is the dog’s leg down the middle aisle. From the doors you cannot see the back wall. I guess that’s what happens when you ask for tenders and the construction work covers centuries. There’s no explanation for this kink so I put forward the theory that the person responsible for the drawings folded them wrong.

There’s a lovely statue of St Joan in one of the alcoves along the side as well as countless (actually you could count them but I didn’t) stained glass windows of glorious Biblical stories. There’s a little altar to Santik Du, a Franciscan monk from Quimper who would give bread to the poor with a little table by his statue and people leave bread there every day, anonymously and other people (presumably poor ones) equally anonymously take it.

Joanie

After church we popped next door into the Musee Departmental Breton. Lots of great old stuff in a wonderfully set up building. It was originally the bishop’s palace…I have no idea where he lives now. Included was a wooden statue of our old friend St Sebastien, from the 16th century. He had 7 arrow holes but only 1 arrow was intact. It was the one through the heart so pretty much the fatal blow. The museum included lots of dummies dressed in Breton outfits through the centuries. All very interesting and interestingly, free.

Afterwards we went outside and climbed the ramparts to walk round the city walls ala St Malo. After about 100 metres it was over. Not a lot left!

We retired to a café then back to the room for a break. Mirinda put the BBC on and I argued with the Dateline team about the US in Iraq situation.

We had our usual 7pm dinner, this time at one of the only restaurants open on Easter Sunday: an Italian/French place with a very friendly maitre’d who spoke excellent English. And he didn’t care what we wore or that I drink beer. The meal was lovely and I’d recommend it if I could remember the name. Actually I found the name on the bill. It’s La Villa F (like Christiane without the heroin). We had slivers of veal (they call it minced) in sauce and pasta preceded by a green salad (grass and olive oil for the uninitiated) followed by pavlova (Mirinda) and tiramisu (me of course). Afterwards had our last stroll around Quimper.

It was a lovely night, spoilt only by the unlicensed motorbikes, buzzing around the cobbled streets. One day, if a whole bunch of Garys get together in Quimper, we will pounce on one of these putt-putt bikes, throw the rider and his moronically grinning pillion passenger to the cobbles and proceed to kick the noisy thing to death. Call me unreasonable (Mirinda does) but I hate them! We had one in Aldershot, mosquito boy I called him. I know they don’t care. I know they’re just kids with little (if anything) to do with their time. I know their parents have no idea where they are and what they’re doing. And I now realise everyone else is a lot more tolerant of them than I am though I have no idea why. But I have to ask: why have such a lovely old cobbled town with narrow streets and pretty painted buildings if you’re just going to fill it up with cars, buses and pesky motor scooters????? Quimper seems massive beyond the old city walls so WHY DO THESE IDIOTS NEED TO ANNOY ME? Grumble, grumble.

Ok, enough of my political scariness. We made our way back to the hotel and bed. Early start tomorrow as our train leaves at 8:40!!

Went down to the terrace for breakfast. Plenty of coffee and carbohydrates. Mirinda remained asleep. I’d written about 10 words of my journal when my only pen ran out. A lessor mortal may ask why I didn’t have a spare. I would tell this smart arse that I was using the spare because the other one ran out of ink in St Malo! Surprisingly Mirinda didn’t pack a pen for herself. So, my first impossible task for the day was to track down a stylo noir.

I did quite well, actually. In Le Tabac opposite the cathedral, I managed, in appalling French, to buy two.

Back at the hotel Mirinda woke at 9.30, gently easing into the day.

Gradlon, for whom this hotel is named, was an ancient king of Brittany who, legend has it, threw his sister to the devil in order to save himself. Sounds a lovely sort of chap. On top of the cathedral is a statue of him astride his horse. In the past some guy would get on the horse, behind the king, offer him a drink, wipe his mouth and throw the cup to the crowd gathered 400m below him. It was claimed that anyone catching the cup in one piece would be rewarded with lost of dosh but no-one ever managed it! This probably explains why the French do not play much cricket.

Our first stop of the day was to be the cathedral but a service was in progress so we crossed the piazza to the Musee de Beaux-arts de Quimper (or in Australian, The Museum of Quimper’s Beaut Art) instead. There’s some beautiful paintings of rural Brittany on the ground floor. One in particular called Adieu! (Alfred Guillou 1892) is deeply moving (and massive). I have ‘nicked’ a copy from the website but if you’d like to read more about it (and have a MUCH better hold of the French language than I do) try here.

Adieu! Alfred Guillou, 1892

Upstairs are some older paintings including, I’m happy to say, another of our old friend from Tuscany, St Sebastien or He of the Arrows. This version has only 5 arrows and 2 of those missed! His attackers can be seen fleeing as he beseeches into the heavens, his clothes in a neat heap beside his cross.

St Sebastien

It was painted by Francesco Albani from 1605-10. I’ve surfed the net but can’t find the exact painting but it appears he painted the same subject in Italy! It’s very similar so I’ve put it here to give an idea of what it looked like.

The whole museum was excellent and highly recommended but be sure to arrive with plenty of time to visit as, like everything in Brittany, it closes at 12. Because of this, we had no time to trawl the shop and, instead, retired to the bar next door, which spills out onto the piazza. Mirinda had a civilised cup of tea while I had a less civilised but tastier Leffe.

Now, I know the French stand for liberty and believe man (and woman) should be free in most things but I thought they were religious and they held the church in pretty high esteem. At least until today. As we sat drinking our refreshments a drunk, in broad daylight with people scattered hither and thither, proceeded to piss on the outside wall of the cathedral. The most amazing thing is that there are heaps of free public toilets in Quimper. No-one did or said anything. Quite frankly I thought it was disgusting and should be discouraged. They’ll be pissing on Le Petit Train next! Mon Deiu!

We then, once more, tried to see the cathedral but it was now closed for lunch (or possibly a hosing down) so I decided to climb the hill that overlooks the town while Mirinda wrote some postcards in the park at the bottom. After a steep rise of 80 metres I could not see Quimper for the trees.

