A bit like the weather, May was getting better and better. A few (working) days of light relief ensued for my liver, featuring badminton, singing, lunch with Karin, lunch with Karen & Michaela, and drinks with Fritz. And then, that weekend, came the next May adventure: a long weekend in Brittany...

I got up hideously early to catch the tram to catch the train to catch the plane. I saw the sun rising over the fields to the northeast of Munich as I whizzed along in the S-Bahn to Munich airport. The flight was over in a jiffy – there was just time for a croissant and a glass of water (no juice was offered!) – and at Charles de Gaulle I worked out over an overpriced sandwich and a disgusting espresso how to get to Versailles in the light of the drivers’ strike on the RER suburban trains.

From Gare du Nord I was obliged to jump on the Métro and take line 4 to Montparnasse; this took somewhat longer than the RER option would have, but it meant I got to see a classic side of Paris – and was reminded of London’s Underground a number of times (crowded trains; ’30s tiling on the walls of the underground walkways; the press of urban hustle & bustle). At Montparnasse I had another disgusting espresso and then headed for my local train to Versailles.

On the way to Versailles Chantiers, where I was to meet Vincent & the others, I saw a fabulous view of Paris, with the Eiffel Tower and the Tour Montparnasse to the right and all the glittering tower blocks of La Défense to the left, and the broad expanse of Paris lying in between the two. At Chantiers I went out the back exit as instructed and then saw a Japanese woman looking slightly lost. I guessed – rightly, as it turned out – that this was Vincent’s friend Megumi, and together we made our way to his office building.

At one o’clock Vincent emerged and soon after his wife Natasha & her friend Anya turned up. We all jumped in the car and made our way westwards on the Route Nationale, stopping for a quick (mercifully not disgusting) espresso near Verneuil sur Arvre and stopping for a longer walk around (and bakery run) at Fougères, the gateway to Brittany with a huge castle.

Our next stop, after a longish traffic jam on the Autoroute, was Vincent’s village, Béninze, on the Rhuys peninsula south of Vannes on the south coast of Brittany. We were met in his family’s house by Hugh, Lee, Patricia & Steven. After a dinner of snails disguised as mushrooms so as not to shock the English, we drank rather a lot of wine before turning in for the night (luckily, it’s a big house and there were plenty of beds for everyone).

It had been great fun talking with Megu (from Japan), Natasha & Anya (from Russia), Vincent (from France), and Hugh, Lee, Patricia & Steven (all Brits) about all sorts of things, and in all sorts of languages – well, okay, in English & French mainly, but with a smattering of Russian and Japanese thrown in. Nobody was in a position to talk German with me, but that was okay. I get to do that pretty much every day anyway!

The next day, our first full day in Brittany, we had a classic French breakfast of croissants, coffee, jams & stuff and then walked down the road to the 15th-century tidal mill called Pen Castel. This sits in the Golfe du Morbihan, a huge gulf that is connected to the ocean by a very small opening at nearby Port Navalo and consequently has some bizarre tidal behaviour – not to mention lots of islands, peninsulas, and bird sanctuaries.

We walked along the beach (it was low tide) and round to where the oyster beds are, opposite the village where Vincent’s mother was born. From there we walked back to the house along dappled tree-lined footpaths that led along the coast and through fields back to Béninze. These paths used to be the domain of salt smugglers in days of yore.

Vincent’s village of Béninze is itself very charming. It is made up mostly of large houses that generations of sea captains have built for themselves and their families using the money they get when they retire from the Navy. The houses are sometimes very old (like the one we were staying in, which was from th 17th century) but sometimes very new. But they all had lovely gardens, and even the verge of the village road was delightful with poppies ofvarious different colours and other lovely flowers. The white stone houses had a style all of their own that sometimes reminded me of England and sometimes of Ireland but was basically just Breton.

All this walking was giving us an appetite, and so we headed to a crêperie just outside the village of Boderin for some delicious Breton galettes: crêpes made with white wheat flour called sarrazin. There was plenty of cider to wash them down – both the savoury ones with local meats and the sweet ones with local salted caramel sauce. And a bottle of Telenn Du, a Breton beer that tastes remarkably like stout.

Our next stop was the Atlantic beach just near the castle of Suscinio, where we made the most of the gorgeous sunshine. In Brittany, you take the sun whenever you can, just like the rest of the Celtic lands in the top left corner of Europe… After a good few hours of lying doing nothing (except saying goodbye to Lee, Patricia & Steven who were driving back to England), it was time to hit the supermarket and prepare to cook dinner. This was followed with a cheeky drink in the gulf-side village of Logeo before a well-earned night’s sleep.

On Sunday I decided to actually burn some of the many, many calories I was pushing into my face in the form of beer, cider, wine, butter, flour, sugar, cheese, meat, more butter, and more booze: I would cycle with Hugh to the beach rather than ride in Vincent’s car. We headed off through Arzon (stopping at the bakery to buy quikg amann butter & sugar cakes for the beach) to Port Navao, where we looked at the opening of the Gulf before heading to a market to pick up some rhubarb, to make Vincent some rhubarb crumble – his favourite English dessert.

After dropping the rhubarb back at the house, we headed to the nearby Atlantic beach of Kerver, just near the village of Tumiac. It’s a nudist beach – naughty! And the weather was absolutely perfect for a bit of sunbathing: not a cloud in the sky. The sea was very fresh, however, so I only went in the once – and even then, when I got out again, it felt like my arms were on fire. Whether from the shock of the cold or the effects of the evaporation, I don’t know.

A few hours later we cycled along to Port Crouesty, a marina and shopping area that was built maybe 20 years ago, for a bite to eat. We also called in on a shop specialising in Breton goodies, where I accidentally bought loads of buttery sugary deliciousness. Then, back at home, we ate even more, in the form of a barbecue (with me in charge of the meat!) and rhubarb crumble (which me & Hugh made) and more yummy cheeses. France is dangerous for my waistline.

On our last full day, which started chilly and overcast, I accompanied Vincent and Megu to the gulf-side beach of Le Poul, where they spent a couple of hours collecting clams while I sat or lay sleeping or thinking and generally recharging my batteries. Oh, and I threw a few rocks into the quicksands to see whether they would get sucked down into oblivion, but they didn’t. Probably not heavy or wriggly enough.

We headed for lunch to Port Crouesty again, this time for moules frites (mussels and chips), again washed down with local cider, and followed by a pancake slathered in salty caramel sauce. By the time we’d finished lunch the weather had turned gorgeous, so we headed back to the Atlantic beach near Tumiac for a few hours. I am seriously pretty brown now – all over… Dinner that evening was pasta accompanied by all the clams Vincent and Megu had caught that morning – exquisite!

And so, too soon, our last day had arrived. We spent the morning cleaning up the house in readiness for standing empty again until the next visit by someone from Vincent’s family. Then Vincent took me & Hugh to Vannes station, where we boarded our TGV to Paris. We were lucky enough to sit together for much of the journey, but in the end the train was so full that we had to split up to our booked seats. I ended up talking about all sorts with a retired civil engineer who – as luck would have it – lives in a small village just near Béninze.

In Paris, we had time for a quick coffee before I had to head for my next train. And that’s what I’m sitting in now, on my way to Karlsruhe to see my friend Matthias. So I think I’ll stop there and start watching the French countryside whizz by (you’ve got to hand it to the French: their high-speed trains really are high-speed – and they don’t mess about with loads of intermediate stops. It’s Paris to Strasbourg in a oner!)

PS Note to observant readers: no, I'm no longer on board the TGV heading for Strasbourg. I wrote this a while ago...