Mont St Michel

Sleeping on a boat is a funny experience when there's a swell rocking you quite extremely to sleep. And awake. And to sleep. And awake. You get the picture. But it still means a more rested start to the day, and while in previous years sailing to Calais on the first ferry we get deposited in France around midday-ish; St Malo opened its gates to us at around 8.30 in the morning.

With the cottage being a couple of hours drive away, but us not being able to get into it till 4 in the afternoon, we headed along the coast to Mont Saint-Michel, a fab wee town that rises out of the sea with an abbey perched on top. But by eck the French know how to tackify these beautiful monuments. The narrow alley running up the hill is fringed all the way up with tourist tat shops selling everything from fridge magnets to metal decorative numberplates for cities around the world. Seriously. All. The. Way. Up.

Mind you, there were some Americans that seemed quite taken with a set of placemats. Anyway, the place was starting to fill (apparently 3 million people visit the streets each year) as we were leaving, so we timed that quite well (the Lonely Planet guidebook is ever-honest and basically says this place is awful to visit in high-season).

Back to the car in the non-submerged carpark (they're positioned just off the causeway to the site, but apparently wouldn't be flooded again till the day after), stopping briefly to handfeed the gathering Sparrows, and then a wander off through the countryside avoiding the Autoroutes, to find the cottage tucked away underneath a shedding walnut tree.

Big Wheel Contemplation