View from Mont Frugy

Glimpses of the town showed how dull and grey it appeared from above – it is actually quite colourful at ground level. I descended a surprisingly litter strewn Mont Frugy, picked up Mirinda and we headed towards the pottery world further down the river.

The Pottery Museum of Quimper is in the Loc-Maria area of town. It is located on the site of the original Porquir Factory. As you could imagine, it’s full of pottery. Because of the quality of the clay and the river, production started here back with the Romans but the Quimper-ware began in 1690 when Jean-Baptiste Bousquet installed his kiln there. Suffice to say, the whole place was very interesting. There’s a Wikipedia entry about Quimper faience here.

Afterwards we visited the shop. This, in contrast, was very scary. So much beautiful stuff, so many euros! As I say, and probably stole from some American tourist, “Travel broadens the mind and reduces the wallet.” We now own 2 little tiles for the outside wall of the cottage and 2 plates for the wall inside the cottage. The cost is not important. I figure if I keep repeating this mantra, everything will be fine.

We were then decidedly ready for crepes and so headed back to town to find masses and masses of people but all the creperies closed (for lunch?). It seems that from some time after lunch, the word ‘savoury’ has no meaning in Brittany. You can get plenty of sweet pastry items but if you want a proper late lunch you have to go to the food market and try and buy 2 batons and some slices of delicious honey smoked ham and make your own! Which is what I had to do.

We ate our ham rolls in our room and watched a heated debate on BBC World. Dozed and read till about 7, then popped out for a coffee at the café opposite the cathedral. No way were we hungry (there was a LOT of ham) so, instead, we went for a stroll, looking for the normal people’s homes of Quimper.

Just outside the old walled town and along one of the three rivers we found grey buildings, flats and box-like living spaces. Also drunks and a very large car park. The river was very nice to look at and full of surprises, especially when a plastic bag suddenly turned into a big white duck. It’s probably some sort of prey catching device developed over the aeons in order to fit in with it’s environment. It’s interesting that you don’t have to go far out of the old town to find litter, graf and the homeless.

Or, if you are desperate to see the homeless there is one particular chap who seems to just wander through the town in circles. Catch his eye and his lunacy shines out like a directional beacon to the asylum. Walking back through town we passed him a number of times. I think he was a smack addict on his own private roundabout. You’d say it was sad but he was very happy and cheerful looking, smiling and chuckling maniacally.

Back at the hotel, Mirinda spent sometime flipping, trying to find some English TV. In doing so I managed to catch the unfortunate and depressing news that Aston Villa had beaten Chelsea 2-0!! Subsequently I didn’t sleep well.

What a rotten night we both spent! It started with Mirinda suddenly complaining about how cold it was. It wasn’t cold by ANY stretch of the imagination but she put all her clothes on and the quilt, 2 blankets and the sheet and lay there shivering. I’m lying there thinking either she’s not well or I’m feverish. A little later she was too hot (Ah, not me then!) and opened the window so we could be entertained by a couple of drunk, French singers under the round-a-bout subway system outside. I’m sure their act is very good but being French, it’s subtlety was completely lost on us. As the morning dragged on, basically being hauled behind lots of cars in bad need of a bit of maintenance, the room got hotter until Mirinda exploded “It’s like a fucking coffin!!” This didn’t manage to make the room any more comfortable but was probably better out than in.

I waited for the clock to reach 7 before going down to breakfast for a life giving coffee. I wished Mirinda happy birthday before I went but I think she’d have preferred it to be tomorrow. These buffet breakfast places are weird first thing in the morning. Businessmen and old people who don’t sleep much any more. All sitting at separate tables, not saying a word. Eventually a few couples appeared and a bit of life came with them. Pity, I kind of liked the anonymous solitude.

I decided to give up on the breakfast mayhem that is the Mascotte Hotel and go and sit by the cathedral in the old part of Vannes. For one thing it’s cooler. Although it’s Good Friday, quite a few shops are open and the renovators are hard at it sawing stones for the front of the cathedral. I sat in the Place Henri IV, one of the slightly shorter street names of Vannes.

They really go in for the complete story when it comes to naming streets here. They often include the date and time as well. Opposite the hole we’re staying in is the Rue de 8th May 1945 fin de la Guerre 1939-1945 which must make it difficult when giving directions. However, it does provided a potted history in a street sign. Imagine going along for your history finals – you could choose your revision by route.

Our view

We eventually checked out of our definitely-not-recommended-hotel with no tears and rolled the bags to Vannes gare. Mirinda managed to buy a Daily Mail which I assume she won’t read. For anyone who does not know my wife, she always buys newspapers in order to NOT read them.

The train was very comfortable even though it’s just a normal service – that’s ignoring the air controlled doors which were, in the manner of Madame Guillotine, determined to slice me in two whenever I struggled to get our bags in after me. I eventually discovered a little button overhead which keeps them open! Damn this technology. We found two seats facing but, for some reason, I upset an old woman next to me as she leapt out of her seat, grabbed her luggage and, in a display which explains why the English think the French don’t like them, marched up the aisle to make a phone call. As Mirinda said “She’d rather stand than sit next to you!” Perhaps I didn’t smell enough.

It was a lovely trip through hilly countryside reminiscent of the hillier bits of Hampshire, except it’s sunny. We arrived at Quimper at 12:30 and walked the 5 minutes to the hotel except we didn’t go via the 5 minute short-cut so it actually took about 15.

From the outside, the Gradlon Hotel looked a bit of a worry, although in a little street, a very busy roundabout (Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh) is not far away with a large percentage of noisy motor bikes. However, Mirinda had ordered a room overlooking the garden and once we’d crossed the little enclosed rose garden, mounted the 2 flights and walked into room 230, we realised we’d be fine. Lovely room, lovely big window. An equally lovely terrace area for the taking of le petit dejeuner. No nasty locked in air conditioned sealed sweat box like Vannes. By the way, there’s a Hotel Mascotte in Quimper. Have yet to see it but I reckon it’s probably on the busiest street.

