Not exactly the trip we'd planned.

Here we are on the the north coast of Brittany camping in the small seaside resort of Binic, a few kilometres from Saint-Brieuc.

It was sunny when we arrived yesterday but the forecast thundery showers arrived overnight and look to be set in for the next couple of days. This should not come as a surprise, we have visited Brittany over a dozen times, mainly years ago when our children were small. It was the region's unpredictable weather that led us in the summer of 1991 to un-pitch the Turpie encampment and drive south to find the sun. With two pre-school kids in tow we often spent hours simply driving about Finisterre on wet days simply to fill the time. 

One day we ended up at Point Saint-Mathieu, southwest of Brest, over 80 miles from where we were camping near Nevez. Our eldest is called Matthew, maybe that's why we ended up at the eponymous headland. I remember watching rain squalls drifting off-shore, half hiding Ushant in a silvery mist. We observed the Brittany Ferry to Santander appear out of the rain and sail off south. Gill commented that the passengers would probably wake up in sunshine. "Why can't we?" I mused, "we have wheels."  So next day we squeezed our bulky and somewhat damp Cabanon frame tent into the back of our Nissan Bluebird estate and drove southwards in search of sunshine. We found it 18 hours later. After an overnight drive we watched  the sun rise over the foothills of the Pyrenees from a bluff overlooking the Plage de Bidart.

 It was a defining moment, we changed from outdoorsy northerners content to cycle tour in the rain or endure blustery days on some windswept beach. From that moment on we became sun-seekers. Maybe it's no coincidence that it also coincided with our move to Buxton. The place may not have actually  achieved the accolade of being England's wettest spot, but experience has taught us it has to be the country's cloudiest. 

So, after more than a decade where Brittany was our go-to summer holiday destination, over the subsequent thirty years we only managed three further visits.  Nevertheless it remained somewhere we recalled fondly, and the fact we hadn't toured here in the motorhome seemed like an inadvertent oversight that we must redress. 

Our plan was simple, use the Newhaven to Dieppe crossing, stay overnight in Normandy then head straight for Finisterre. It went awry even before we left home as I began to feel increasingly unwell as our departure date approached. What I needed was a doctor's appointment and a course of antibiotics. A simple enough thing, but difficult to achieve these days especially around a bank holiday weekend. With steely determination it is possible in theory to navigate our GP's Byzantine telephone system and, if you can manage to persuade the receptionist that your symptoms are serious enough, eventually speak to a doctor by phone some hours later, but you do need to be persistent. Face to face appointments seem to have gone by the board, the last time I actually saw a doctor was six years ago.

Finally late in the afternoon on the day before we departed a doctor rang me. Somewhat grudgingly he accepted my self diagnosis that I probably was suffering a UTI, but was unable to prescribe antibiotics without a test result. When I explained that I was driving to France the following day he did pull out the stops, promising that if I could drop a sample off he would do a 'dip test', phone me back, and send a prescription to the practice pharmacy which was open until 6.30pm. However, he didn't ring back as promised; now it was too late to change our ferry booking. Our dilemma, delay the trip and forfeit £235 or take the risk and just go. We decided to risk it. Mid afternoon the next day, parked in a service area on the M40 I finally managed to recontact reception. Two hours later a different doctor called back confirming what I knew all along, the test was positive, I needed a prescription, however ten minutes earlier we had gone through passport control at Newhaven dock. The doctor texted me the name of the antibiotic I needed asserting somewhat breezily that they were available over the counter at pharmacies in France.

By the next day I was feeling quite ill. The first pharmacy I tried in Dieppe refused to supply the drugs without an official UK prescription. Happily the following day the  one next to the hospital in Neufchatel-en-Bray was more accommodating. Rather than head off for Brittany we decided to stay put until I felt better. 

Luckily the campsite at Neufchatel is lovely and the Via Verde next to it runs through beautiful countryside. I felt well enough to go for short bike rides and we spent three days mooching about locally 

The weather was warm and sunny, the hedgerows ablaze with dog daisies and poppies. Most of the time I just felt like sitting quietly by the van. Our pitch seemed to be a magnet for small birds, two species of sparrow, blackbirds, the occasional bluetit; it felt profoundly peaceful.

The entire site resembles a garden, consequently it is very popular with grey-haired caravanners from Britain, the Netherlands and Germany. I overheard a conversation on the neighbouring pitch where a venerable Englishman explained to an ancient Dutch guy that he was here 'for Normandy'. Initially this confused me, we are in Normandy, how could you come 'here' if you had arrived already? Then it dawned on me, it is early June, a moment when coming for Normandy is quite different to coming to Normandy; it's a euphemism, a coy metonym for the impending D-day commemoration events - an arcane code only understood by WW2 afficianados and crusty re-enactment geeks. That's why a lone guy in a beat-up VW camper down the way is towing a trailer with an impeccably restored vintage khaki coloured motorbike and sidecar. I can't be doing with all this 'glorious dead' stuff, it seems to me that a deep-seated nationalistic mindset lurks behind its po-faced trappings. I think something about me must communicate my scepticism. There was much 'hail fellow well met' affiliative chat happening all around me, but conspicuously I was not included. What is it about my appearance and demeanor that exudes 'wokerati alert!' amongst the nearby Daily Males? Let's face it, they're not wrong!

