Ken's Blog

At least this time there were no tigers. A previous visit, many years ago, to a place called Bellevue – then a zoo on the outskirts of Manchester – had ended rather abruptly with the entire family being urinated on by one such large cat. Who says humour is the preserve of homo sapiens?

No, this Bellevue, a campsite on the Brittany coast, east of St Brieux, was a more tame affair. Just the incessant flapping of flags, Brittany’s own black and white affair being given equal prominence with the French Tricolor. Pierrick was the proprietor, receptionist, chef, barman and consummate host, effortlessly and endlessly switching between each with just the occasional Gaelic shrug. He found my efforts at French difficult at first, asking if perhaps I spoke a little English? ’Oui, Monsieur’ I replied. I wasn’t giving in that easily.

I had planned to be further east towards Le Mont-St-Michel, but it seems the cartographers had skimped on a few details, roads mostly. Frustrated at my progress, compounded by 34 degrees of heat, I stopped at a bar in the small village of St Carreuc. I struck up a conversation with Alain whilst his dog played dead in the oppressive heat outside. He suggested I explore the coast to the east of St Brieux. Tim, back at Etables-sur-Mer, had said something similar.

En route to the next village, Quenay, I mulled over Alain’s advice. At this rate I’d struggle to reach my intended destination by night fall. And they’d be no more opportunity to enjoy cooling sea breezes until Turkey. That was that then.

I arrived in Etables-sur-Mer on the Brittany coast unsure as to exactly where the campsite was. Just like Troon in Scotland back in May. But this time I had much more success. Venturing forth to ask directions in the village square, I was able to order the ’gauche’s, ’droite’s and ’descende’s and find the delightful Camping l’Abri Cotier campsite.

Tim was very patient as I introduced myself in my rather dodgy French. Originally from Dorchester, he suggested things might be a bit easier in English. You sensed he’d done this before.

I was struck by the warm, friendly atmosphere – nothing was too much trouble. Over an ice cool beer that evening I mulled over my plans for the next few days. I had intended to head further east towards Dinan, resting up for a few days to take stock for the first time in quite a while. But, I thought, why leave such a pleasant location, with all the facilities I needed, for the uncertainty ahead? By the following morning I had decided to stay for a couple of days.

Tim’s wife Pierrette was curious about my expedition, having recently read an account of a French couple who walked the length of Africa. We chatted at some length over a cup of tea in the garden, enjoying the autumn sunshine. I too was curious – what had brought them here to run the campsite? We stumbled onto the topic of the remote South Atlantic island of Tristan da Cunha. Tim was surprised to find someone who’d actually been there, almost by accident as it happens.

I soon found I had a new neighbour. Scott was originally from Taunton, close to my own cottage, but had moved to France with his parents whilst still very young. He spoke English with a distinct Somerset accent, but not even a hint of this when speaking French. I was impressed. In earlier times, I mused, a candidate for SOE.

A quite unexpected offer of lunch from Pierrette and her mother, as I sat tapping away on the netbook in the shade, was the catalyst for expanding a little further my limited vocabulary – ’Le repas etait delicieux. Je vous remercie’ (The meal was delicious. Thank you very much).

That evening Pierrette’s mother kindly prepared me a hearty meal, typical, I was told, of the central region of France. She wanted to make sure my first impressions of France were positive, memorable ones. Having been shown such selfless hospitality there could be no doubt about that. Alas, my as yet still limited grasp of French forestalled what I am sure would have been a thoroughly fascinating discussion.

As I retired for the evening I wondered whether such a welcome for a perfect stranger would have been reciprocated back in the UK….

Je m’appelle Ken Roberts. Je viens d’Angleterre et je fais le tour du monde en vélo en solitaire. J’ai l’intention de parcourir plus de 77 000 Km en 4 ans afin de récolter de l’argent pour une œuvre caritative qui travaille avec les jeunes. Je traverserai l’Europe, l’Asie, l’Australie, l’Amérique du Nord et l’Amérique du sud et l’Afrique. J’ai un peu d’argent pour me permettre de manger et de vivre lors de mon aventure. Je campe où je peux afin de réduire mes frais autant que possible.

