Читать книгу One More Croissant for the Road онлайн

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Though it’s rarely pleasant cycling into or out of a city, Brest has the great advantage of being on the coast; even I would struggle to get lost following water, despite the fact I can’t see more than a couple of metres beyond my handlebars. A huge bridge gradually looms out of the fog: the pedestrianised Pont Albert-Louppe, partially destroyed by the German Army in 1944 to halt the Allied advance, has a satisfying 888-metre span, bookended with rather grand 1920s gatehouses – and, on a wet Thursday morning, I have it entirely to myself. Though the tarmac is slick with standing water, and the views all but non-existent, it’s still a buzz to look out and imagine Newfoundland somewhere out there to the west, though in fact, when I look at a map that evening, I realise a fair bit more of Brittany stands between me and my romantic Canadian dreams.

On the other side, I discover that Finistère is a spiky place – the highest hill may be a mere 163 metres, but it gets there with commendable rapidity, and by the time I reach the top, it’s so muggy I tear my waterproof off with claws of desperation. While stuffing the damp garment into a pannier, I get the funny feeling I’m being watched and look up to find myself an object of intense interest for a field of cows, who have silently gathered near the fence for a better look. I feel the weight of their judgement upon my red face, and hastily move on.