Mirinda wanted to visit the Rennes Eco-Musee because she’d heard it had some examples of typically Breton furnished rooms. After a lot of dodging around the streets at the edge of Rennes we managed to find the museum only to find out that although the grounds were open all day, the actual museum is closed between 12 and 2! The woman told us we were welcome to have our picnic if we liked. It was raining. Besides we didn’t have a picnic with us. She told us this AFTER we’d bought tickets but she did say we could go and come back.

Mirinda finds shelter at the Ecomusee, Rennes

As we wandered around speaking to the goats and freeing them from the wire fencing, a young chap made sure to let us know the museum was closed between 12 and 2.

We decided to drive to the nearest Metro station and hop a ride into the centre of Rennes.

Entrance to Triangle station, Rennes Metro

The light rail system seems quite new (there’s not a lot of rubbish and it doesn’t smell of urine) and trains appear every few minutes. We bought an all day ticket and left for where we figured the centre of town would be. Mirinda figured it right and we found ourselves outside the cathedral.

Strolling down Place St Michel through to the Place Rallier du Baty, we spotted a fantastic looking restaurant called Amour de Pomme de Terre or Love of the Potato. God knows what we ordered but it featured baked potatoes and various bits of other stuff. When Mirinda’s arrived it looked big enough to feed at least two thousand. It had two baked potatoes and a couple of small fried potatoes as well as bits of what looked and tasted like ducks tongue. Mine was a proper size for a normal human tummy.

Huge meal at Love of the Potato restaurant, Rennes

Still, both meals were lovely (even if Mirinda’s was unfinishable) and the restaurant itself was quite fantastic. We ate on the second floor overlooking the square at a little rickety table squeezed in amongst other rickety tables some holding party mad Spaniards who serenaded us all with their songs. The floor sloped at an alarming angle and the walls were full of various knick knacks, some of which had reference to potatoes. It was truly an amazing experience and one we’d recommend to anyone who happens to find themselves in Rennes and looking for somewhere to eat. We would be very grateful, however, to anyone who could tell us what the Samba au Four was which we apparently both ate.

Mirinda simply insisted that we visit the parliament building. This is a stately 17th century building, sat at the top of a large square, housing the law courts. We really would have liked to go on a tour but they are decided at the Tourist Information place rather than at the building itself. We decided to pop up and have a look at the one room you can look at on your own.

Gaz outside the Rennes parliament building

The Public Prosecutors’ room is MASSIVE. The ceiling is very high and painted white with gold features. According to the young chap at the info desk, this is the least impressive room. Apart from some tables and chairs stacked at one end, it was empty so we assumed it isn’t used that often. Still, it is an impressive room with equally impressive doors.

We then strolled down from the main square and came across an odd shop selling hard cover comic books. We wouldn’t have bothered going in except that one window display featured a whole series of Agatha Christie novels in cartoon versions. Brilliant! We just had to have one. Mirinda chose The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. We asked if they had an Alice but they said ‘Non‘.

Down a bit further and over the river, we headed for the Musee des Beaux-Arts. Generally these art galleries are representative of the area and we thought the main one in the capital of Brittany would have examples of art from all over the region. However, we were wrong. It had some splendid artworks but they were from all over the world. Of particular note were the marble statues around the central square – absolutely amazingly life like. It’s incredible what some people can do with a bit of lifeless rock.

Inner courtyard of the Musee des Beaux Art, Rennes

Of the paintings there was an excellent Salome although she did look decidedly pleasant rather than the chilling killer she really was. Obviously I bought a postcard copy for Karen. There were no St Sebastiens…BUT there were some pretty impressive religious iconography. There is also a fine collection of modern masters including a Picasso but we skipped by these, being mainly interested in older works.

I found a very interesting depiction of Lot and his daughters just after the pillar of salt episode involving his wife, their mother. The Bible states that Lot & his daughters fled to the hills and lived in a cave after the fall of Sodom and Gommorah. In order to begin the human race (again) the two girls decided to get Lot drunk and seduce him. You have to remember that Sodom and Gommorah were destroyed because of abhorrent sexual behaviour! This painting was of the two girls standing either side of their father, feeding him wine as he sat, looking well on the way to a serious night of drunken debauchery. The girls were grinning mischievously and Lot was leering like a drunken dope. I have never seen this Biblical episode painted and was fascinated. Sadly there was no postcard version of it.