We dumped our stuff then hit the town. Absolutely delightful. A magnificent cathedral dominates a central piazza which also contains an equally impressive café. Leading off from the piazza is a series of pretty streets with more of the Vannes type coloured, leany buildings. We went into one for tea and coffee and slices of pizza. We had to succumb eventually! So far, we reckon the most popular restaurant in Brittany is the pizzeria.

Jules Verne carousel

We then trekked across the river and busy streets (unsuccessful in our Mascotte spotting) to the TIC. A very helpful woman, this time French but very fluent in English. She filled us in on all the bus timetables we need in order to board a boat tomorrow. And then, guess what? Scoring a hat trick, sitting outside the cathedral is le petit train du Quimper! We just had to take it round the town. This time the commentary was in French and we were handed a typed version in English.

As usual we learned some interesting facts. For starters, Quimper’s main gifts to the world are the inventors of the stethoscope and the four holed button, both great men.

Quimper is also the home of the famous Quimper-ware made at the faiences just up the river. The painting on the crockery uses the famous ‘coup de pincean’ (stroke of the brush) technique as has been used for 300 years. Each (authentic) piece is signed HB Henriot, Quimper, France and is quite expensive but exquisite. After the train landed, we popped into two big Quimper-ware shops and left open mouthed.

Pity we didn’t do the same in the linen shop. We walked in open mouthed but left empty walletted. Bought a lovely tablecloth and napkins in the Quimper canivale design. Before returning to the hotel for a rest, we stopped off at the Quimper version of Elphicks (UK) or DJ’s (Oz). It’s called Eurodiff and offers some lovely tea towels we were more than happy to snap up. There was other stuff too!

Because of the heat, there was an awful lot of kids throwing water at each other. A good idea except the water is from fountains and God knows how foetid.

A funny thing happened in the market. Mirinda went up to a pastry stall to get a bottle of water and the girl serving corrected her pronunciation, nicely. At the counter was a strange bald man with big ears and an odd uniform, she’d been talking to. He suddenly asked us “What part of Angleterre do you live?” and the girl’s mouth dropped open. She said something in French and he replied making her laugh. He translated for us: “I told her I am an idiot. I only know 15 languages. I like Sussex. In Brighton I love the quiet. Behind a Rolls Royce you can hear the gentle water on the rocks.” I think this is the guy who translates the English guides in the cathedrals.

We went out for dinner at 7:30 – early by Breton standards – looking for the best restaurant in Quimper. Mirinda took one look at the street it was supposed to be in and we set off looking for the 2nd best restaurant in Quimper. This is quoted in the AA guide as Restaurant L’Ambroisie. It’s well out of the town centre, up near the ramparts. Naturally we were the first there. It looked a bit classy. A spotty youth, who Mirinda christened ‘Le Petit Garcon’, asked if we had a reservation (in flawless French) and when we said ‘non’ sat us in the middle of the room with Mirinda facing the sun streaming in through the glass door. We ordered orange juice and a beer. This completely threw Le Petit Garcon and he was gone for an hour, to eventually be replaced by a woman who, while speaking very good English, could do with a slight operation on her adenoids, or perhaps her little sniffs revealed her opinion of us arriving at her fine establishment dressed in creperie clothes. Whatever, she was politeness itself, as she took our orders.

The food prices were comparable with the Yew Tree so we assumed we would be in for a French cuisine treat. The wine prices took my breath away. For the price of the sancere we had at St Malo, we could not buy a half of the same bottle here! Be warned, right from the outset, if you are travelling on a budget this is NOT the place for you. Actually, it’s not really the place for us but it was Mirinda’s birthday and it WAS her choice. Anyway, the sun was blinding Mirinda so she asked if we could move. Le Petit Garcon was flummoxed but the woman suggested we move upstairs. I didn’t note any glee in her eyes but felt sure she must have been pleased to get us ruffians out of the centre of the room.

Upstairs consisted of 3 tables, 2 fireplaces and a small sideboard across the fire exit. It was also very quiet. except for the muted sounds of a neighbour’s TV. As Le Petit Garcon seated us, he quickly tidied the room up as I think it was actually just used for storage.

The food was delicious (though no way as good as the Yew Tree) and their delivery times pretty good. Gradually, as the meal wore on, we could hear more and more people downstairs and just before we left 2 people joined us in our eyrie – he was wearing a short sleeved shirt and no tie. Downstairs was now alive with smartly dressed patrons and we felt like kitchen staff leaving by the wrong door. Being Australian means you don’t really need to change your clothes in order to eat really expensive food. We just laugh at those that do.

A lovely stroll around Quimper then back to the hotel and bed. So lovely and quiet and cool. Fell asleep pretty quick. We are missing the puppies.

Awake at 3am after a weird dream about a scary harmonica player coming towards me. I knew I had to wake up before I saw this person’s face so I did. I eventually went back to sleep. I woke at 8 and went down for another DIY breaky.

Yesterday I shared it with happy, chirpy Italians. Today it’s with grizzly, moan-y poms. Why is that? It’s a beautiful, glorious day and all one particular old man could say was “Don’t be stupid” when his wife said anything. I also wonder why he married someone so mentally beneath him. Of course this could be a case for meeting of minds before marriage. Sort of like living together first to make sure the sex is ok except you find out each other’s mental capabilities. This, of course, would have not really helped the old man in question as his wife would have then answered any proposal of marriage with “Don’t be stupid!“.

