Day eight: The final day of pilgrimage

It was the last day today, and I gave myself rather a lot to do. My ferry was booked for 11pm from Caen and at the back of my mind was the stag-do to Amsterdam I had to leave for at lunchtime the next day.

The plan was to go through Pontorson to Mont St Michel and then 12km back to Pontorson to catch a 5pm train to Caen. This would be about 70km.

The stakes were raised when I popped in the Combourg tourist office to say, “This looks like a very nice town, but which is the road out of here?”

Not taking offence, the man behind the desk pointed me in the right direction, but said I might have trouble as the Tour-de-France was going through Pontorson and Mont St Michel today (I can't seem to shake this blasted cycle race). If I could get there by lunchtime, I might be able to see it.

Well drastic times call for drastic measures. The croissant and pain au chocolat would be postponed this morning, until I had made some ground.

…

I ended up stopping for the croissant and pain au chocolat after about 20km in an unnamed town. Routine is routine after all.

Bumping into the Tour-de-France

In the end I covered the 40km to Pontorson by 12:30. I eat the kilometres up these days.

On arriving I encountered crowds of people lining the streets with not much else happening. I locked the bike to a lamp post and took my position.

For the next hour I stood there waiting while sponsorship cars and motorbikes drove past, many giving out freebies or selling Tour de France tat. I think they call it the caravan. I met a nice English man with some good chat about second homes in France and it all had a carnival like atmosphere to it.

Then out of nowhere about eight cyclists came roaring past.

I’m not familiar with the Tour de France but I imagined it was like a marathon and now these would be the first of a steady flow of cyclists.

But apparently it doesn’t work like that. Five minutes later a wave of what seemed like hundreds of cyclists were hurtling towards us. And as quick as they arrived, they were gone. I believe they call it the peloton.

It was brilliant and had my heart racing in the excitement of it all. But it’s a funny old world where people wait for hours for a 10 second glimpse of some cyclists they don’t recognise. The crowds cleared within seconds and within minutes it was as if nothing had happened.

Mont St Michel

From Pontorson it was a 12km ride along an estuary to Mont St Michel – a small island built on in the 8^th century and connected to the mainland by a causeway.

You may have even heard of it, as it was by far the most touristy place I have visited. And well worth the trip. I paid 9 euro to get into the cathedral/church, which seemed good value until I realised that if I was 25 years or younger it would have been free. I could feel a quarter life crisis coming on.

I left with about an hour and a half to get the 12km back to the station, and despite a little scare when a downpour had me hiding under a tree, I got there in plenty of time. It was just a case of waiting for the train, getting to Caen and boarding a ferry home…. Or so I thought.

Start as you mean to go on

I arrived in Caen in the pouring rain, but I wasn’t going to let that dampen my mood. It was 8pm and I had three hours to find the ferry terminal, buy a large dinner and relax ahead of departure.

I cycled out of the station expecting to hit the port, or at least a sign to it, pretty much immediately. However after about 10 minutes of aimless cycling I hadn’t seen anything and the rain was getting heavier.

I decided to consult the guide book. It told me: “Ferries to Portsmouth leave from Ouistreham, 20km northeast of Caen.” Shit.

Why would Brittany Ferries say that the ferry goes from Caen, when it in fact doesn’t? It’s a lie and situations like this could be avoided if they were at least honest about it.

The other problem was that I had no idea where Ouistreham was or how to get there. For outside of the city, then I had a map. But the map wasn’t detailed enough to tell me where I was in Caen and how I could get on the right road, or even the right side of the estuary.

I headed back to the station, where not much was open. The French guard I spoke to puffed out his cheeks and shook his head before writing 20km on a piece of paper and pointing me in what seemed like a random direction.

I was going to miss the ferry. I was going to miss the stag-do. I could’ve cried. The excuses were already running through my head.

Finding the road to carry-on

I cycled back out into Caen in the rain. and came across a map on the side of the road. I took a picture to refer to later, but headed in what I thought was the right direction.

After about 3km I hit the first sign to the port and after 5km, the slip road to a motorway that would lead me straight there. After five minutes of considering if I could brave the motorway and find something that runs next to it, I decided to turn back and try my luck using the map to find my way using B-roads.

I spent much of the next hour lost. But then in a stroke of luck and with the help of a few strangers, I found a road that was on my map – the D60. I was saved. I still had about 20km to go in the rain and fading light, but at least I had a route and a purpose.

I cycled through fields and towns for the next hour as fast as my little legs would take me. I even conquered hills that a week ago would’ve had me pushing my bike on foot.

At just after 10pm and with over 30 extra km on the speedometer, I rolled into the ferry terminal and straight on to the ferry. I was exhausted, but so happy.

Well earned rewards

On the ferry I went straight to the canteen and bought a post-modern burger (hashbrowns instead of buns) with chips, a coke and even a chocolate mousse. For dessert I had a pint and some salacious gossip about the News of the World in the Guardian.

This was my reward. My reward for conquering France.