Before catching the Metro back to le Triangle, we stopped off at a patisserie for dinner supplies – having fallen in love with the potato, we didn’t need a lot more food this day. We managed to navigate our way back to the car and once more drove to the Ecomusee.

To give it its full title, the Ecomusee du Pays de Rennes, is a 20 hectare farm which opened in 1987 to celebrate the fact that this area has been agricultural for a very long time. They breed rare farm animals (like particularly small goats who get their horns caught in wire fences) as well as grow various fruit trees.

Ecomusee du Pays de Rennes

The museum is housed in one of the original farm buildings. It houses, so the leaflet says, “…five centuries of life in the Rennes region…” Upon entering the museum the young chap we had encountered earlier was at great pains to tell us the museum closed at 6pm. He obviously thought we were a bit shifty looking because he made sure we didn’t waste any time over the French film, instead going straight to the displays. I kept spotting him tailing us all the way through. Very odd. Perhaps I look a bit like an international museum thief. Mirinda reckons he was simply wanting to improve his English by constantly talking to us but was basically very shy.

Anyway, the Ecomusee had a sad lack of furnished rooms, much to Mirinda’s chagrin. As this was the main reason for going, it is possibly understandable she was slightly miffed. The fact that some bozo kept telling us when the place wasn’t open just about finished her off.

This is probably a good place to give Mirinda a rant. She claims that the French tourist industry is in disarray because they are arrogant and afraid of change. The whole thing about most of the country being closed between 12 and 2 is extremely annoying to a tourist, I have to say! Actually, if you want to be successful in France, don’t close for lunch! You’ll get a lot of tourists in your shop.

Rather than brave the rush hour traffic around the Rennes bypass, we took the cross country voyage back to the Château de Pin where we enjoyed our Rennes cakes for tea.

At breakfast, Mirinda tried explaining to Madame about the Rohans being arrogant. Not knowing the French for arrogant she said they had big heads (grande tete). This doesn’t mean the same and Madame had the most amazing look on her face. I could read her thoughts: ‘The Rohans had giant heads? What does this crazy Australian woman mean?‘

A family group of Italians had arrived at the château. They did not speak French, they did not speak English. Tricky. I hoped they wouldn’t start singing. They managed to put Madame into a terrible spin. She likes to sit with her guests in the mornings over breakfast and chat about the day just gone and plans for the one ahead. Most of the guests we have seen are either French or English and Madame has enough English to get by. Italian? Not a chance.

On your first night you are to let Madame know what time you wish to have breakfast (we opted for 9:30) and a place will be set for you at one of the two enormous dining tables which are piled high with traditional Breton food. The Italians, so said Madame, had said they would breakfast at 9…how they all managed to communicate this is anyone’s guess. But then they turned up at 9:30! Of course we managed to get in first so the Italians found themselves without three seats together. This caused a lot of mayhem.

When asked why they were late for breakfast, the older woman said ‘dormir’ which seems to be the only French she knew. It means to sleep. It was all a bit weird seeing Madame in such a flap because she couldn’t chat to them. They, of course, were blissfully ignorant of it all.

It rained all day.

We started off in Montford where we visited the Eco Musee – a museum housed in the tower. We found out the real story of the Cane! The entire bottom floor of the museum is a light and picture show to the legend – though all in French.

Tower at Montfort which houses the museum

If you would rather maintain your ignorance and go with our previous version, the one about the walking stick, then skip the next paragraph. The real version is not as good as ours.

It seems the woman was abducted, lost her virginity, and tried to escape but was recaptured. When St Nicholas heard about it he prayed and, by an odd miracle, she was turned into a duckling and flew out the window. Every now and then a duck and her brood turns up at the church and quacks. Cane means duckling. A simple dictionary would have sorted it all out but I reckon the spectre of a walking stick appearing near the tower every few years is totally brilliant. Especially when most statues and paintings of St Nicholas have him with a walking stick in his hand as he strides across the land.