Back in the room, Mirinda was feeling a bit better though not perfect. We decided not to go to Carnac as planned (very long bus ride) and instead have an easy day. In order to quell my disappointment, she said she’d started planning our next trip to Brittany which will definitely include Carnac. We strolled over to the station and booked tickets on tomorrow’s train with a very nice slightly English speaking train info guy. He also suggested we book our Quimper to St Malo tickets today while we were at it. A good job we did! There’s like two trains next Monday, one at 8:40 the other at 14:20 – it’s Easter Monday. We (naturally) tried for the afternoon but there were only smoking carriages left and Mirinda didn’t think any nice French couples would give their seats up for us. Luckily we got seats in non-smoking on the early train but we’ll have to wake up bloody early to get it.

It’s funny. I read other people’s travel journals and it’s this get up early, catch an early train, travel all day, walk around the sites, go drinking and eating, crash late and it all starts again. Ok, I understand getting value for money but I also LOVE sleeping in! One really good thing about Brittany is the checkout times at the hotels. None of this 10am garbage. The earliest is 12 and it just gets better!

From the station we walked across the cemetery, under the illusion it would be green and pleasant – it looked it on our black and white map. It appears the people of Vannes have a healthy disregard for the outlook of their dead. It looked like a dump. All concrete and jumbled in a strange regimented way. It was about as far from restful as you could get – just as easy to stay at the Mascotte Hotel. It was very similar (though bigger) to the cemetery in Castelruth but without the snow, the candles and the scary dudes with the shovels.

From here we tried to find the entrance to the massive gardens that overlook the city centre. It was a long stroll through noisy, traffic congested streets before we found an entrance to a narrow stretch of grass and trees. We sat and watched the birds flutter around the bushes as cars and trucks fluttered behind us.

Vanne from the pathetic park

Eventually we walked into the town centre looking for crepes. Stopped at a bar instead where Mirinda ordered a ham sandwich which took an age to make. We saw the waiter pop out shortly after we ordered. He darted off towards the House of Pain (bakery) and returned after a short while clutching many baguettes. The rest of the time, we surmised, he must have popped out to the deli for the ham and the dairy for the butter.

I had a Leffe which I have not had for many, many moons (actually it was in Café Rouge in Farnham) and is still my favourite European beer. It was very nice sitting at an outside table next to a cobbler making red patent leather clogs which Mirinda insisted I not buy and overlooking what yesterday was a market but today is a carpark.

We then ambled slowly up to the cathedral for a pleasant wander round it’s many chapels. The English leaflet, though informative (and believe me, we are ready to pounce on anything with English words on it) is not very well translated. It makes me wonder what the foreign translations are like in UK cathedrals.

Anyway, St Peter’s Cathedral, for all it’s bad English, has a website which may be interesting. Actually I just looked at it, or rather I TRIED to look at it. The page is not there. So I won’t bother setting the link up. However, there is a Wikipedia entry here.

From the leaflet…Until the French Revolution, the cathedral was in possession of St Gwenael’s skull – he was a 16th century monk – but it doesn’t say what happened to it afterwards. Perhaps someone used it as a cereal bowl before delivering aristocrats to the guillotine. A bit of a payoff though because in the Chapel of St Vencent Ferrier is HIS skull, but it’s only been there since 1956.

St Peter's

The church has many chapels along each side, all dedicated to some saint or other and they each contain quite magnificent works of art. Generally you think that most artists enjoyed the clerical patronage but not, it seems, all of them. In the Our Lady of Mercy chapel is a painting by Delaval called Painting of the Virgin with the Child (1836). Because of the quality of this painting, Delaval regretted that “…this painting, which could be a suitable ornament for a royal chapel, has been lost in the Cathedral of Vannes.”

The main thing about this cathedral is the mix of styles; the styles visible today date from the 13th century up until the 19th. The leaflet says that the earliest part of the church dates from the 6th century when the west diocese was evangelised. Just looking at it, however, is enough to see it has been added to over the centuries. Hodge podge is a phrase that springs to mind. The hoardings are up now! I expect this is just for restoration but it would be cute if a little bit of the 21st century sneaked in. The cathedral is hemmed in on all sides by narrow streets so it’s difficult to get an overall view of it but I think this is a large part of it’s charm. It looks different from all angles.

From the coolness of the cathedral we returned to the heat of the day and slowly wandered back to the hotel for Mirinda’s snooze, stopping on the way in order to buy a French/English dictionary to aid in her reading of Agatha Christie’s Cinq Petits Cochons.

As she snoozed I watched the world cycling championships from Capetown followed by the women’s weightlifting from Greece. What I want to know is when does a young girl decide to take up weightlifting? An odd choice. Mirinda woke for the final clean and jerks.

We then went for our final jaunt around Vannes, stopping for a coffee then a beer at various outdoor cafes. Mirinda spotted a tres couteux pair of earrings she was considering for her birthday but she stayed her hand. We went for dinner to a lovely little seafood restaurant, just opposite Vanne and his wife’s place. Mirinda had a big bowl of fruit de la mer (yerk) while I had steak. Dessert was crème brulee and I HAVE to say mine is up there with theirs!

After dinner we strolled around a bit, checking out the Hotel de Ville which is not a hotel but has an amazing statue of a horse and rider out front.

Hotel de Ville

We then gradually walked back to the round-a-bout, went up to our room and watched a very funny Cary Grant movie (it also starred Rosalind Russell and was about a female newspaper reporter) in English. The dialogue was too fast to be translated. I doubt anyone could be that good! Then to sleep. At least for me. Mirinda decided to catch up on the war news.

Woke up at 7 when the trucks arrived, having followed us from St Malo. Mirinda quickly closed the window and we returned to sleep even quicker. I woke at 8 to a gorgeous morning, all sun and narry a single cloud.

A lovely shower in this place except they are just a little mean with the towels – we have one. Breakfast is a DIY job with sliced meat, boiled eggs, bread and cereals. All fine, except the coffee is pretty sub-standard. Sort of UK Caff standard. This is the first time this has ever happened to me in Europe, crap coffee. Mind you, my caffeine requirements are such that I had to drink at least 2 cups of it.

