August 25, 2005
St. Jean-du-Doigt - Trevou-Treiguignec
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The sky had been washed clean by the previous day's rain and we woke to bright sunshine. It was still windy. Those of you with some knowledge of French, and who have not troubled to read the sub-heading, [again, thank you Carsten] may have been asking yourselves, who is St. John of the Finger. My first facetious guesses: the patron saint of boy-racers, and/or prostate sufferers turned out to be wrong of course. After breakfast and after packing our bags, we stopped off at the church, in search of an answer, along with a dozen or so other curious tourists. According to the information board at the churchyard gate, among other more esoteric treasures, the church of St. Jean-du-Doigt contains, in a silk case, a finger of John the Baptist. You may not be surprised to hear, that this claim was greeted with some scepticism. How exactly the sacred digit found its way to Northern Brittany was not fully explained, in fact not explained at all. Pilgrimage, however, has always been good business. Perhaps in centuries past, the villagers of St Jean had hoped to rival Santiago de Compostella in Galicia, Spain, which owes its architecturally, magnificent existence to the belief that the body of St. James the Apostle was landed near there, in the 7th century. Perhaps here, if they'd been able to acquire a few more body parts? A whole arm even?
We left the churchyard and took the road towards the beach and then forked right, with the wind at our backs, for the cliff road, which took us past fields, some of artichokes, market gardens and sea views to Guimaec. We turned left towards Locquirec but not before we took a photo of the church. In Loquirec a small, neat resort on the western side of a large bay and well patronised by English visitors, we stopped for coffee. We were down by the beach here and sheltered from the south-westerly wind. I paid a visit to the local pâtisserie and returned with two croissant aux amandes and a baguette de tradition, une tradition, for short. We ate the pastries with our coffee. Barbara's delight with her sticky treat cemented a daily routine. The baguette travelled on.
We tried to cut out some main road riding by taking the route round the headland on the opposite side of the bay to Locquirec. This was a waste of time in the end, as we had to cycle back against the wind into Plestin-les-Grèves for lunch supplies. We turned back again and dropped down to a windswept beach on which sand-yachting was popular and stopped to eat.
After lunch [la tradition, cheese, tomatoes, fruit] we followed the sweep of the bay along D786 until St. Michel-les-Grèves, where we turned off onto a minor road and a very steep climb up and away from the sea. Up to now we had found the gradients on Breton roads to be kind to the touring cyclist. This was the first climb worthy of being called steep. As I mentioned earlier, we took a short cycling holiday in Devon and Cornwall last summer and particularly in Cornwall, the minor roads and occasionally the major roads, are brutally steep. Climbing a 20% gradient [or worse] for half a mile, a rapid but short descent, immediately followed by yet another knee-popping climb is very uncomfortable on a loaded touring bicycle. Last year, I abandoned all illusions of self respect and used my granny ring on a regular basis. Cornwall's Celtic sister province across the channel, rarely demanded the use of le petit plateau.
An aside about British roads; it seems to me that in Britain, the back roads were often built without any thought as to wheeled transport. In the North Yorkshire Moors National Park, for example, there is even a stretch of road with a 33% gradient. It can't have been easy getting a loaded horse and cart either up or down. I quote the first verse of G.K. Chesterton's The Rolling English Road:
Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode, The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road. A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire, And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire; A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.
At the top of the climb, I began to curse my map again and we proceeded towards Lannion via Locquémeau largely by guesswork. In Lannion, a workmanlike sort of town at first glance, we stopped by the river in the centre of town for a rest and a banana, while we decided on the evening's destination. It was about 4pm. Out of the Logis guide I picked a more upscale place than our usual, L'Hotel Ker Bugalic, on the coast at Trévou-Treguignec and phoned ahead to reserve a room. Here in Lannion, there was a market in the car park by the river and Barbara and I pushed our bikes between the stalls for a browse. It seemed that at least half of the stalls sold only cheap women's underwear, displayed in unappealing, disorderly piles. At one, a middle-aged Moslem women was trying on a very ample brassière over her clothes. Other stalls sold cheap trinkets and ornaments; not an artichoke nor an onion to be seen.
We climbed out away from the river, onto the busy ring-road until our turning for Trévou, where we left the heavy traffic behind. Again, we had the still strong wind at our backs and the 15km or so ride to to Trévou, was reasonably flat until the road started to drop down to the sea. We found directions for the Ker Bugalic on a visitors' map in the town square. The hotel was half-way down the road to the beach with a pretty terraced garden and sea views. We registered, stowed our bikes in a storeroom and were taken down to our room away from the main building. We found ourselves in temporary possession of a bedroom and out front, a glazed over patio with a view over the bay. We showered, strolled towards the square and back, then presented ourselves for dinner.
Barbara had scallops with bacon followed by monkfish [lotte, in French], cheese and a fruit macaroon. I thought, I'd try the langoustines [crayfish] for starters, followed by filet mignon [pork], cheese and a peanut butter and chocolate cake. The langoustines were served on a large glass plate, in the centre of which was a white ceramic bowl of mayonnaise. The langoustines, themselves, were so arranged, as to give the impression that they were laying angry siege to their dressing. As an aid to their consumption I was given a narrow bladed knife with a blunt hook at the end to help scrape the flesh out of their skinny limbs. For the inexperienced [me], it certainly is slow eating, but on balance, worth it. They do taste good.
After dinner we walked down the hill to the sea front and drank a couple of beers in a surfie's bar. There were only two other customers aside from us. The French national holidays, were almost at an end and now this seaside drinking dive was almost sepulchral. We walked back up the hill to bed.
Today's ride: 66 km (41 miles)
Total: 138 km (86 miles)
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