The second floor is given over to a short film about how the buildings in the area are constructed – some with schist, some with pink granite, some with mud – and was in French. The third floor was especially for Mirinda, it was all about the types of coiffes worn by Breton women of this region. From massive constructs to things hardly worth the effort.

Lastly, the top floor is full of hand made toys.

In the courtyard there is a large display of photographs from early Montford leading up to present day. It was interesting, made even more so by the rain and the fact that it was outside. Around a corner and in the dungeon was a display of modern art. Mirinda didn’t like it because it felt like a dungeon. And the modern art looked a lot like straw plucked from a field and tied together with string. Which it was, basically.

We next visited the church of St Nicholas. Big and gloomy, though this could have been the weather as much as the lack of windows. It did have a rather pretty ceiling which I took a photo of. All in all, rather austere but, given the massive quantity of chairs and the acres of car park, I assume there’s a sizeable congregation.

Ceiling of St Nicholas church, Montfort

We wandered in the rain up to the Hotel de la Cane and had a coffee and a tea then visited a boulangerie for lunchtime supplies of an American ham roll and a somewhat dubious gherkin and pate roll for Mirinda.

We then set off for Les Iff and the famous, (by God, the tourist book says, you musn’t miss this) Gothic church. By the time we reached it the rain was pelting down so we ate lunch in the car park feeling very British – we had a lovely view of a skip. The rain eased a bit so we ventured forth. The town of Les Iff was deserted. Apart from us and another couple of tourists in a car, it was a ghost town. If it hadn’t been raining, there would have been tumbleweeds.

Gothic humour at the church at Les Iff

On the door of the church was a sign which said, if you’d like to see inside, get the keys from the bar. On the door of the bar was a sign which said they’d be closed from July to August. I decided the town should be called ‘As If’. We saw the outside of the Gothic church through the rain then decided to continue on to Le Château de Montmuran.

Alas, the château was not open although it was supposed to be! Three cars of tourists were disappointed along with us. We were going to just return to our room but Mirinda was determined we should see a château so we drove on towards Combourg.

Chateaubriand, the French writer, lived in the Château de Combourg as a child. I’ve not read his work, but assume it was either very gloomy or else very light. The château is grey and cold and ugly. The tour guide was miserable and not fond of a joke. It was all in French and no-one in the group (it was very big) laughed so we assumed it was as grim as her face.

Chateaubriand's tower at Château Combourg

Poor little Chateaubriand! He moved there with his family when merely a young lad. He remembers when they moved in and they all had a different room as far from each other as possible. His room was atop a tower and he was constantly being bothered by the spectre of a black cat and a peg leg. The cat didn’t have the peg leg, it was, presumably, left behind by a pirate though why you would see the ghost of just a peg leg is well beyond me and just shows the sort of humour played by the dead on us living – such a great jape.

Anyway, for some unknown and decidedly cruel reason, at some stage whenever a building with towers was built in Brittany, a live black cat would be tossed in the wall cavity of one of them for good luck – though, obviously, not the cats’. At some stage when someone was renovating the tower in which Chateaubriand slept, they found the mummified carcass of a cat, its teeth bared in a final attempt to chew through the bricks and mortar. We presume that Chateaubriand saw the ghost of this cat. The odd thing is, why did he see a normal, purry, furry black cat? Surely it should have been the snapping, snarling, revenge seeking monster we saw in the glass case in his room.

Although generally known because Chateaubriand lived there, the Castle was built in 1016 by the archbishop of Dol. As usual with these things it was then rebuilt in the 12th and 15th centuries. And lots more additions and removals followed. The guidebook has little about the history of the place other than that the author lived there. A great pity as I’m sure the place must have seen quite a bit of interesting history.

The views from the battlements were pretty good but the features dotted around the roof were more interesting. The whole area around the battlements looked like a film set. Think Lemony Snicket meets Cat in the Hat. It was pretty amazing.

Wet Combourge streets

Having been suitably taught and drenched, we decided to stop in Combourg for a tea and coffee in a Bar which had a betting shop in the back. It was fine but the atmosphere was a tad rank. Mirinda complained about the joy with which the French seemed to take in flaunting the rules. I suggested she take up the matter of smoking in enclosed places with the European Union in Brussels but, as the French seemed to be able to do whatever they liked, I thought her case a little shaky.

