Sunday 12th September 1999 During the night rain fell heavily enough to wake me up with the noise it made on the tent, and this was the only time that it rained for any length of time in the middle of the night while we were on tour. Typically enough, I had a line out from the tent to a nearby tree with all my washing supposed to be drying on it, too. Sod's Law !
After taking down the tent and filling up my water bottle, I made a start for the centre of Carhaix, wanting to have a look around, as when I had cycled in the previous afternoon I had skirted the town centre. Carhaix turned out to be an interesting place, with some very attractive buildings and yet another magnificent church, the Église St-Trémeur (pictures below). In Roman times the town had been of importance, and commanded seven main roads. Nowadays the town is a centre for milk production. Given that it was a Sunday, I was pleased to find a small supermarket open, so I stopped off there and bought some dried soup and some ham, and then at a bakery, where I bought what I thought was brown bread but which later turned out to have a crust that was so very hard that I couldn't even cut it with my Swiss Army knife! It took all my strength to break it open, and the inside turned out to be equally unpalatable.
I spent about an hour looking round Carhaix and taking photographs, as well as getting some postcards sent off. Then it was back on the bike, with the rock of bread in its bag tied carefully on the back of the bike - I didn't want it falling off and breaking the road surface, did I?! I took the D54 northwards. This turned out to be quite a hilly route, but passed through a lovely wooded area, the Forêt de Fréau. I had one of the very few encounters I was to have with dogs at Croissant Marie Jaffré, but the dog didn't give pursuit, just appeared suddenly and barked unexpectedly - and very loudly! In Greece dogs are such a serious problem that I bought a Dog Dazer, which I also have with me when hiking in the mountains, and it gives tremendous peace of mind by repelling vicious dogs with blasts of ultrasound. Geoff and Kate had said that I wouldn't need it with me in Brittany. Although I had brought it with me, it remained unused.
At a tiny place by the name of Toul-ar-Groas I stopped at a little bar for a drink. A little old lady piled out of the neighbouring cottage and served me. The beer was warm (straight from the shelf - no fridge) and the floor was made of concrete and had, strangely enough, cloven animal hoof marks in it. While I was talking to the old lady, I noticed that she spoke French with a certain difficulty and a touch of a "foreign" accent, so my curiosity got the better of me and asked her about that. It turned out that she spoke Breton, the local Celtic language, most of the time, as did most of the inhabitants of the village - this would account for the noticeably unFrench village name. This area of central Brittany turned out to be the most Celtic part of the region, many more of the placenames being Celtic, whereas in other parts of the region there was a greater dominance of names of French origin.
I told the lady where I was headed (the next village en route being Bolazec) and she allowed me to take a couple of pictures of the bar, one of which can be seen below. She then gave me directions as I left the bar and waved me off as I cycled away in totally the wrong direction! About two kilometres later, I was sure that I was definitely on the right road - my map-reading skills are generally quite good, so I was growing increasingly anxious that I hadn't passed a particular turning indicated on the map. I turned back, which took me back downhill to the bar and saw a chap walking his dog. I asked him for directions to Bolazec and it turned out that the road I should have taken was directly opposite the bar...!
The road leading to Bolazec was principally uphill, but gave fine views across rolling hills away to the east. Bolazec itself was a small village with some pretty houses (an example with a well-tended garden can be seen in the picture below right). From Bolazec to la Maison-Blanche, where I crossed the D28, the road continued to rise, and then after the D28 crossroads it levelled out as it led on to Plougras and Guerlesquin. This stretch of road was lined by blackberry bushes laden with fruit, so many a happy minute was spent feeding myself with the delicious berries. Blackberries are relatively rarely seen in Greece, and it was a pleasure to be able to gorge myself on them at the roadside in Brittany!! I reached Plougras, which was a fairly drab place, to be perfectly honest. There was an imposing church, but many of the houses around the square in front of the church appeared to be fairly new buildings built in the local stone, and the square itself appeared to have been used recently by youngsters being irresponsible in cars, if the circular skidmarks on the roadway were anything to go by. I sat on the steps leading to the church and pulled out my granite-like bread and the ham I had bought at Carhaix, in the forlorn hope of making a palatable meal out of it. I also had some fairly rough cider in my panniers, which helped to wash the bread down. However, in the end the loaf came to its final resting place in one of the bins in Plougras.
Guerlesquin was "a mere step", as Geoff would put it, from Plougras, and a very much more interesting place, with its granite buildings. On the Place Prosper-Proux square there stands an old prison, the Présidial, which dates back to 1650 and has battlement turrets at each corner (picture below left). There was an exhibition on in the prison, but time was pressing on me as I had made a late start, so I had to resist the temptation to have a look round inside and set off to cover the last twenty-five kilometres or so to the campsite at Plestin-les-Grèves.
