Expecting to self-cater over the coming week, I treated myself to dinner out last night. Instead of my usual entrecôte and crème brûlée, I ventured into new territory: frogs’ legs, followed by confit duck and a rich chocolate mousse. The frogs’ legs were perfectly fine, though what I really enjoyed was the garlicky, herb-laced butter they arrived in — more soup than sauce, and utterly delicious.
This morning I set off into Normandy, beginning a week in one of France’s regional parks. I can’t say I know what awaits me; I simply chose a patch shaded a deeper green on the map, one that ticked my modest boxes: a supermarket, a restaurant, and affordability. It’s only fifty-eight kilometres today, which is just as well — my legs are heavy with yesterday’s miles.
Before leaving Fougères I pause for a few last photos, then roll on through villages where bicycles have been turned into message boards.
The landscape shifts almost imperceptibly at first, but by the time I near my destination the transformation is complete: lush meadows stretching in every direction, the churches here lifting their spires as if in greeting to the skies.
I seem to be shadowing the Tour this year. Earlier in the summer I found myself in a village near Dunkirk along its route, and now, in Lonlay-l’Abbaye, I see it has passed through here too. The locals have marked the occasion with two bright-red bicycles arranged into a giant “18” — perhaps the number of the rider they cheered on.
My gîte lies tucked away in a hamlet, and the directions were vague enough that it took me two attempts to find it; the front door, rather confusingly, was at the back. Just as I was reaching for my phone, my hosts appeared around the corner with a smile. At thirty-six pounds a night it feels a rare bargain, and once I’d settled in, the instructions and signage that had seemed so elusive were suddenly perfectly clear.