[Had a text from Kel saying she'd just cut Karen's hair. Not surprisingly, she didn't recognise her seeing as it's been about 16 years and Kel was six at the time.]

Back at the Château de Pin we finally managed to get warm and dry. All the times we’ve travelled through France it’s been winter or autumn and it’s never rained. This trip we go in the summer and…damn it!!!

Went into Montfort for dinner. The Relais de la Cane was the only place open so this was it. Had a lovely dinner with wine and an evil dessert simply drenched in calvados.

Headed off for the Foret de Paimpont. For devotees of King Arthur and his knights and the search for the holy grail, this is THE place to come – the Breton version of Somerset. A lot of Arthurian stuff is scattered around including Merlin’s final resting place – apparently. The village of Paimpont is merely a launching pad for the wider area of the forest. We parked up and went in search of coffee at a small bar from where a small hairy head beckoned.

Small puppy in the bar/tabac at Foret de Paimpont

Mirinda sat outside while I entered the depths and using all my Australian charm managed to order ‘duex grande café crème, s’il vous plait’ which the woman behind the smoky bar shortly brought out…much to my relief. I don’t think non-smoking has actually reached Brittany (Mirinda assures me that France has also gone smoke free as well as England) as all the bars I have stuck my head into have been in a fug of cigarette exhaust.

After coffee we split up – I hit the boulangerie for some French bread while Mirinda braved the charcuterie for half a chook. Suitably loaded we ventured into the scary Syndicate d’initiative (a Tourist Information place but with a little ‘i’ rather than the full ‘I’ on the signposts) where Mirinda chatted with a woman who had very little English but who managed to be understood. She sold us a booklet and a map of the area telling us where to go…in the nicest possible way.

In the centre of the town I saw some of our fellow guests at the château as well as a group of English tourists who were discussing how to go into the deli and ask for a chicken. One suggested flapping his elbows and clucking. I’m not sure if this was attempted.

Lake beside Paimpont convent

We had decided to drive out to Trehorenteuc, eat lunch at a picnic spot (incidentally, a ‘P’ on our map means either a Parking area or a Picnic spot) and go for a wander around the sights. However, no sooner had we started driving than the heavens opened and the rain came down in buckets. In fact, the closer we drew to the turn off, the bigger the buckets. I think it was probably Vivian warning us off. Anyway, we made a quick decision and drove on to Josselin.

A perfect little French village (actually Josselin is another “Brittany Small Town of Character”) with a large church and an even larger château dominating it. Delightfully higgledy piggledy houses line the narrow streets as tourists jostle each other for the few remaining seats at the café’s that line the centre square.

We left them to it and visited the church instead. The church is dedicated to a statue that was found in a bramble bush which, apparently, cured the blind child of a farmer – I presume of blindness. The statue has its own chapel and is paraded around the town each September. It’s quite amazing. I mean the statue not the crazy things that people do.

Alabastar frontispiece in Josselin church

Most of the church is a homage to the Rohan family who still seem to rule over this place. Their mark is everywhere. The château is theirs – they still live there like some ancient feudal overlords. Actually the château is magnificent. The façade you see from the garden was rebuilt in the renaissance but the front, overlooking the river is still medieval. The little French student who turned out to be our guide, irritated Mirinda a bit when she asked us to remain on our side of the drawbridge so the previous tour group could complete its talk on the façade. After a while we were permitted to enter the front garden and stand by the well and wait.

Our guide at Château Josselin

Our guide was very good, especially when she was questioned by a rather inquisitive and authoritative wire haired terrier with a very odd bark. Her response was “I never have a dog like this one!” which made everyone laugh and infuriated the dog into uttering even more ridiculous noises. Its owner took it out.

The first place built here on the edge of the River Oust was the Château de Guethenoc back in 1008 but this has long since gone, destroyed completely by Henry II in 1168. The son of the original owner was called Josselin so he renamed the château and the town (because he could) to Josselin. The château we see today was started in 1231 and was a big player in the start of the Hundred Years War. In 1351, Jean de Beaumanoir (a commander working under Charles de Bois) confronted an English captain called Bemborough (working under Jean VI of Montfort). At some point Geoffrey de Bois yelled “Drink your blood, Beamanoir, it will quench your thirst” which has become a famous heroic shout. Anyway, Jean won and took 18 English prisoners – a rare French military victory.

