Читать книгу One More Croissant for the Road онлайн

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The department takes its name from the Latin finis and terre, or ‘end of the earth’. Unsurprisingly, it’s not the easiest place to get to, and last night’s reality check in the laundry has put paid to any fantasies of exploring mysterious Arthurian forests. It’s a shame; Brittany, which feels a lot to me like Cornwall – it even has a region called Cornouaille – is a place with a lot to offer the greedy visitor: apart from the aforementioned oysters and kouign-amann, and the inevitable crêpes, its rocky coastline gives forth fabulous fish and seafood, and the land is famous for its butter and cream (though, interestingly, Brittany does not have a great history of cheesemaking: indeed, the old Breton word for cheese was lait pourri, or ‘putrid milk’. Yum!).

Instead I’ll be whizzing through all that on a TGV bound for the port city of Brest, on Brittany’s westernmost tip. It doesn’t leave Saint-Malo until mid-afternoon, leaving me with a lot of time to kill, and not a boulangerie, café or restaurant in sight. For all my grand plans of reacquainting myself with the old town, the remarkably persistent rain makes me disinclined to explore much further afield than the immediate vicinity of the railway station, which is how I end up sitting in the Relay convenience store with an acrid espresso, an Innocent smoothie (the closest thing I can find to fresh fruit) and a family packet of St Michel galettes au bon beurre for breakfast, probably produced in the biscuiterie we passed near the Mont.