If the style, spelling, or grammar of this journal drifts now and then, it’s because my state of mind and level of fatigue do the same. I write when I can — sometimes from a café table, sometimes half-asleep in a hotel room — and occasionally I call upon ChatGPT to smooth things out or “pimp it up” a little.
My first pause today is to photograph some mistletoe, a common sight in Normandy. It grows high in the trees, attached like a graft, its green clusters standing out against bare autumn branches. As I’m taking the picture, I spot my second deer of the trip — a roe deer. It hesitates at the roadside, then suddenly bounds across in front of me, changes its mind, and darts back the other way, disappearing over the fields in a flash of movement.
A few miles later, I stop at a château. After taking a photo from the road, I move closer to read its name — one that, in hindsight, should have been obvious. The building is elegant yet understated, with soft stone walls and slate roofs gleaming in the morning light.
Still only ten miles in, I’m drawn to the magnificent tower of a village church rising unexpectedly from among the houses. It’s truly beautiful, and as a bonus, the square outside is alive with a gathering of classic cars. Their polished chrome and pastel paintwork gleam like jewels against the old stone backdrop. The French love doing things in groups — cycling, walking, picnicking — and their affection for classic cars seems boundless.
Arriving in Coutances, I’m not surprised to find most shops and cafés closed; Sunday afternoons in rural France move at their own gentle pace. I’m lucky to find a crêperie open and enjoy what feels like my last proper meal out, though I still have a couple of days left to ride. After three weeks on the road, cycling has become my daily rhythm, my way of life. Yet now my thoughts are beginning to turn homeward, to routines and familiar comforts waiting at the end of the journey.
For lunch, I skip the galette and order an entrecôte. Steak and chips have become something of a standard on this tour, and I’ve started experimenting — ordering it rare and with different sauces. In the past, I’ve gone for à point, but that’s a little too done for my taste. Today’s steak arrives perfectly cooked, full of flavour, served simply with a small bowl of sea salt and no sauce at all — and it’s all the better for it.
This is my third visit to Coutances, and today I’m determined to see both the gardens and the cathedral properly. I manage both, rewarded in the cathedral by the sound of the organist practising, the deep notes echoing through the vast Gothic interior.
On the return leg, I weave along quiet roads near the railway that links Saint-Lô and Coutances. As I approach one of the crossings, the lights begin to flash and the alarm sounds. For a moment, it’s tempting to slip through, but I stop — and it’s just as well. The barriers drop almost instantly, and within three seconds a train thunders past in a blur of motion. I barely have time to take a photo before the moment is gone.
Today was meant to be a short 50-kilometre ride, but by the time my navigation tool had done its creative rerouting, that number had quietly grown — as it always seems to on this trip. Oh, and if you want to know what the omelette tasted like read on tomorrow, assuming I survive.
