Friday morning and I am sitting in the small, peaceful cafe at the station of St Malo, a long journey over to get here and another long journey ahead of me to get further south to St Nazaire and the start of my journey proper. At least the weather is better here than when I set out.
The runes were not favourable yesterday. The heavens opened as I set out on the eight miles to Bradford-on-Avon station and my train to Portsmouth, or so I thought. It came. It went. I remained on the platform with my bike. Booking or no booking, the train manager wouldn’t let me on the rammed train; he had no choice really, bursting at the seams with children as it was. I had avoided booking a later train because the timings were a bit too tight. Now I had no choice. But after a fretful journey and a frantic pedal to the ferry terminal I made check in with just ten minutes to spare, rewarding myself with a relaxed (and it has to be said, excellent) dinner in the a la carte ferry restaurant.
My schoolboy French has been sufficient to buy my onward train ticket, understand the changes and realise that I will not reach St Nazaire until late afternoon, a five hour journey that doesn’t begin until midday. Hours to kill until then: a coffee to finish, accommodation to sort, a promenade to visit. Not enough I’m sure to fill all the time on my hands.
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