The château then passed to the Clisson family, culminating in the ownership of Olivier IV de Clisson who, at one stage, was the most powerful person in France, after the king. In 1407 the Clissons married the Rohans and they have never left.

Obviously it fell into disrepair (as all of these places do) until around 1835 when the then duke of Josselin decided he’d had enough of living in a dump and started restoration work. The interior was changed a lot but the outside was basically left as it was. Which is good because we have some fantastic decoration to gawp at today!

Most memorable is the family motto A Plus meaning Without Superior. This is massively wrought high on the wall for all to see – as well as a few obvious places inside.

A is for Anne of Bretagne, Château Josselin

Problem with this is that most people when it was originally carved would not have been able to read and nowadays, hardly anyone can understand Latin so you have to wonder. Also a whole row of ‘A’s decorate another part of the façade. These refer to Anne of Brittany and are basically a way of showing off that they knew her. It was through this front that we found out that the emblem on the flag of Brittany is actually the skins of ermine stretched out. Gross.

Once inside, the rooms are pretty much as you’d expect in this sort of place. The family was very keen on itself as the names of them all are dotted around the dining room in a sort of alphabetical Where’s Wally.

Also in the dining room stands a wonderful sculpture of the original Olivier de Clisson atop his mighty steed, his motto beside him, proclaiming Pour ce qui me plest, meaning I can do whatever the hell I like. I’m thinking of having this tattooed on my arm.

Most unexpectedly there is a bust of Alain de Rohan by Rodin which is extremely beautiful. The rest of the rooms (there weren’t that many) all merge into lots of portraits of dead people, scattered, mysterious motifs, rugs big enough to build a house in Farnham on and various outrageous ways to ensure your name is ever remembered.

After a delightful visit with the Rohans we went for a quick cuppa, visited a tacky tourist shop for postcards then drove back to the Château du Pin. We had a lovely day.

One more thing about the Rohans – their remarkable lack of imagination. For some reason the first born was always Alain if a boy and Margueritte when a girl. I guess it would save having to change all the carvings throughout the house. Further study has led to the discovery that St Margueritte is usually shown stamping down on the devil while standing or kneeling in great piety. Those Rohans! Crazy guys. Gotta love ‘em.

Had a lovely breakfast with Madame & the other guests. French bread and home made cakes. Delicious. There was a lovely BIG jug of coffee in front of me until I realised it wasn’t all for me. I pretended I hadn’t filled my cup right up. Lots of chat about what people had done or were planning to do…in French. Mirinda did very well to join in. I drank my coffee.

Off to Becherel, the book town. The small town is sat atop the highest point for some distance – 176m above sea level. Like Hay on Wye and Fjaeland, Becherel is full of second hand book shops. It has been since 1989. In 1978 it was given the title “Brittany Small Town of Character”. It was once a walled fortress, built by Alain of Dinan in 1124. It was seized by Henry II (married to Eleanor of Aquitane) in 1168. A bit of the walls still exist and there are pleasant walks around the place. In all, it’s very small. From the 16th to the 18th centuries, Becherel was known for the quality of its linen thread. Much of Becherel’s early history is dominated by the Hundred Years War…well a hundred years of it, anyway.

TIC in Becherel

Du Guesclin, a crazy war-mongering, illiterate French military hero, helped free it from the English in 1363. Hopefully we shall hear a lot more about this crazy chap as he was a popular figure around these parts once upon a time or two. We saw the spot where his house was which, interestingly, was outside the walls of the city and now seems to be part of a council estate.

We searched in vain for a cup of coffee – the only options were the Reading Cow and what appeared to be a Russian bookshop which had been soaked in Borscht. Neither were very appealing so we returned to the car and set off for the gardens at Château de Caradeuc hoping they’d have a tea room. Upon arrival Mirinda questioned the poor student who was collecting the entrance fees.

