Summary of day two’s ride, recorded at Plouider the following morning. 3:02
It was a bleak night. The rain beat down periodically on the metal shutters like a thousand tiny hammers, and was soon joined in the percussion session by the loud dripping of a drainpipe onto metal. I shuffled uncomfortably on my thin pillow and tried to adjust my aching legs into a position that would allow me to sleep. At least it was properly dark.
The hammering rain gently slowed and I drifted off for a while, before the rain started again and woke me up once more. This seemed to happen over and over again, as it often does when you don’t sleep well, until I finally fell properly to sleep just in time for the shutters to be wound up to welcome in an equally bleak dawn. I felt grim, and so did the world outside.
The Rade de Brest is not a stretch of water that likes me. I’ve been to the viewpoint at La Pointe des Espangnols on the other side of the water five times, and on three of those occasions the view has been entirely obscured by fog and rain. My first visit to Brest was proving equally gloomy. Our cheap hotel only provided a compensatory overpriced breakfast, and so today we were to get up and hit the road in the rain, early and without breakfast. I was not at my most cheerful.
At least the roads were quiet as we picked our way north out of town. We had made a positive decision to cut off the corner of the coast round by Le Conquet; this would save us 30km and a large lump of climbing, and would at least make sure we were in Plouider in time for a well-earned meal. We stopped at Milizac for a coffee and I briefly suggested we cut even more off our route, but I was rightly overruled.
The bit I wanted to avoid was the next 15km, which would be on fairly high ground and straight into the westerly wind that was still blowing hard off the Atlantic. It turned out that this would be my making. I settled back on the saddle and got my quads working to a rhythm, letting Graeme sit on my wheel out of the worst of the wind, and rode. I quickly realised I was up to it after all. I love the work of a challenging ride, overcoming the elements, testing your strength against whatever the environment is throwing at you. I wasn’t fast but kept us going at 25-30km/h for a good half an hour, and I was exhilarated when we finally came off the plateau and dropped into Brélès. I loved every minute of that turn.
Soon we were heading north with more of a cross-tail wind and the riding became both easier and more dramatic. Every stretch of the Breton coast is distinctive, and the section from Porspoder to Portsall was characterised by boulders and rocky ridges both on the coast and out to sea, endless dunes and stretches of unbroken sand. The former fishing villages are low-key resorts with occasional bars and creperies, and even in one place an Irish bar overlooking the sea. We stopped off at the simple but beautiful chapel of St Samson, dominated by the illuminating stained-glass window that lights up the carved woodworking inside.
This stretch of coast passed us by all too quickly. Wonderful riding on impeccable roads through tiny communities, and we were making good time. Our first stop was at the Kraken in Portsall, where we had an 11am beer in the company of 20 locals and served by a young barmaid from London who didn’t twig that we were English until Graeme and I started talking to one another. There was a gear choice of beer and for a small village the atmosphere at that time ion day was lively. We wished we could have stayed longer.
We traced the coastline as it arced towards the east. The more we headed north, the more the wind was at our backs. The roads became flatter and the riding became easy. We even briefly saw the sun on a couple of occasions. We rolled easily over the Abers Benoît and Wrac’h, stopped for lunch ahead of time at Plouguerneau and were soon on one of my favourite stretches of the Breton coast.
We first discovered Ménéham when we passed through on our 2019 tour, and it was one of the places that made me want to bring the family over camping. There are long, sandy, deserted beaches, glorious sunsets, and occasional small villages with just enough options for food and drink. We have been back several times since to walk, make sandcastles and swim in the sea, and it never disappoints. The experience is always different from a bike and I was looking forward to seeing it again through a cyclist’s eyes.
With a favourable wind and ahead of time, we took the longest stretch along the coast possible, heading briefly west along the short inlet at Kermaguel before putting the sea firmly on our left and rolling joyously along this amazing stretch of coastline. The rounded rocks and boulders, the sand dunes held together by improbably resilient fauna, the little calm bays occasionally populated with cheerful boats… I often drive along routes I’ve ridden and regale the family with stories of days on the bike, but today it was the other way around. I pointed out the best swimming pools and bathing spots, we stopped for photos by the iconic rocks of Ménéham village, and looked for souvenirs for our wives in the ateliers that now call the village home.
This beautiful stretch of coast passed us by all too quickly, but there was still time for an extended stop at the Cafe du Port in Brignogan-plages, a place that is always too busy to get near in the middle of summer but was a perfect stop today. I was hungry and asked them if the rillettes contained any peaches, because I didn’t like peaches, and it took some head-scratching to work out that I was using the Spanish word for fish (peche) instead of the French poisson, and then made it all worse by talking about my casa rather than my maison. Amid much laughter all round, it was reassuring to find that that I am fairly hopeless and confusing in all languages and not just French.
Eventually we saw a shower on the horizon and decided we had better get moving, and finished the last 10km of so to our accommodation in Plouider. This was a lovely homestay where we occupied the upper floor, and the family arranged a taxi for us to head into Kerlouan for dinner. We ate at one of my favourite places, the Bistro de Papa, a lovely restaurant with a classically-French menu with good quality meat and wine at its core. In fact, having not eaten here for a couple of years, visiting Papa was a key goal of the whole trip, and I loved the amazing welcome and the home-from-home ambience. I like exploring new places and roads untravelled, but I love even more the places that call me back and remind me of other wonderful days.
There was charcuterie and pavé steak; good wine and beer; that amazing post-ride feeling of replenishment and renewal, and the flowing conversation of old friends happy in one another’s company. It ended all too soon; before we knew it, our taxi was waiting, so we grabbed a beer for carry-out and headed back to our room.
Fourteen hours ago, I hadn’t even wanted today to happen, but it was one of the best days on the bike we’ve had.
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