Dinan - and changed plans

Bye, cows!

 All through southern Europe they’re suffering under a heat dome.  This far north, we get moments of it, but we also get the thunderstorms that help to discharge some of the humidity. Thursday night’s downpour had freshened things up, and it was grey but non-rainy as I said farewell to the Mont-Saint-Michel cows, and boarded the bus to Pontorson.  From there I got the train to Dol de Bretagne, and changed to get me to Dinan.  Because of terrorist awareness, there is no longer a left-luggage facility in stations. But I’d discovered a thing called Nannybag, which allowed me to take my bags to a nearby place (in this case, a dry-cleaners) and they held them for me so that I could walk unloaded.

I just loved Dinan!  I took my stick with me, and was thankful for it – very uneven underfoot, plus it makes me slow down! It’s got the old-city feel of York’s Shambles – with some of the inevitable tourist tat, but also nice artisinal shops, and all the classic boulangerie/patisserie/charcuterie merchants. At St Malo church (upper city) there was a lot of local saints’ history in the stained glass windows.

St Malo church

I wandered for awhile, and found myself coming out of the houses at Dinan Castle, so took the chance and explored.  It’s a really good display, but worse than the Mont in terms of uneven staircases and poor lighting as you go from one area to another – I don’t know how their safety regs stand it! It started with the Coetquen Tower, the artillery tower, and the guards’ chambers underneath, and then led though a tunnel that joined the military side to the domestic – the home of the Dinan rulers. There we worked our way up through the kitchen level and grand hall to the room where the Duke did justice, and then to the family chambers.  I didn’t make the climb all the way to the roof! |

The artillery tower

Guards' rooms

Tunnel between the two towers

I’d meant to go to the Tourist info office, but they were closed till 2pm, so I walked up towards the old city again, via an encounter with Bertrand du Guesclin, Constable of France in the late 14th century, and found myself a nice galeterie for lunch. It’s nice when the server (such as at the restaurant on Thursday) is fluent in English, but I seemed to be able to manage pretty well when Friday’s server has no English. The problem is that Breton French is a bit like Maritime English – not quite standard in pronunciation. Guesswork and smiles help a lot...

Bertrand du Guesclin

From lunch I went to explore the lower-town Basilica, which is all I dislike in gilt angels, unsubtle stained glass and 19th century art. Some nice tombs, though!

Berthelot d'Angoulevent
The canopy over his head says he did good works;
the lion at his feet is a symbol of nobility

There was construction going on outside, and I got diverted to a place they call the English Garden – not actually very English! - but a nice corner to have some quiet time under a lime tree absolutely laden with blossom and happy bees. The garden bordered on one of the stretches of Ramparts from the old City – they’re not all accessible or safe, but at this point the tower at the corner overlooks the port city far below – it’s quite a view! I had thought about doing the walk around to the lower city, but it’s more of the Mont-St-Michel gradient in places, especially around the Jerzuel Gate, and I opted out, and enjoyed my time on the upper level.

Looking out over the lower city and the river port

Along the ramparts

On schedule, I reclaimed my bags and returned to the station for the 6:18 train to Lamballe. This is where things started falling apart. The train was late – more than half an hour late, in the end. So I missed my connection in Lamballe, and though there was another train a bit later, by the time I got to Morlaix, my bus had gone. Oh, well, I thought – I can always get a taxi.  NOT.....  there were no taxis to be found. A very kind gentleman helped by making some calls, but encountered a lot of voicemail and refusals.  By this time I realised I was in trouble – I wouldn’t make the ferry, and would need alternate plans. I asked for directions to a hotel, and he pointed me to the right road, and said “you keep going down...” before his wife picked him up. So I started the walk....  Bless them, they circled around, and offered to take me to a hotel, and I’m very glad they did – it was a long way from the viaduct level where the station is, to the bottom of the valley where Morlaix proper lies. I got the last single room in Hotel de l’Europe, and as I was decanting my bags, the ferry people called to ask whether I was coming, and I was able to change my ticket.  Then, of course, I had to message Martin to say that I would NOT be arriving on Saturday morning, but that the next ferry was Tuesday evening, and I’d see him on Wednesday!  

At that point I decided to quit and not worry about it.  In the morning I’ll sort out whether to stay in Morlaix or go straight to Roscoff – perhaps depending on whether I can keep this room.