Entrance to Château de Caradeuc

Mirinda: Is there a café here?
Girl: Non.
Mirinda: Where is the closest café?
Girl: Non.
Mirinda: Well, we’ll get coffee then maybe return.
Girl: OK.

We returned to the car. It’s amazing the way there appear to be few cafes in rural France. There are bars & tabacs but these seem to be where rough blokes go. Some towns have creperies but these are not exactly cafes. What’s particularly odd is that the French boast about their coffee prowess.

Anyway, we headed off to Montauban which is a tad bigger than Becherel and has a creperie. We had delicious galettes and coffee then picked up some nice cakes in a patisserie before heading back to the garden.

The Caradeuc Park is supposedly the Versailles of Brittany. We haven’t yet been to Versailles but my impression is that it is massive. Although spread over a few acres, Caradeuc is not massive. It is very formal and symmetrical. There are some impressive statues and a lot of the stuff has come from somewhere else. The château itself is lived in and therefore visitors are not allowed but, having paid, you are free to roam around the avenues of trees (lime, then beech, then chestnut, then oak, etc) and stop at some impressive views across the Rance, which appears to flow at the bottom of the garden.

Most impressive is the statue of Louis XVI, dated 1826, by the sculptor Molchenet. The marble is beautiful and the folds of his gown look real. The lace on his thigh looks very real – the photo below is a close-up of the lace. The statue is bigger than normal size and was originally meant for the Rennes town hall. There’s nothing to suggest why it didn’t get to the Rennes town hall though it looks excellent where it is.

Detail from statue of Louis XVI by Molchenet

After a long and arduous tour of the garden, we returned to the car and to our room at the Château du Pin. We were accosted by Madame. Apparently the previous guests in the Loti room took the key home with them and so we have the only one. As we took it off with us, she was unable to clean our room. In future we are to put the key under the hat in the hallway. Sounded fine to me as it has a huge turtle attached to it, which is uncomfortable in my pocket.

Mirinda had a short sleep and awoke asking what day it was. She claimed it was so confusing but I assured her the days had always been the same. A family of South Africans have taken over the front lawn with a rugby ball. They already have two kids but not satisfied with this, the woman is pregnant. They spent a lot of time making woop woop noises then inspected the ruined chapel and stables. Next to the château there is a farm building, which has been partly transformed into a gite – they inspected this as well.

Mirinda attempted to book us into a recommended restaurant but the reality of ringing a French restaurant on an English mobile phone was all too much, however she did manage to book something, somewhere. We went and experienced one of the oddest dinners of our travelling lives.

When we eventually found it, the Restaurant du Lac turned out to be a very big restaurant on the edge of a lake. It probably seats around 100 people. It looks like the sort of place that operates a bit of a monopoly on fine summer days and nights. There’s a caravan park just around the corner and, just beside it is a big hall which can be hired out for weddings, parties, etc. Having found this massive and empty establishment, we approached a young chap with a tentative “Is this the Restaurant du Lac?” He was all smiles and confirmation, asking if it had been Mirinda on the phone (for he hadn’t taken a name) making the booking.

Rain soaked window inside the Restaurant du Lac

We were standing in the bar which had a few friends hanging about and tables and chairs stacked in a corner. Mirinda asked where the restaurant was. He showed us into the main room and said to sit wherever we liked. There were tables everywhere, set for dining, windows looking out at the lake. It looked great if a tad echo-y. Mirinda asked if there were any more bookings and the young chap smiled and said that we were it. We were a little surprised they’d bothered.

I assumed that the wedding reception that was presently taking place in the hall was using the same chef but cannot be certain. Eventually a threesome turned up through the dark and the rain, to sit a few tables behind us. Interestingly they had a woman dealing with them and she only gave them a choice of two tables out of the 90 remaining.

The meal was lovely and the service very good. We asked for some water and were given a litre, the remains of which we took away with us. My only complaint would be the rain, which spoiled the view. Still it stopped when it was time for us to leave so we took a stroll around the lake for a bit before returning to the car.

We were parked in a very big car park – it services the hall, the restaurant and probably the lake as well – with no signs of any kind, so is it any wonder that we decided to leave the way we had arrived? Big mistake. We ran into some no entry signs a little further down the road. We went down another little road but this only led to a marina. I suggested ignoring the no entry signs and making a mad dash for the main road. As we started turning back to the car park we suddenly saw another car leaving.