From Guerlesquin there led the D42 to Plestin-les-Grèves, a good open road with a smooth surface that made for fast cycling. I spotted a sign indicating a tall standing stone (menhir) on the horizon on the far side of a field to the west of the road, so stopped and traipsed around the border of the muddy field to have a closer look at the monument (picture below). As I looked at the millennia-old monument I was struck by a strange contrast - the straight lines of the ancient stone pointing majestically skywards were set against the straight lines of a vapour trail left by a jet, probably en route to the United States. It was a poignant sight, the contrast and similarity of man's ancient and modern achievements.
The rest of the run down into Plestin-les-Grèves went by uneventfully, except for an interesting moment when I overtook a horse and trap on the road, with a colourfully-dressed horseman brandishing his whip. Wishing him a hearty "Bonjour!" I overtook the horse at quite a distance so as not to cause it to start, and then somewhat further on attempted to catch a good picture of them with my digital camera while cycling, but the movement of the bike led to a blurred picture.
I had been told that the campsite at Plestin-les-Grèves was actually outside the town, on a headland called Corniche de l'Armorique. This was actually quite difficult to find, and I spent half an hour cycling round Plestin-les-Grèves trying to get my bearings. Eventually I came across a plan of the town, and was soon on the loop road that led around the headland. I was dismayed to see that the campsite, called Les Hortensias, was a long way from any shops or restaurants, apart from a crêperie, or a crêpe restaurant which served nothing apart from... crêpes! Now, I have to admit that crêpes have never been my favourite food - they remind me of eating soggy cardboard filled with something the cat brought up - but as there was no other choice it was either that or go hungry, and my day's nourishment so far had come from a few slices of ham and the igneous loaf of bread!
Once I had set up camp I had to hurry to catch up with the rest of the group, who had set off for the crêperie. In the end, the crêpe I ordered was not too bad, although I was at pains to identify exactly how the advertised seafood filling actually tasted anything like seafood.
The stay at Les Hortensias was to be a two-night one, so after the meal Jennie, Evelyn and I spent an hour or so chatting over some wine in the campsite's washing-up room, as light rain fell outside.
Day Nine: Rest day at Plestin-les-Grèves:
Monday 13th September 1999 I got up late the next morning, towards eleven o'clock, after a much-needed long night's sleep. First priority was to get off down to the supermarket on the outskirts of Plestin-les-Grèves and stock up on food - it was a Monday and therefore supermarket opening times could well be a problem again. On arrival at the supermarket I found a number of bikes belonging to the group parked outside and their riders inside. I bought in plenty of food and drink for the day - the plan for that night at the campsite was for a curry and everyone was to provide the meat they wanted curried, so I got a pre-roast chicken. After leaving the supermarket I stopped off at a café-tabac and bought some postcards, which I wrote over a Pelforth beer inside and sent off from their postbox. I was well-chuffed of the rest day, particularly so as the muscle behind my right knee was starting to cause me some concern. Then it was back to the campsite for a spot of lunch and a chance to catch up on the news from the BBC World Service (picture below left).
I had noticed that there was a Gallo-Roman archaeological site, the Hogolo Baths (picture right), a short way along the road from the campsite, so in the afternoon I walked along to have a look round, and it was most interesting. The Romans certainly knew where to site their baths, with a marvellous view across the bay to Locquirec. Although the baths were interesting, with clear details provided on information boards, it was dismaying to see how much rubbish in the form of soft drink cans and sweet wrappings had accumulated in the baths. It is a pity modern man so often shows scant regard for the heritage left to him by his ancestors.
The curry night was a great success, with Jennie and Evelyn cooking up some excellent curry sauce, and plenty of wine on tap.
Day Ten: Plestin-les-Grèves to Ploumanach:
Tuesday 14th September 1999 I made another late start today, as there was an interesting programme on the radio which I wanted to hear through. The rest of the group had set off at least ninety minutes before I did so. Once I was on the road and spinning along by the attractive bay between St Efflam and St Michel-en-Grève, it was clear that the only logical route to the town of Lannion would be along this main D786 road, which was used by quite a lot of traffic. It was, however, relatively fast cycling, particularly after the long climb out of St-Michel-en-Grève. I stopped off here to admire the church and its graveyard, which was described as being on of the few maritime cemeteries in Europe. This I took to mean that it was right by the sea. The epitaph on one of the tombstones was particularly reassuring (!) - it read: 
Lannion (picture left) was a busy town on the Léguer river, attractively decorated with flowerbeds along the riverside. It was also a low point in the surrounding countryside, which meant another long climb out of town as the D788 led to Perros-Guirec, the touristy town near to today's destination of Ploumanach. The road was of the dual-carriageway style as it led up out of Lannion, and I was very pleased to spot a McDonald's - a chance to get my blood-grease levels back up! A Big Mac, large French fries and large Coke, please!