It might seem like Rachel and I regularly leave our children behind to go off on jaunts together. Admittedly, it was just two weeks ago that we left them for our Jog in a Bog night away on Dartmoor. However, before that, it had been over two years since we have been away without them. Plus, it's good for them to spend quality time with their grandparents, right?
For Rachel’s birthday present this year, I booked us a three-day cycling trip to France. We would take the night ferry from Plymouth to Roscoff with our bikes on Thursday 16th May, spend two nights in France, and get the return ferry on Sunday afternoon.
This trip marked my third cycle trip to France. My first was with my friend Simon, when we rode from St Malo to Roscoff, and the second with Rachel to celebrate her 40th birthday (both feature in my book Did Not Enter). On each of these crossings, we were practically the only cyclists on the ferry. So, it was quite a surprise to arrive at the port in Plymouth at 9pm and find nearly 30 other cyclists, all heading to France with their bikes. Due to a technical issue with the loading door, there was a delay in passengers disembarking from the previous crossing. It was a calm, dry evening, which made the long wait more pleasant as we chatted with the other cyclists.
There was a group of four behind us. Two men and two women in their 60s. They were heading to Morlaix which is about 15 miles from Roscoff and were planning to spend a leisurely three days visiting the cafes, markets and restaurants.
‘It’s not very far, I know,’ said one of them, slightly embarrassed. ‘But it’s an improvement from last time. Last time we only got as far as Carantec, which is less than 10 miles.’
‘I think that sounds like a wonderful way to spend a few days,’ I said.
There was another group of four men in front of us, all in their 50s, who cycled as a group regularly at weekends and had talked for years about going on a cycling weekend in France together but had never got around to it. And now they finally had, and this was their inaugural trip.
They all had panniers and were carrying camping equipment for three days, heading west along the coast towards Brest, and getting the same ferry home as Rachel and me on Sunday.
The eldest of the group, Jeremy, had heard there was a ceilidh in Brest on the Saturday night and was eager to incorporate that into their plans. The rest of the group were less keen and hoping they would be able to dissuade Jeremy.
One of the guys had somehow had a bike malfunction between the car park and passport control - a distance of about 50 metres. He had already found a bike repair shop near to the ferry port in Roscoff and was booked in for the Friday morning. Despite this less-than-ideal start to their trip, they were all in high spirits.
A young woman, probably in her early 20s and travelling alone, wheeled her bike up alongside us and nervously joined in the conversation we were having with the four men.
‘You look like you’re heading off on a long trip,’ said one of the men. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Err… Milan,’ she said coyly.
‘Milan? As in Milan, Italy? Wow.’
‘I know,’ she giggled. ‘It feels a bit weird.’
‘How long do you think it will take you?’
‘I’ve got a flight booked in six weeks.’
‘So, are you cutting across France and then going over the Alps?’ asked another one.
‘Well… err… I’ve decided to head down the west coast of France first and then do a bit of the Pyrenees before going to the Alps.’
‘The Pyrenees AND the Alps. That’s incredible.’
‘And then you’re flying with your bike back to the UK?’ asked Rachel.
‘Er… no. I’ve got to fly to America for a family reunion and then I’m doing a road trip with my dad.’
Whereas the rest of us had driven our bikes to Plymouth from nearby towns, she had cycled about 50 miles that day from near St Austell in Cornwall. We all suddenly felt a bit pathetic.
‘So has this trip been long in the planning?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she laughed. ‘I only decided to do it on Monday.’
‘What? Monday this week?’ It was now Thursday.
‘Yes, I was in the pub with a friend, and I decided to head off on a trip this week so booked the ferry and my flight home. He was supposed to join me for the first few days, but he changed his mind.’
Not only was this her first time cycling abroad, but she also then admitted it would be her first time visiting France. Not wanting to rely on GPS navigation, she had a small scrap of paper with a list of towns to pass through on her journey south.
We were all in awe. We had been feeling excited about our various adventures. Three days cycling in France felt like quite a brave undertaking. And here we were chatting to someone who was heading off across Europe for six weeks on a trip she had only decided to do three days earlier.
Suddenly, we were the boring ones.
‘That sounds incredible,’ said one of the men, shaking his head. ‘I’d love to do something like that.’
‘Why don’t you?’ she asked.