“Quick! Follow those tail lights!” I said and Mirinda sped off down the road. The car in front led us on a merry, twisting dance but eventually we popped out on the main road heading back to the château.

Happily and safely, we eventually laid down to sleep.

¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬
There was a story in The Times about some Norwegian claiming that if we shot more moose, the amount of methane in the atmosphere would decrease and, therefore, greenhouse gases would be reduced. This culling could be used as a carbon offset. If you ask me someone should start with whatever livestock makes the god-awful smell around the Château du Pin. It is truly foul and just wafts through constantly. Mirinda thought it was me but I assured her if I smelt that bad, I’d be in a mortuary.

Awake at 6 then 7 then 8 when I decided to get up.

After the usual French breakfast of various breadstuffs, we packed and left by 10. We ordered a taxi to take us to the car hire place, which is at St Malo station.

St Malo station has moved! The old one is sat derelict, a ruin, while the new one is all glass and modern. It has been built a bit further back along the track and looks great. The bus stops and taxi rank have also been moved back. It was a bit of a shock.

The front of the new St Malo station

Still, after the driver dropped us off we easily found Eurocar and waited while the guy faffed around a bit. Eventually (why is there always so much paperwork when you hire a car?) he gave us a key and told us where the car was parked.

Except it wasn’t. I searched the car park (it wasn’t very big) and eventually returned to the small office to say it wasn’t there – memories of York returned to haunt me! He obviously thought I was a moron and headed out to show me where it was. After he searched the car park a few times, he realised that the car was not in fact there. His face was all a-quizzical as he said he’d go and get another car. He turned up in a slightly smaller VW Golf, which was fine, and a new batch of paperwork for Mirinda to sign, which wasn’t. Anyway, eventually we were on our way.

Hit the N137 until the D20, through lovely Becherel. On to (Ricardo) Montauban-de-Bretagne until we spotted the very small sign for the Château de Pin. We stopped at the big metal gates and spoke to someone via the intercom. We drove into the lovely grounds and parked but were informed by the lady of the house that the room would not be ready till four. Fortunately we were able to leave our luggage. We went in search of food.

I’ve probably said this before in another journal but I can’t help myself having a moan. Between 12 and 2, most of France stops. Everything is shut. Just down the road from the château, the small town of Iffendic was pretty much closed except for a not very appealing bar, a French version of a café full of workers. Mirinda was not impressed. Having walked through the door, however, she felt she had to order something. She spoke English to the Japanese girl behind the bar who translated everything into French for the woman next to her who just kept saying ‘Non’. They had no Diet Coke, they had no bottled water. It was slightly surreal.

The church at Iffendic - also closed

We returned empty handed to the car and set off for Montfort-sur-Meu. This is bigger, lovelier town with lots of shops – all closed till 4, of course. But fortune was smiling down upon us and we managed to find a nice hotel with a restaurant attached – Le Relais de la Cane.

Mirinda coming out of the Relais de la Cane, Montfort

In the menu there was printed the French legend attached to Montfort and the hotel. We deciphered it thus: A young girl hidden away in a tower by the evil Montfort who, when St Nicholas popped over, turned the girl into a walking stick. St Nick took her with him as he needed a new walking stick. Now a ghostly apparition of the very walking stick will often appear near the tower. This seems odd but there you have it. Maybe I’ll find out the English version. Maybe we’ll stick with this one. The little travel dictionary we have does not have the word cane in it.

Had a delicious lunch (duck & pork fillet followed by profiteroles & crème brulee plus two gorgeous glasses of Grimbergen) then wandered back through the now open shops. Bought bread, cheese, fruit & cheese knife for dinner and a lovely sponge holder for hygiene back home. Don’t ask.

Spent a lovely 15 minutes chatting with the woman in the TIC. She piled us high with miles of brochures and a walking path book all in French which proved useless. Apparently she lives in Iffendic, which is no excuse. She told us to avoid bars as they are for working men.

Met the two coloured eyed dog at Château du Pin who let us know that our room was ready. He is very big and very smelly and the owners seem to ignore him even though he has a very big bark.