After three days, despite the delights of the Avenue Vert, the stultifying atmosphere of Camping Ste Claire became wearisome. I didn't feel up to driving all day so we found a municipal site at Cany-Barville about 70kms to the west. Like the site at Neufchatel it was situated next to a cycleway - Le Veloroute de Lin - so called because the whole area is famous for growing flax; high quality linen has been produced hereabouts since the Middle Ages.

The town was pleasant, the campsite well designed and comfortable and the cycleway beautiful. The track followed an old railway line through wooded, undulating countryside. It was lovely but I managed less of the route than we had planned.

I was now halfway through my week's course of antibiotics and had hoped that I would be feeling perkier by now. It was true, I was feeling less feverish but I lacked any energy whatsoever. Halfway up a long but relative gentle hill I simply ran out of steam and had to dismount and push my bike, though pedalec assisted I could not tackle even a modest climb. Gill, unaware of my predicament disappeared into the distance. I felt pathetic, ridiculous and cross with myself. 

Some minutes later I found her parked by the side of the track waiting for me. We decided to head back to the van, mainly downhill thankfully, I had managed less than 10kms, all very frustrating.

Next day we pressed on towards Brittany, over the Seine at Pont Brotonne, past the region's over- commemorated beaches. Towns signposted off the autoroute - Villiers-Bocage, Falaise, Avranche, they were like a gazetteer of places my Dad mentioned the few times he talked about his involvement in the Battle of Normandy. He was not given to reminiscing, I think he preferred to forget too 

I was still limiting myself to driving for a couple of hours every day. Normally we would have reached Brittany with only one overnight stop, it took three. Next impromptu resting place - the aire at Villedieu-les-Poèles. It's an interesting small town which specialized in the manufacture of church bells and copper cooking pots. There are still small foundries working today. The cookware is high-end stuff, a miniature sauce pan cost €50, a fish kettle €499! The place felt prosperous. We bought some sausages from an artisan butchers to BBQ later.

Bell makig is celebrated in three ways,firstly an example of the craft is showcased on the steps of the town's handsome Mairie. 

Alternatively you can take a guided tour of the foundry producing them, (we didn't). Finally every church in the town tries to out-do one another in regular clanging matches which only finish at ten in the evening and recommence at 7am. on the dot. If you are a sound sleeper and the local Olympic standard campanologists fail to give you a sleepless night, then raucous crows in the rookery next to the Aire will ensure you definitely feel completely wrecked in the morning 

So much for attempting to take it easy!  We headed south, past Avranches, then about ten minutes after a brief glimpse of Mont-St-Michel we crossed the Breton border. We had decided to head to the north coast near St .Brieuc as it's not an area we're familiar with. There are scores of small resorts strung along the coast. We decided to head for one of the campsites at Binic, an almost random choice as there seemed little to choose between any of them. We should have guessed from the name of the place - Le Panoramic - that reaching it involved a steep climb. Oddly enough, it had no view whatsoever.

It was described as a small family site, actually it was more of a mini-resort with heated pool and waterslides, a bouncy castle area the size of Carcassonne and intricately designed 'mini-golf'.  The place reflected another recent change we have noted, there is a definite shift towards mobile homes and camping bungalows on French sites with touring pitches in decline. Perhaps younger people used to Airb&b prefer the comfort of self catering. It meant when we arrived on Thursday the place felt like an evacuated village, come Friday it filled up and became one big party which continued into the small hours. It was a relief to leave the following day.

As for Binic itself, it was pleasant enough. A small port on an estuary with an enormous muddy beach at low tide and a small strip of sand at high. This unsurprising I guess given that Mont-Saint-Michel is only 50 miles to the east and boasts one of the biggest tidal ranges on the planet. 

 

The town is not exactly a tourist trap, but catering for visitors is definitely its main industry. We wanted to find a creperie, there were two, but one was closed. Breton tradition rubbed shoulders with French haute cuisine,  Spanish and  Argentinian restaurants and a couple burger joints. Binic is a perfectly nice seaside village but it is bland, a bit characterless and not particularly 'Breton'.

This being the case then it should not have surprised us that the crepes we had were distinctly underwhelming, there was nothing wrong with them but they weren't delicious.

I think we were both slightly relieved  to move towards more familiar territory on Brittany's south coast. After a couple of thundery days the forecast is looking better. I am feeling better too, not exactly perky but definitely on the mend.