We stayed by the river in Dinan and happily pottered around the town, bathing in the honeyliscious August bank holiday sunshine. We cruised along the St Malo coast road to the Abbaye du Mont-Saint-Michel and where I had an omelette de la mère Poulard, a once-in-a-lifetime experience that I will never repeat (eggy milkshakes are not my cup of tea). We had ran upwards and around the cold grey wide stone steps, in a ferocious midday heat, towards the top of the mount and the journey back down was hungry and there was no wifi to google what a ‘poulard’ omlette was, and I paid 15 euros for a soggy wet blanket of an omlette. I don’t think you can get these anywhere in the world, so that’s something? Being in France and avoiding gluten challenged me. There was nothing for me in any boulangerie, pâtisserie or creperie. And I couldn’t muster the french cheek to ask for a gluten free croissant or croque-monsieur for fear of feeling unsophisticated and looking foolish. I played russian roulette with a galette, traditionally these are made with buckwheat flour, and lost.
At the top of the Abbaye du Mont-Saint-Michel we inhaled the dizzying heights and felt a serendipitious vertigo, as we were totally surrounded by glorious flat sandy vistas that seamlessly blurred into the steely blue Normandy skies. It felt heavenly being in the abbey on the hill. There’s something deliciously ethereal about being raised up, so high above the serene and flat, tranquil and calming landscapes of Brittany, at the feet of a golden statue of the Archangel Michael. Everywhere we go, we tap into and take only what we need.