We strolled down to the port through the market (every Wednesday and Saturday, the centre of Vannes becomes a car-less oasis of produce under bright Breton canvas). Very enjoyable. We popped into le place de lice for some fresh fruit. It’s full of great fresh food and very friendly sales people. Bought some apples, bananas and strawberries for the boat trip. Then we had a long and (at times) lovely stroll down to the port – which is about 4 miles from the other port close to town.

We purchased our tickets, just managing to beat the 53 German tourists to the counter. As a side note it occurs to me that I recognise some of these Germans as the same nautical types who ruined our boat ride down the Seine. When the boat finally arrived (15 minutes late and us standing in the blazing sun) the tour guide for the Germans was determined his 53 charges would gain the best seats in the house. Well, I’m sorry Wolfgang, but we sneaked in and scuppered at least 2 of these plans!!

Not the ferry we caught

The boat ride is a tour of the Golfe du Morbihan and our guide book says it’s brilliant. Possibly if you could understand the French or German commentary, you may have some idea what you’re looking at. Apart from any information, the ride was lovely. The vocal skills of the ferry guide were quite interesting though. Obviously his voice teacher told him to start each speech with a very loud outburst in order to capture the attention of not just his audience but of anyone within a 10 mile radius.

Of course this is where the guidebook comes in very handy. The ‘Little Sea’ was formed about 4,000 years ago when land levels fell. It is over 20km wide 15km north to south. For all it’s sheltered location away from the ocean and storms, the gulf is fiercely tidal, it’s waters ripping in and out of a narrow neck near Locmariaquer like fizzing champagne (we can vouch for this – we saw it). There are over 300 islands some barely rising at low tide, others massive and inhabited. Ok, enough guidebook.

We spotted our perfect house – a little island about 10 acres, with one house on it and plenty of trees. Apparently a lot of wealthy celebs buy these islands and settle on them. Away from any limelight. We didn’t see any so it must be working.

We docked at Ile Aux Moines, a large island (about 7 kilometres long), with standing stones, menhirs, tiny rustic houses, bike hire places and annoying cars and vans. It took a while to work our way up to Bourge, the principle town on the island, which is the central point to the four coloured paths. The colours are painted on the road and point in the directions you need to go. We followed red for a bit and popped into a little chapel (Notre Dame D’Esperanto, I think).

Inside the chapel

Then we followed the blue down to some standing stones (Cromlech de Kergonan) which sit in a semi-circle within a little secluded field. Mirinda sat by one for a bit while I enthused. We went on a bit more to a roadside chapel before reaching Mirinda’s walk-ability level. Actually (and fortunately) we’d reached half of it. we turned round and walked back.

As usual the return walk took half the time and was more crowded. I think this is one of those annoying constants one is always finding in nature. It could probably be used in the calculation of why the ancients built standing stones in the first place. Note, for instance, how the distance between the stones is greater the further you go from the centre…

Anyway, the island was full of French families out cycling for the day, making us wish we’d hired bikes. We stopped in the town at a café called Podbronnek for a coffee/tea while we decided whether to visit another island or return to Vannes. We eventually decided on the latter as Mirinda wasn’t feeling the best – too much rich food. Or was it the Far Breton?

We walked back to the ferry via la plage and the cliff path. This is a lot more scenic than the main path and is recommended to fellow virgin visitors (as you leave the ferry don’t follow the road to the left, go straight ahead and follow the path). Not only is it a better route, there are lots of places to sit and rest and just enjoy the fizzing champagne tide. It is also a good place to read House and Garden. We sat and watched the tide come in and the beach rapidly vanish beneath it. It was easily hot enough to swim and the little beach was packed with families splashing about and turning an awful shade of painful red. They gradually moved up as the tide swept in.

Beach huts

At one stage about 4,000 little French kids, all wearing identical white baseball caps with the word ‘Oz’ embroidered on them, tramped past our resting spot. Very odd and quite surreal.

In contrast to the trip out, the ferry back was lovely and empty. The commentary was given by a guy with a lovely voice and great sense of humour…at least he thought so, as he kept making himself laugh. It’s a pity we couldn’t understand him as it sounded very entertaining. Still, it was lovely sitting back in the sun, watching the islands slowly slide by.

Mirinda steadily felt worse as we drew closer to Vannes and she wanted a taxi back to the hotel. Yeah right! The port where the ferries go from seems not to be a favourite haunt of taxi drivers. The dock is about 2 miles from town. We ended up walking back and stopping at the dock-side area for an ice cream. There was lots of traffic but the taxi rank was full of parked cars. Mirinda gathered her will power and strength about her and we gradually walked up through the town until we reached our round-a-bout and she finally collapsed onto the bed.

I popped out for a baguette in case she woke up in the middle of the night hungry. I then settled back to watch half an hour of a strange sport which is a combination of football and basketball. France was beating Russia and it seemed frenetic…but silly. I then found a live telecast of Rome v Lazio in the semi-final of the Tim Cup. Although it started with great pace and excitement, after 20 minutes my eyes were closing so, reluctantly, I turned the tv off and went to bed. It was 9pm and still very light!

Surprise, surprise, another noisy night. This time someone was busy torturing seagulls – fearful screams filled the narrow streets – it was awful. I assume it was a seagull. Of course, it could have been a cat being tortured by the seagulls instead. They are so big here they could carry off a cat easily.

Due to this noise I was up, showered and ready to go by 8:30 so we went down to breakfast at 10.

Forgot to mention that last night we watched The Simpsons in French. The dubbed voices were very good, especially Homer and Marge – French growling, mmmmmmmm. It was an episode I hadn’t seen but it’s interesting that you can still laugh at the mannerisms of the characters even though they’re only cartoons.

I can highly recommend this hotel (Hotel de Abers) The staff are very friendly, service wonderful, rooms comfortable, coffee good and strong and they don’t laugh too much at my attempts at French.

