shipping out and getting back

THERE IS LITTLE LEFT TO TELL concerning this latest return of the natives. As already reported, we didn't leap from the couch before daybreak at Yffiniac, preferring for a while to take in the incessant patter of rain on the double glazing from the comfort of the beds provided …and enjoy the questionable benefit of the clocks going back. There was still no hot water anyway. 

We were assured of a good breakfast at the tried-and-tested Châtelaudren – we need not look further. We were already au fait with the fact that our ferry was going an hour ahead of schedule to try and beat the incoming storm conditions. Time on board is British time of course so we'd be gaining two hours anyway by the time we landed in storm tossed Plymouth. However, my normal requirement for une douzaine de huîtres before embarkation would go unrequited: couldn't risk The Surcouf, if their service was as slow as last time. Never mind, we would eat on board. And anyway, we could fill up a bit at the P'tit déj stage, the boulangerie in Châtelaudren being division one. We could buy quality bread to take back with us too! 

stoicism in the face
of disappointment

The explanation for the lack of eau chaude in the Ibis Yffiniac was not convincing: the failure of a major component in the water system of the hotel which management could neither solve or find un heating engineer who could. We await a partial refund. 

As I often am given to remark: yeah… right. 

The Châtelaudren boulangerie was barred and shuttered. 

We were assured all such outlets in the town, nearby towns and the départment as a whole were similar, as it was Toussaint! I mean to say! This is supposed to be a secular state!! Yeah… Right. We moped over our grand crèmes. No croissants. No beer mats to suck either. On our last morning, FGS! We had hard boiled eggs, but…… We passed the only Boul. open in Côte d'Armor, later, en route to Finistère… there was a queue that stretched to the horizon. Strong men wept. I nearly joined them. 

But before leaving Châtelaudren we inspected the former printing works and its wonderful water powered turbine-race, we read up on the bridge about where two cultures and differing languages formally met. It is historic: we liked Châtelaudren even today when it so seriously failed to meet our needs. We left it, but we will return. We will forgive. 

The weather being more kindly disposed, suggested perhaps that we might get recompense at our first breakfast stop of this jolly, the one where we unselfishly let Dr G have the only croissant. We left the N12 to drop through Morlaix and turned up at Locquénolé. Not a chance. Nothing. B&S, again. Give us a break! We strolled down to the estuary as if that had been our intention all along, after all it was sunny and calm. We admired the only for-certain surviving tree of the revolution planting frenzy (1794 Le Chêne de la Liberté), but it didn't help. Mme M called us to order: let's get on…… we hi-tailed it to Roscoff; distant view of feu antérieur, Île Louët, snapped en route…

Roscoff: parked up, bought a net of onions and a dozen of the best garlics known to man, got ourselves into the thankfully functioning boul/café. just along from the Surcouf. The rain thundered down as we were, aprés twelve of the hour, rewarded with breakfast. The s&h went further: he had a Croque-Monsieur. The quality of those pastries brings a tear to my eye, even at this remove. The chocolat chaud was inspirational. Less so the café latte. We went to meet our destiny on the Armorique with renewed hope, the rain even refrained long enough to get there sans splash! (snap of lunch by M, annotated by your author).

Armorique was straining at the leash as we crept on (up to deck five, disabled the motor's burglar alarm, footed it 'up-top') got under way on the dot, exchanging toots as we went with the incoming Pont Aven, also running before the storm, but 'tuther way. The clouds indicated the nature of what the crossing might be like (we had a cabin). 

White horses of the wave-and-water type rapidly manifested themselves around us even though the sun shone on. Soon the decks were closed to the passengers and first the s&h, self, and then Mme M adjourned to cabin 8034. Armorique staggered pitched and rolled her way across La Manche; we've known it rougher (more rough). Quite windy. Upon arrival a tug was enlisted to bring our vessel to the quayside in the Plymouth dock: achieved without the slightest of bumps. Hearts of Oak!

All in all the return sailing was executed with the skill and care we expect from Brit Ferries, notwithstanding the deck-dumping of a fully loaded tray of glassware behind the bar. The recently refettled HM Customs and Excise at Ply. dealt with the disembarkation in its usual efficient manner: we were out of the port to dice with the nonsense of Plymouth's traffic light and bus lane mysteries within twenty minutes or so. We stopped for milk at the Shell garage and wolfed down a pack of Waitrose sausage rolls thereat. Not bad for shop bought.  Mary quite forgot herself and ate two! 

You see, no one had bothered to eat on the crossing — beyond a shared bag of Piper's crisps. I bought a bottle of gin. I ate a hard boiled egg back at the homestead while Mary defrosted and heated up a pizza aussi. I ate a bit of it. Adam ate the rest of it. 

The car was emptied, the crew went to bed. Thank you ma famille. Until the next time… Storm Ciarán arrived on Thursday and pressure took a record breaking dip… we had got in — under the wire!