Breakfast a La Mare aux Anglais included Dundee cake, marmalade, and toffee spread – all home made. I was served with 2 beautifully poached eggs by my genial host, Francis. 
Francis is an organist, bibliophile, entertaining conversationalist with perfect English, and such a warm, cheerful, cultured, and welcoming gentleman, you could not hope to meet. If you are visiting Mont St Michel, I would heartily recommend his place.
The ride today was a slog into a headwind, which was only moderate, about 10 mile per hour or so, but was sufficient to sap my strength and slow my progress. The ground was mostly open and provided little shelter and it felt relentless. There were a few hills to negotiate, but they would have provided little problem without the effect of riding most of the day directly into the wind. There seemed to be no opportunity to build up momentum, to take a short break whilst coasting, or even build up speed on a downward slope. I just had to keep the pedals turning the whole way, mostly slowly, with every revolution requiring an effort. I hate wind in my face when cycling.
There were some pretty views to be had and charming villages to pass through, with everything shut, of course, but I had a bit of food left over from the supermarket the previous day, so was able to stop and snack on the way. I did forget to fill up both water bottles before I left, so ran dry again for the last few miles – bit in the trip to be learning this lesson, I thought.
There were two small hills to negotiate before the town, which were tougher than they ought to have been. I read somewhere that foul language can assist when confronted with tasks that require physical effort, and I employed that method as I toiled towards the crest of the last hill. I can confirm that it works. Apologies to the innocent garden centre I passed to my left, but, having cursed the wind, the slope, France, Napoleon, Joan of Arc, and William the Conquerer, I was running out of things to curse, and that was the nearest target. I don’t think anybody heard.
I had envisaged Blainville-sur- Mer to be a small, busy, seaside town, with plenty of cafes and bars along the promenade, where I could while away an hour or two, and maybe even dip my toes in the Channel. Its name is misleading: Blainville-a-decent-walk-from-la-Mer would be more accurate. It seems the coastal resort is few miles away at Coutainville. Blainville is an upgrade on most of the rest of France in that, although the “pub” that was open when I rode in at about 2:30pm had closed before I could shower and get back out of the hotel, there was one bar still open in the town. After a beer there, I decided to walk down to the sea front, where there is another bar, only, I’ve had to put my drink in a bag to keep the flies out of it.
The hotel restaurant apparently has a Michelin star, so I’ll be giving that a go later. However, opening the Hammam / Spa for me, I presume their only paying guest, was too much trouble. The woman on reception made a show of ringing somebody, but, by then I had worked out that she was the owner, and the yoga practitioner and masseuse, so I allowed this pantomime to play out having already decided to soothe my aching thighs with a beer and a stroll to the beach.
The wind is moving around to the East and may even have a southerly component tomorrow, which will be a relief, and the sun has emerged to warm my scalp. Another leg is complete. I head to Cherbourg tomorrow – my final ride, before the ferry the next day. I’m gazing over the Channel now and already plotting the next trip.
It’s been quite a journey, but now it’s almost over.
The Trick Cyclist 