Rapunzel at the Hotel de Abers

We set off for the station at 10:30, Mirinda dumping me as luggage minder outside the Hotel de Ville while she went in search of a tabac since she’s finished her book (unusually she only brought the one). The book she just finished, she thought, was a murder mystery. She got to the last line and said “Well, no-one was killed.” To which I replied “Just the mystery then.” I have no idea what she’ll be able to find in English.

St Malo was quite crowded with lots of families. Perhaps it’s school holidays here as well as the UK. Maybe it’s an EU directive that all school holidays have to be at the same time. If so, it’s a stupid EU directive.

Mirinda returned empty handed. Our bus-luck was still in as we caught one to le gare within a few minutes. Unfortunately, our train-luck remains in Tuscany. The timetable we found yesterday is out by an hour and a half because it’s not Wednesday. So I once more guarded the bags while Mirinda went on another reading matter search.

Train from St Malo to Rennes

On board the very comfortable train we were serenaded by delightfully lift-esque muzak before every announcement. Being no stranger to European trains (see previous trips to Italy) I remembered to stamp my ticket in the little machine before boarding but was a little confused by the lack of any imprint on the tickets. Mirinda quickly ascertained this was because the machine had bitten off a bit rather than date stamped them. We must have got it right because the guard didn’t abuse us when he punched them as well. I expected him to scratch his head and say “Mon Dieu! Vy ‘ave you punched zee two liddle ‘oles in zee ticket and not stamped them?”

Interesting toilets on the train. Just a hollow tube onto the rail passing beneath, which makes aiming a bit of fun though at the same time you are a bit concerned for your glasses. I thought the rail company had installed a talc dispenser but it’s a funny little soap grater.

We had a leisurely change at Rennes (time for the purchase of two baguettes from a humourless girl at the French equivalent of Delice de Francais and an English copy of Homes and Garden for Mirinda) and boarded a crowded but comfortable train to Vannes. Joining us in the carriage, along with the French throngs, was a massive great Dane (I mean a dog not a massive man from Denmark, though this dog was the size of a full grown Danish man) and an ownerless anorak.

There was a lot of French discourse between passengers which to my totally uneducated ear boiled down to “My kids are in the smoking section, could they sit in your seats instead?” to which a very generous French couple agreed. Although the trip took an hour we were thoroughly engrossed in this entertainment which went on for the entire trip. Victoria, who Mirinda works with, reckons the French are obsessed with The Family and I think this trip proves her point.

We arrived in Vannes at 3:10 and caught a taxi for the 300 metre trip to the Mascotte Hotel. Vannes is a tiny walled city with very little wall left and surrounded instead by thousands of cars – the Hotel Mascotte sits on a roundabout where all these cars enjoy a little spin. Double glazing works very well because if you open it you can’t actually hear anything except the cars, if you close it you can just hear the telly.

The room is comfortable enough but lacks the charm of St Malo. The hotel appears to be a businessmen’s type stopover for business meetings kind of place and the impersonal approach of the staff bears this out.

After a short rest we walked through the petrol fumes, down 8 May 1945 street and, eventually, slipped into a side street. Here things improved: higgledy piggledy cobble stoned alleys, lined with non-linear houses, all in different striped colours. It’s all full of colour, people and movement.

Mirinda started getting a bit toey so we stopped for coffee, chocolate and ice cream at a handy outside creperie. From here we gradually worked our way towards the port and the TIC. In direct contrast to the St Malo TIC, this one was manned by a very informative German girl full of information about ferries and buses and everything.

After planning our Vannes itinerary we went and joined Le Petit Train of Vannes! Yes, there’s one here too!

Le petit train

It was a very enjoyable squishy trip around the tiny streets, learning many exciting facts and figures about Vannes. For instance, Vannes’ name comes from the Veneti, a Celtic tribe that Caesar beat up on many moons ago. It shared the honour of being the Breton capitol (with Nantes & Rennes) throughout the Middle Ages.

The patron saint of the town is St Vincent Ferrier, a Dominican monk, well known for great speeches, a few miracles and causing anti-Semitic riots which ended with people throwing Jews off cliffs (that actually happened in Toleda, Spain, not in Vannes, but it was the same sweet canonised guy).

He’s buried in the cathedral, which is amazing from the outside, being a mix of several centuries of style. We just missed out seeing the inside so this pleasure awaits us.

Not so the pleasures of a Breton boulangerie where Mirinda had a trifle-y thing which looked impossibly stable and I had a stiff, cakey thing with almonds on top and gallons of cream inside. After this we slowly made our way back to our comfy round-a-bout beds, passing the lovely sculpture of Vanne and his Wife.

This is a wooden couple without hands who, it seems, run (or ran) a restaurant. In our room, too late for a granny nap, Mirinda decided, instead to settle into a bath. Karen rang to ask some flat related questions and, in doing so, proved that my new phone refuses to work in France although it promised me it would!

Anyway, at 8:30 we went down to the restaurant in the hotel. No English in sight. Mirinda tried to order a giant salad as well as a giant main meal but the grim faced waitress changed her mind. Mirinda ended up having the filet mignon pork and I had rare beef, still warm from the abattoir. Both the meals were massive – sort of ala English pub food. So big, in fact, that we decided to just settle for the one course and retire for the night.

I watched a game of football between two teams I’ve never heard of, with commentary in French. I understood everything – what a brilliant game football is! The match was pretty exciting and ended up 2 all. Mirinda, unusually uninterested in the game, was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

There must be law in St Malo regarding noise being made after 8am, so they start at 6. It sounded like a fleet of trucks containing hollow but heavy metal objects half filled with marbles, painstakingly unloaded directly beneath our window. The entire operation took about an hour and Mirinda slept through it. Oddly enough not one word was spoken throughout the entire operation, as if they were aware that people were sleeping and they didn’t want to wake them up. Of course I could have just shut the windows but then I would have suffocated.