Je suis très heureux de pouvoir traverser en vélo votre pays et je m’excuse car je ne parle pas vraiment votre langue. Malheureusement, je rencontre des gens qui parlent tellement de langues différentes que je ne peux pas toutes les apprendre ! J’espère que vous m’aiderez à faire en sorte que mon voyage se passe en toute sécurité. J’ai l’intention d’écrire un livre sur mes aventures à mon retour en Angleterre et j’aimerais dire à tout le monde à quel point j’ai apprécié mon séjour dans votre pays.

I met Mathias close to the village of Pleguien, a little over 10 kilometres short of my next stop in Etables-sur-Mer on the coast of Brittany. He was out cycling. We immediately had something in common, each regretting having not tried harder at school learning each other’s mother tongue.

I explained briefly about my expedition. He kindly offered to provide me with some provisions for the evening. I accepted with many ’tres bien’s and ’merci’s, and we agreed to rendezvous at the church in the next village. A short while later Mathias arrived by car, accompanied by his mother Dominique. The gift of a baguette, pate and fruit was gratefully accepted before we then parted company.

I continued on my journey to the coast down quiet country lanes. A little while later a car approached, passed me and then stopped abruptly. The number plate seemed familiar. It turned around, passed me once more and then stopped again. Mathias and Dominique emerged. It seems that since they had left me earlier, they’d had a look at my website and decided to find me once more and take a photograph for the local newspaper. The kindness of strangers.

History has not been kind to Marie Antoinette. It’s quite possible she never actually uttered the immortal words ’Let them eat cake’. Even if she did, it was probably brioche, a type of bread, rather than cake, that she mentioned. Not that would have made much difference to the lot of the starving peasants.

Despite the controversy, I do have some sympathy for Marie Antoinette. Riding into the medieval town of Pontrieux I discover that whilst object d’art are plentiful, simple foodstuffs are much more elusive. Pity really, especially when you’re a hungry, and you’ve a cunning feeling that most shops in France are about to close for a couple of days.

Then, hidden amongst the many boutiques, art galleries, bistros and creperies, I find a combined boulangerie and patisserie (bakery and cake shop). So, I to am obliged to eat cake – chocolate eclairs – deux to be precise – well, trois would have been piggish. Perhaps then Marie Antoinette had also been cycling in Brittany. We will never know for sure.

I imagine Roscoff is quite a pleasant port. Unfortunately, in the dark and damp I really couldn’t tell. Besides I had enough to contend with, getting to grips with riding on the wrong side. I was glad I’d had the sense to invest in a right-hand drive bike.

Despite the gloom, the ride to the medieval town of Morlaix, winding along the estuary, was very pleasant. I wandered briefly around the town, looking for a cafe. It was still very early and none were yet open. Just ’Bar Tabacs’. Too soon to start drinking I thought.

Finding a small supermarket in the village of Plouezoc’h I decided it was time to take the plunge and impress the locals with my language skills. Struggling at first with an unfamiliar dialect – I think they call it fluent – far removed from my school boy comedy French, a very perceptive chap suggested a useful phrase for my admittedly limited repertoire might be ’Je parle tres peu le francais’ (’I speak a little French’). I much preferred this to the offering of my little phrase book which suggested ’Parlez-vous anglais?’. Apparently this roughly translates as ’I can’t be bothered to make any effort to speak French’.

So, what of Brittany? Mostly twinned with Devon and Cornwall. Not flat, except perhaps the runways. And quite a few similarities with Wales and the Welsh language. Like bilingual road signs – French and the regional Breton language. Except nobody’s got around to painting out the French. Then there’s the expression ’Ty’ – in Welsh this means home, similar to its meaning in Breton. There’s even a small village called St Dogmel, close to the regional town of Lannion, just as St Dogmaels is to Cardigan back in Wales.