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Now that it’s finally stopped raining, I can see what I’m riding through: a landscape of stone walls and dripping trees and old-fashioned blue-and-white enamel signs to places with too many vowels stuffed into them – Kerouant, Goarem Goz, Stangmeur, Squivit.

The constant up and down slows the pace, and I succumb to low-level but mounting anxiety regarding my 12 o’clock reservation. The last 10km or so seem to stretch out forever, so I’m relieved to finally see the magic sign proclaiming I’m in Le Faou, twinned with Modbury, UK, and somewhere else in France, just in case Devon proves too exotic. I cross a medieval bridge, pass a 16th-century church and there, at the end of the main street, is the equally ancient-looking building housing La Frégate, the first floor overhanging the ground floor, and the second floor overhanging that, all rising to a slate-tiled point. A wrought-iron frigate in full sail dangles from the corner gable, and outside, men from the town hall are installing great boxes of flowers ready for the summer season.