Two colour eyed dog of Château du Pin

Our room was unbelievable. It was in the roof, the Pierre Lotti room. Named for the French novelist, as are all the rooms of the château – that would be different novelists, not all named Pierre Lotti. So beautiful. Apparently it was once Madame’s studio but was transformed into a big wide room that spans the depth of the château. The bathroom/shower is in the centre and wonderfully designed.

Settled in easily and planned our next few days. Early night.

Pierre Lotti

The French woman then explained, in English, that we would be docking in 45 minutes and that we could get breakfast if we wanted. This has never happened before. I left Mirinda and went looking for a coffee.

I returned to the cabin and drank it there. Apparently Mirinda went for walk around midnight as she couldn’t sleep and said the ship was pretty much deserted out on deck. Except for a strange shadowy guy who seemed to be following her. It turned out he was one of the ship’s crew who must have been making sure she wasn’t going to jump off.

The Brittany Ferry, Bretagne, docked at St Malo

The ferry docked and without any customs or security fuss, we left the dock and, as there were no taxis to be had and a queue was forming, we walked into St Malo. Our first stop was Café Lincorn (Unicorn) for the usual celebratory galette & coffee then up the road to Hotel Des Abers – it’s just brilliant knowing where you’re going. We booked in but, unusually, the room wasn’t ready – the previous guests were still in it. We were able to leave the bags so we wandered off to return at 12.

We went for a familiar walk halfway round the city walls. The weather was not kind. We had rain, gales, sunshine, and big waves. We waved goodbye to the Brittany ferry as it returned to Portsmouth. We looked out at the island we walked to last time but it was now surrounded by water – it must have been very low tide last time.

Mirinda looking out over the St Malo walls during a brief respite in the foul weather

We eventually sat in a café watching the day trippers arrive through the main entrance to St Malo. We saw Le Petit Train but resisted the urge to go on it once again. We hunted for a grocer’s shop and bought fruit.

We were back at the hotel dead on 12. Mirinda hit (2nd) pillow and was instantly asleep. I sat reading and listening to a French busker singing Up the Junction in French. Very odd as it’s typically Clapham. I then left Mirinda to sleep and popped into St Vincent’s Church – St Malo’s cathedral – and had a bit of a wander.

Statue inside the St Malo cathedral

After Mirinda woke we went down to the beach. Lots of French families playing beach ping pong and getting burnt. A small family group of Germans, including one freezing granny, sat inside a deliberately drawn circle. It was all very ritualistic but I’m not sure what the circle was protecting them from. It certainly didn’t make the granny any warmer. We slowly strolled back to hotel.

Dinner at Licorne. Mirinda had her first (but certainly not the last) moules et frites of the trip while I settled for the hamburger that wasn’t horse. Had lovely crepes for dessert. Short stroll then back to hotel for some Archos then sleep.

We had a very quick taxi ride to Portsmouth, stood in a queue for about ten minutes then boarded the Bretagne. Completely settled in our room by 8, eaten and having cake at 8:30 when we sailed. An incredibly efficient way to travel. The only thing that annoyed me was a few of the people in the terminal. A family of scary northerners pushed and shoved through everyone else because, I assume, we all owe them a living. And a couple who looked like they’d been married about 30 years too long sat and snarled at each other – him calling her stupid whenever she said anything and her being all apologetic and pathetic. Still we queued for such a short time, it hardly really mattered.

Walking around the ship I found a brilliant watch. The face is basically the shape of a very big stamp complete with perforations. I fell in love but was very sensible – there’s nothing wrong with my present watch and the perforations would snag on everything. I didn’t buy it.

In our tiny cabin 6622, Mirinda first tried the bottom bunk where she discovered that according to a pencilled note under the table, Jade and Mark had had a pleasant crossing previously but she didn’t like the big dusty cushion against the wall. She then tried the top bunk and settled for this.

The big dusty cushion is so that the bunks can turn into a lounge. You have to ask why. Who entertains in a cupboard? Surely you’d rather go outside where there’s tables and chairs, room to sit up and air to breathe. I decided that all cabins are made by the same people and, regardless of room size, you have to have the convertible bunk beds.

We slept until some French woman told us to wake up.