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In Which I Come Across Like A Teenager

August 18, 2007 by Mike

Douarnenez

Route: Le Conquet - Brest - Camaret - St-Nic - Douarnenez

"If it's bad weather on 15 August ('Quinze Aout' - the last holiday of the summer) there'll be bad weather for a few days, but then there's always an Indian summer." Or so I've been told.. several times a day since the 15th.

Well, the first two parts have come true. And just to make sure the third does too, I'm probably moving a little faster than I had planned, in search of the sun. That was one of the reasons I didn't stop after riding the 20 miles or so from Le Conquet to Brest this morning. Other reasons may or may not include:

* an inability not to snigger every time I remember it's called 'Brest';
* being escorted to the city limits by an angry Sheriff after his wife tried to give me her number;
* blinking and missing a city of 146,000 people;
* but mainly.. it was the rain.

Oh, the rain.

It only started as I entered Brest (ggg-ggnnnfffff) which meant I chose not to stop and put my waterproofs on. After all, I was about to stop anyway.. which I did.. five minutes later.. soaked to the skin. First stop being the Castle in the middle of Brest (pfffffffft), for a trip down Memory Lane.

<A Trip Down Memory Lane>
I spent the summer after my A-levels hitch-hiking through Europe: arrested in Bulgaria for spying; spending four days in Berlin and only sleeping twice; telling my parents I was going to Spain, then sending them a postcard from Belgrade; politely declining when one driver asked if I'd like to join him on a little beach he knew "where we could take all our clothes off and get to know each other a little better". A different story every day. The best of times.

I came to Brest (tsssss-sss-ssss), way back when, to see Miles Davis in concert. He played under the battlements of the Castle as night fell, exquisite, esoteric, enthralling sounds, and -- classic Miles, this -- he spent the whole night with his back turned on the audience that sat, transported, in a park on the other side of the moat. I think I found the spot where he played but i can't be sure: 20 years and more have passed. Oh, and it was a hot summer's night when I was last here. Today I couldn't see more than 50 metres through the rain.

</A Trip Down Memory Lane>

Luckily, the Castle is also a Marine Museum relating the history of the military port of Brest (mmmmhhhhhmmmmmm) over the last 1700 years. So I was able to spend some time indoors, drying off and warming up. I squelched as I walked. People stared.

And when I got back on the bike, it rained even harder. Which is why I stopped five minutes away to visit Oceanopolis -- a much more effective display of the wonders of the seas than Cherbourg's Cite de la Mer. They're both huge, but today I was entertained and informed by an exhibition that led me logically from one part of the undersea world to the next - not plonked in the middle of a huge amount of.. stuff.. and just expected to be impressed.

But I was still squelching. And then -- Harry Potter, I owe you BIG TIME -- the rain magically disappeared.

The sun didn't quite come out, there were no rainbows and no pots of gold, but at least everything, the roads, my underwear and the rest of me, started to dry off. There were clouds behind me all the way as I took the chance to make some miles between me and Brest (mwaaahaaaHAAAAH).

In fact, there were still clouds ahead of me until I detoured along the Crozon peninsula, riding out to the isolated but beautiful town of Camaret, stopping to take in WWII memorials and panoramic vistas. All the while, the clouds were parting from the road ahead of me. All very Moses.

And in the evening, having elected to stay inder a roof for fear of more rain, a long walk from my hotel to the centre of Douarnenez -- a cute little port and a town slightly larger than I realised -- where I stumbled upon the opening night of the Douarnenez Film Festival. I arrived too late to get in to any of the films but managed to enjoy the food, the house red and a half-decent band playing rather too late into the night. Kathy and Steve, volunteers from Sheffield who come here every year, reminded me how to speak English and brought me up to speed with the town and the Festival. Fun.

Beside the Seaside

In Which I Come Across Like A Teenager

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