In the weeks leading up to the trip, I made sure all the big maintenance jobs were done: bottom bracket, tyres, chain, cassette — all serviced and tour-ready. Yet four days ago, on a 50-mile ride, I had three punctures in different positions and managed to find the cause of only one. In my haste to swap in fresh inner tubes, I also lost one of the little plastic inserts that convert a rim’s Schrader valve hole to a Presta size. A trip to the bike shop didn’t turn up a replacement.
So, while I know the bike is in good shape, I can’t shake the feeling that it — or I — could fail at any moment. Adding to this mild dread, autumn has arrived early; I’ve been picturing myself fixing punctures in torrential rain with frozen fingers. Fortunately, today the weather is perfect: cool and dry, with a hint of crisp sea air. My thoughts turn instead to breakfast — a stop at a boulangerie on the road to Cancale that does a particularly good Far Breton, a custard tart unique to this part of Brittany.
Queuing for the ferry always humbles you. There’s inevitably someone doing 100 miles a day, or another who’s cycled around the world, or one bound for Istanbul — or the proud owner of a vintage Bob Jackson bike. All real examples. Modesty is the only sensible posture. Still, despite the boasts, the group of fifteen or so cyclists waiting to board share the same easy smiles. After all, they’re off for a bike ride — and that’s always something to be happy about.
Someone in the queue asked what I’d do with the rest of my day, given I’m “only” riding forty miles. It’s a fair question: that’s about four hours of pedalling. My honest answer was that I’ll simply enjoy the cycling itself — and take in whatever scenery comes with it.
For the first time on any of my Saint-Malo arrivals, I linger to explore the old town. I wander up to the cathedral, then stop at a favourite boulangerie I’ve visited before on my return crossings. There, I settle in with a coffee and a warm Kouign-amann — a Breton speciality that’s a little like tarte tatin, except the apples are replaced, measure for measure, with butter and sugar.
From there it’s on to Cancale, home of the famous oyster market, set just a few feet from the beds themselves. I go for a dozen — six medium, six small — and follow the stallholder’s advice: lemon on the mediums, none on the smalls. Around 10:45 a.m., a wine lorry appears; a glass of white would have paired beautifully. From Cancale, Mont Saint-Michel shimmers faintly on the horizon, a hazy bump on the edge of the bay.
Combourg, my stop for the night, turns out to be an excellent destination — large enough for good eating options, yet small enough to wander comfortably on foot. As it’s my first proper day in Brittany, I treat myself to a full meal out, complete with a Kir Breton (cider with cassis) — a drink that always makes me feel slightly more sophisticated than I really am.
Combourg is closely linked to François-René de Chateaubriand, the great French Romantic writer. Naturally, there’s a statue somewhere — and I make a mental note to find it in the morning.