‘I can’t,’ he sighed. ‘I’ve got to be at work on Monday.’
She then went on to tell us that from America, she hoped to get a place crewing a yacht from California to Australia. She had no sailing experience at all, but thought it sounded like a fun adventure.
It is amazing how quickly someone’s life can change. We didn’t find out much about her. We didn’t even know her name. But she admitted she had been having a sort of midlife crisis, and a visit to the pub and a chat with a friend suddenly changed the entire direction of her life, and would potentially shape her future.
After a surprisingly enjoyable delay of over an hour, the cargo door was eventually fixed and they allowed the cars from the previous crossing to disembark, and we all shuffled forward onto the ferry.
I had a three-day cycle route all planned out for us. Well, I say that I had planned it. I googled ‘three day cycle trips from Roscoff’. The first result that came up said: ‘Heading to Brittany? This 321km circular bike route from Roscoff takes in coastal towns and picturesque Breton villages.’
That would do.
I’d done a bit of cycling east and west of Roscoff but the inland route heading south was uncharted territory. 321km (199 miles) was quite ambitious for a two-and-a-half-day trip, but we decided to give it a go. If it turned out to be much more difficult than we planned, there was an option to cut the loop in half after the first day.
We had a cabin booked for our night crossing, but it wasn’t ready when we boarded at 10.30pm, so we unfortunately had to go and have a beer in the bar while we waited. Unlike my trip with Simon when we foolishly had five pints before our long day’s cycling, Rachel and I were very restrained and had just the one. And two family-sized bags of crisps.
The Brittany Ferries alarm music piped into all cabins an hour before the ferry arrives has become legendary in our house. It’s a piece of Breton music by the band Dremmwell called Troellenn. It starts gently and is a calm and soothing way to be woken. But then the harp sounds quickly escalate into a lively and energetic jig. I was pretty obsessed with the track for a few years as it reminded me of holidays.
My family ridiculed me at the end of 2019 when the year’s Spotify Wrapped (Spotify’s personalised summary of each user’s listening for the year) was released. Rachel, Layla, Leo and Kitty all had a cool and eclectic mix of songs and artists on theirs. My most listened to song on Spotify in 2019 was the Brittany Ferries alarm music.
So it was with great excitement that I drifted off to sleep on the Thursday night, as the boat gently rocked, knowing I would get the pleasure of Troellenn the next morning.
‘WHAT’S THIS?’ I shouted, as an unfamiliar bit of classical guitar music came through the speakers at 7am. ‘THIS ISN’T MY SONG.’
‘Really? Are you sure?’ said Rachel, sitting up wearily in her bunk. ‘It sounds the same.’
‘Of course I’m sure! This is NOT the same.’
‘I quite like this one. It’s a bit more soothing than the other one. The other one was a bit… jarring.’
‘JARRING? JARRING? ARE YOU SERIOUS?’
‘Yes, sorry. It was just a bit whiney and irritating.’
‘You’re a bit whiney and irritating!’
‘Grow up, George.’
The more I listened to the new one, the more I warmed to it. It had been a while since I heard the original and when I played it on my phone, I have to admit that it did sound a little, well, jarring, whiney and irritating.
I have had a couple more listens to the new one since - Dihun - Le Réveil by Carlos Núñez - and it too has become a favourite. I think we know what is going to be top of my Spotify Wrapped this year.
After coffee and pastries from the ferry’s cafe, we untangled our trusty steeds from the mass of bikes that had been stacked together against the wall of the cargo deck. As about 30 of us climbed onto our bikes and edged towards the door ready to disembark, the last bike remaining was the woman who was cycling to Milan. She was so relaxed about her six-week trip that she was in no rush to get going.
We said goodbye to the different friends we had made in the ferry queue the night before and made our way through passport control. When we were the other side of the fence we looked back along the queue of cars and saw the Milan woman and her bike waiting in line.
‘Good luck!’ I shouted.
‘Thank you. It was nice to meet you both,’ she called back.
‘I hope you make it to Milan,’ said Rachel.
‘And then America,’ I added. ‘And Australia!’
‘Me too! Have a great trip.’