Once the trucks had departed it was time for the building site to start up. This lasted until about 8. When I finally gave up trying to sleep (the seagulls were squawking my name) I looked out the window and there was nothing there. Perhaps it was the ghosts of the St Malo rebuilding squad from 50 years ago: The many men who died during the decade of reconstruction going about their nightly work. Mind you, it shows how tired and in need of a rest Mirinda obviously is.

Had breakfast (yumbo bread and croissant) at the hotel then set out to find out how to take a ferry down the River Rance to Dinan. In order to achieve this we tried the ferry terminal. This is a huge barn-like building with one customer service person dealing with obscene amounts of French. You’d think it would be relatively easy to buy four tickets to the Channel Islands but the people in front of Mirinda were required to supply the sort of information generally reserved for KGB victims.

Whatever they were on about, it took a long time and Mirinda’s patience was running short. Finally she asked the woman where to get a ferry to Dinan. She pointed vaguely at a sign reading “Police/Customs” and said “over there“. We roamed around the deserted half of the terminal to no avail. The ferry terminal is a virtual rabbit warren without the rabbits. The reason there’s no rabbits is because they caught the last ferry to Dinan – the one that never returned. Needless to say we gave up.

Walking back to St Malo we stopped at a little ferry booking booth where a very friendly and helpful man, after an unsuccessful attempt to guillotine us, cheerfully informed us that the ferry to Dinan did not operate till later in April. His only other option was Dinard so we decided it was only an extra letter and a swapped consonant and bought two return tickets for the ten minute trip across the water.

Being low tide means it’s a very long walk to the ferry – it also explains why the ferry trip is only ten minutes, at high tide it’s three hours. The trip was lovely; we do love ‘doing the boats’ when on holidays.

Dinard is the ‘Nice of the north’, a millionaire’s playground and, looking at some of the magnificent cliffside mansions, it’s obviously so. One of them looked remarkably like Norman Bates’ place in Psycho. Strangely enough there is a statue of Alfred Hitchcock by the beach standing on an egg with a couple of birds on his shoulders. There is no explanation for this so I can only assume that the REAL Norman Bates came from Dinard…

Hitchcock in Dinard

We had a lovely lunch sur la plage at Le Glacier (hamburger and a Spaten Bierre – brewed in accordance with the Bavarian Purity Law of 1516 – for me and croque monsieur and tea for Mirinda) then went for a stroll to the waters edge when Mirinda got a bit bored with being hit by the kid with the bucket and spade. I say ‘stroll’, it was more like a hike. Low tide here can mean a drop of 30 metres (we found this out on Le Petit Train yesterday) so that’s a lot of linear metres of sand. Oh, yes, and glorious sandy beaches reminded us of home. Actually it’s a lot like Watson’s Bay. And very, very popular with families.

I’d just like to note here that I successfully obtained and paid for a pistachio ice cream and diet coke from a beachside shop where neither of the girls serving spoke English – ok, not much in the overall scheme of things but a huge success for me.

It was very pleasant just sitting but we eventually strolled around to the ferry and caught the 2:45 back to St Malo. Back on the now smaller jetty we walked along the main road towards the station, passing tons and tonnes of wood bound for all points of the compass. It arrives from North Africa and has been a leading distribution point for yonks. It arrives and just seems to sit there, all woody and environmentally challenging on the dock at St Malo.

The station is a terminus and quite small. Mirinda collected 100 timetables and worked out a train to get us to Vannes tomorrow (we have to change at Rennes). Not fancying the walk back (due to it’s overall ugliness and Mirinda’s state of sleepiness) we caught a local bus back to the walled ‘bit’ (it’s actually called the Intra Muros) which was fun – if you ignore the moment I sat on Mirinda. I also discovered the fact that the French have little machines for pushing tickets into (ala Italian trains) for which knowledge I have a young French girl to thank.

Back at Place Chateaubriand we had crepes and cider/beer at L’Quest Café. I sampled the local bierre, Duchesse Anne which is quite malty and nicely strong.

Mirinda was ready for a rest so I deposited her back at the hotel and then set off on my own. I had a great laugh with a woman in the post office when I asked for 2 stamps to Oz and 1 to the UK in very bitty Franglish. But I did manage it!!! I sat for a while in the Place Chateaubriand drinking water and watching a bus load (we’re talking 30) of American teenagers loudly arrive under the incapable watch of one teacher. It ended up falling to a student to stand on a bag and yell “Shut up!” before there was even a semblance of organisation. They eventually wandered over to storm the Hotel France et Chateaubriand – lucky fella’s. By the way, Chateaubriand was a person, not a meal. I mean it IS a meal but that’s not what the place and the hotel is named after!

Back at the hotel I read until Mirinda woke and we made our way down to dinner. We had picked out the only restaurant in St Malo that is closed on a Monday so we returned to the Place C and sat in the open air. I almost had oysters but managed to convince the waiter that I had said ‘salmon’ and not ‘same’ when he took Mirinda’s oyster order, and enjoyed the salmon and dill followed by fillet mignon pork and chocolate mousse – all scrummy and, no dad, not together!!! Mirinda finished with a dessert called a Floating Island, a puffy, meringuey concoction, bobbing around on a custard sea. She said it was lovely.

After dinner we walked out to the island fort, which is surrounded by water at high tide and surrounded by American teenagers at low. Well, this one anyway. Mirinda felt like we were Frodo and Sam walking up to Sauran’s Gate. I haven’t read The Lord of the Rings for yonks so just slapped the wooden doors and we then returned to the hotel.

On the tv I watched the second half of Bjork’s Dancer in the Dark – excellent stuff though it means I’ll now have to watch the first half back home because I have no idea why she robbed and killed the copper and thought it ok to do so.

Asleep just after 11. What an excellent day.

As some sort of strange French joke, we were awakened at 5:30am, not with the gentle strains of some pastoral air or with ‘Morning’ or even a little light Breton folk music but were pounded out of sleep by an awful piece of funeral dirge at maximum volume. I thought a band had sneaked into the room in the night but no, this was issuing forth from the bedside radio. Of course the volume controls did nothing until I managed to find the secret unlock code by pressing every button completely randomly at least 6 times in unknown sequences. And from the top bunk, while Mirinda yelled “Shuuuuut-up!”

I thought perhaps a previous tenant had found out how to set a disturbing practical joke but no, about 15 minutes later came the decidedly undulcet tones of a French woman (who I instantly hated) ordering us out of our cabins as we would be docking in ¾ of an hour. Then we realised “Ahhh, the time difference!“…in France it’s still the French Revolution and we Brits are ripe for the deafening…

I popped out of the cabin to see what was happening and was presented with a sight I won’t easily forget: an army of little men carrying bundles of pink sheets and towels, ready to pounce on each room as it emptied. Just like cleaner orcs eager and single mindedly ready for dirty battle.

I eventually managed to get Mirinda up, dressed and out of the room (the orcs had gone but their bundles remained, all lining the corridors) so we could sit under some stairs for ½ an hour while a lot of other passengers did a bit of milling.

Getting off the ferry was very simple; getting through French customs decidedly simpler. We hopped into a taxi and €4.90 later arrived at the Hotel Des Apel, deep within the walled confines of St Malo. Fortunately they had a room free so instead of leaving our bags and staggering round for a bit, we went to room 6 (or 9 as Mirinda claimed) and collapsed on the huge bed, listening to a bunch of very vocal seagulls. Holiday bliss. Mirinda asked how long it was before you stopped thinking about work. Shit! I thought I was unemployed.

After 2 blessed hours of snoozing (remember, I have YET to have a coffee) we decided to find a suitable café. Ended up in the Place Chateaubriand, a Place packed with cafes. Had a traditional Breton petit dejeuner which (apparently) consists of a crepe (or galette as it’s not sweet) with cheese, ham and an egg inside.

Gaz & galette

Mmmm breakfast! This thing was huge. Ahh, and the coffee. One of the greatest things about Europe is the excellent coffee. Always a great pleasure. After this hearty brunch we wandered over to the TIC to inquire about possible ferry times to the medieval city of Dinau. Unlike most TICs, they had no information on the ferry times and instead, vaguely gestured up the road, saying the ferry was up there somewhere. I think we found it, but it was closed. Looks like a lot of gypsies in their mobile homes have set up camp in the carpark so it may have been closed a while…hopefully we’ll be more successful tomorrow when we actually want to go.

A few historic points about St Malo (which is pronounced ‘sa-ma-loo’ all in one word). it was named after a Welsh monk (MacLow). It was all burnt down in 1661 and was rebuilt in granite block to prevent it happening again. This strategy worked until 1944 when we liberated St Malo from the Nazis, liberating 80% of the town from it’s owners at the same time. The then mayor of St Malo decided the city should be rebuilt. It took 10 years but it was completed and now has the distinction of being a very old city built recently. It has a wall all the way round it (it takes 1¾ hour to walk the whole way round the ramparts) which remained standing after 1944. One extremely important point: NEVER call St Malo pirates pirates, they are cossairs.

After we walked about 1/3 of the rampart we decided to join the next trip on Le Petit Train de St Malo. This is a little engine which pulls tourists around behind it with a commentary both in French and English. It putters all around the city and is great fun.

Le petit train

After our trip, Mirinda got to give her French a real go. We went to an ice cream vendor and she said “Je voudrais deux glace au fraise, s’il vous plais?” to which the vendor replied “Boule or soft?” This was not the response Mirinda expected and was discouraged at first then suddenly realised there was a Mr Whippy option! She said “Boule” and we ended up with perfect strawberry ice creams.

We then took a stroll around St Vincent’s cathedral which was very dark. It was also extensively destroyed in 1944 but has been rebuilt beautifully, combining traditional form with more modern touches. The little plaques depicting the stations of the cross are a case in point. They adorn some of the huge central columns – 2 per column – and are modern, beautiful and simple. And a gorgeous stained glass window called the Rose Window

We then traipsed back to the hotel where Mirinda collapsed onto the bed and I wrote the journal up, between sending and receiving increasingly stupid sms text messages to and from Stevie. Managed to catch the last 10 minutes of Arsenal beating Sheffield United for a place in their 3rd FA Cup final – grrrrrrrr. Mind you, I have to say that David Seaman made the most brilliant save I have ever seen – impossible and very very agile for a washed up 39 year old.

Eventually I left Mirinda to sleep for an hour as I went for a walk around the rest of the ramparts. The other side is amazing! Lots of spectacular views out to sea. Also the white versions of Carmen and Day-z. Started getting very crowded as more and more of St Malo started to wake up. Walking back up the Rue de Dinan was like Oxford Street at Christmas but without the footpath. Amazing that at 5:30 on a Sunday evening, a city is just starting to come alive.

I released some Breton pastries which were crying out at me from across the street only to have them eaten when I returned to the hotel room. One was an eggy custardy thing which I swear had an after taste of prawns though I have to add that Mirinda did not. Well, I know my prawns and one had certainly been doing backstroke in the custard before it set! Actually Mirinda woke when I returned but was sure she was still asleep and I was a dream, her main evidence to this fact being the difference in seafood content in the custard slice.

Went out for a late stroll, retracing my earlier steps, then went to the Indonesian restaurant attached to the hotel. Mirinda spoke perfect French (if you ignore her slipping in the Indonesian word for chilli) and impressed me no end – damn that James Ruse was good. She and the woman taking orders both thought it was hilarious when I coyly attempted my own fledgling French skills by adding “pour la madam” after ordering Mirinda a cocktail. So, praise is NOT a way to build confidence in language learning or that’s the theory my wife subscribes to.

After a scrummy dinner (frogs legs, lamb curry, with fried rice and cardamom and guava ice cream) we took a stroll down to the harbour and back.

The bed is very, very comfortable and sounds coming through the window tres relaxing. My eyes grow heavy and I’m now asleeeeeeee……..