The weather forecast for our three days’ cycling was somewhat uncertain, predicting intermittent heavy showers. But for now, the sun was out, and we were cycling through France. There’s something uniquely exhilarating about cycling in a foreign land. It is a strange and wonderful feeling. Though it's essentially the same as at home, it feels entirely different and transforms a simple bike ride into an exciting adventure.
We followed the main road from the ferry port to Saint-Pol-de-Léon in the same direction as all the car passengers. But being France, there is a segregated bike lane the entire way.
Soon after passing through the town, we turned off onto smaller lanes and rode through sleepy little towns and villages, meandering through farmland with fields of onions and globe artichokes either side of us.
My previous cycling trips to France had been in early November and mid-March and rural Brittany had been noticeably deserted. I had assumed it was just quiet because of the season. But here we were, on a glorious spring morning, and there was still nobody around.
‘Where is everyone?’ I said as we cycled through the town of Plouénan at what should have been Friday morning rush hour.
‘I don’t know. Everywhere is so quiet,’ said Rachel. ‘This reminds me of that town we cycled to with the kids. The one with the supermarket. Remember it?’
‘How could I forget? They only remind me of it at least once a week.’
We were camping in France a couple of years ago, at a lovely little site by a lake in the middle of nowhere. We had taken five bikes with us, and I suggested that it would be fun to go for a family ride together.
We were six miles from the town of Lapouyade that had, according to Google Maps, a supermarket. We could cycle there, have an ice cream and a drink, get some food for dinner, and then cycle home.
The temperature was in the high 30s and was fairly uncomfortable to cycle in. But the roads were deserted and the scenery beautiful and the reward of cold drinks and ice cream kept us all going.
When we arrived in Lapouyade, something didn’t feel right. It was a beautiful place with immaculate streets and pristine houses. But it was completely empty and the whole town felt like it was CGI generated.
‘Where is the supermarket?’ sighed Kitty, who has never enjoyed bike rides.
‘Just along this road, apparently,’ I said, glancing at the map on my phone but starting to doubt it. Where Google Maps had a supermarket pinned, turned out to be a derelict barn.
‘You said we were cycling to a supermarket!’ said Kitty.
‘I thought we were.’
‘Surely there must be a shop here,’ said Leo.
‘Yeah, I’m sure there must be,’ I said, totally unconvincingly.
We circled every street in that town. Let’s be honest, it was a village, not a town, and after seeing the size of it, it’s no wonder it didn’t have a supermarket. I have checked and the supermarket on Google Maps is no longer listed. But I swear that it was.
Not only was there no supermarket in Lapouyade, but there was also no shop, cafe, nor restaurant.
Google Maps listed a farm shop about a mile out of town, so I left the rest of the family in the shade of the empty village square and cycled out to try to find it.
It did exist. But it was closed. I returned empty-handed to the rest of my disappointed family. We cycled back to the campsite in the blazing heat with Kitty sobbing and furious at me for ‘lying’ and ‘tricking’ her, and the rest of the family looking at me as though I had let them down big time.
Less than a mile from the campsite, when we were in touching distance of a swim in the lake and an ice cream from the campsite’s small bar, when I thought we were over the worst of it, we encountered another problem.
We saw a warning sign with a picture of a wild pig and the words:
CHASSE EN COURS - Hunting in progress
A couple of hundred metres further on, we passed dozens of men in full camouflage gear lined up along the roadside holding shotguns. There was a lot of shouting and rustling coming from inside the thick woodland, and the men with guns were all on high alert. Any moment a wild boar was going to burst through the tree line and be shot at by the hunters. This didn’t do much to improve the morale of my family, and I’ve never seen them all cycle so quickly.
We made it back to the campsite alive and after a swim, ice cream and - because there was no supermarket for us to buy food from - takeaway pizza for dinner from the campsite’s restaurant, I was just about forgiven later that evening. They still mention that bike ride regularly, as though I am in some way responsible for Google Maps’ questionable data and France’s wild boar hunting schedule.
To be continued…
We were on that overnight ferry from Plymouth to Roscoff! We noticed there were lots of cyclists. We weren’t cycling but had our touring caravan. We had our bikes with us though and enjoyed lots of cycling during our holiday. France really seems to look after cyclists!
When I was younger me and friends used to go bicycling after midnight through the neighborhoods nearby. It was like a movie set. We referred to the rides as “bogus land” rides and really enjoyed doing it every couple of weeks during summers .