century, so they probably know what they’re doing by now.
Aptly, the first 30 minutes of my epic journey are in the wrong direction. A route that looked simple on the map proves easily lost once the signs, so assiduous for the first couple of kilometres through central Cherbourg, stop abruptly, as if the person responsible knocked off for lunch and never came back. All options are thrillingly open as we circumnavigate a busy roundabout searching in vain for clues, eventually ending up in a grim retail park inadvertently following signs for Oncle Scott’s ‘1er restaurant franco-américain aux ambiances country de la longue liste des restaurants en France’ rather than Bricquebec, the town I’ve earmarked for lunch.
My falsely breezy claim that getting out of cities is always the worst part of any ride doesn’t make either of us feel any better, especially after a promising-looking cycle path down the side of a fast dual carriageway is belatedly revealed to be a works entrance when several pieces of heavy machinery overtake us at speed, horns blaring. Thank God, then, for the kind fellow cyclist who, seeing my face contorted with rage over my phone, stops and points us in the right direction: through a housing estate and a dark, dank tunnel under the road, from which we emerge, blinking, into the countryside.
And what countryside! Normandy has turned on a full charm offensive, as if in a belated attempt to erase this morning’s carwashes and tile showrooms from our minds – we pedal past sleepy cottages with chickens pecking away placidly in their shadow, through banks of tall rhododendrons in full flower and, very soon, behind iron railings and a placid lake, hit the bullseye: a real-life chateau, all pointy turrets and grim stone. I insist on stopping to get a picture, and promptly fall off my bike, as I yet again fail to remember that I have 25kg strapped onto the back wheel.
It’s all bucolic as hell: Normandy is a soft, lush landscape of culinary riches – salt-marsh lamb, seafood, dairy, and dry cider. In fact, in terms of raw ingredients, it’s not a million miles away from the milder regions of our own South-West. More than one source I consult mentions the ‘gargantuan appetites’ of the heartily sized locals, which may be attributing too long a reach to Vikings who settled here in the 10th century, but if I lived in this land of Camembert and Calvados, I’d probably blame my corpulence on genetics, too.
The sun finally comes out as we bowl along hedge-fringed country lanes, attracting barking dogs to their gates like Pied Pipers with pockets full of sausages. I’m particularly taken with one tiny Yorkshire terrier whose warning sign declares it to be ‘en psychoanalyse’. At one o’clock precisely, we hit Bricquebec, a prosperous town with a 12th-century castle that feels like it ought to be full of restaurants, but oddly enough isn’t, with the exception of a forbidding medieval cellar with definite pretensions to grandeur that don’t quite feel appropriate to our clothing or general odour. Mindful of the five weeks of dining out ahead of me, I push for a picnic, but Matt is a man who likes to eat properly, and he tells me so, albeit in such incredibly diplomatic language that it takes me a while to get the hint.
Needless to say, he wins and we end up at a bar that sells pizzas and smells promisingly of toasting Emmental. Thin and crisp, they come laden with unapologetically French toppings. I choose one with Camembert, potatoes, smoked ham and cream, which arrives with a glossy egg yolk goggling at me from the centre. Throw in a cold Orangina and a big bottle of Badoit, and the disastrous start is all but forgotten.
To Matt’s considerable relief, given the strength of the sun and the fact that he’s packed so light he hasn’t even brought suncream, the route climbs on to an old railway line after lunch – ‘They’re always flat!’ – and shepherds us in shaded comfort almost all the way to the coast, with just a brief break for a drink in Saint-Saveur-le-Vicomte. I say a drink – Matt appears from the bakery with the requested Perrier, plus a surprise box of cakes: lemon for him, rhubarb for me, both crammed into our mouths standing up as if we’d just climbed Mont Ventoux rather than slow-pedalled 25km across a pancake.
We’re staying in a chambre d’hôte this evening; the French equivalent of a bed and breakfast, in the tiny marshy village of Saint-Germain-sur-Ay. Unfortunately, neither of us has even a whisper of signal out here, and though I insist it’s likely to be signed, it really isn’t, forcing me to duck into the only shop in sight to ask for help. The place is totally empty apart from a startled child stacking shelves who points mutely through a doorway to the village pub. At the bar, nursing drinks, sit the international standard measure of grumpy old men.
They perk up as I explain our situation, arguing among themselves as to where this place could be, until one of them has the bright idea that I can come and stay with him instead, a suggestion that makes the rest of them laugh so hard they can’t speak. The landlord takes advantage of the brief wheezy silence to tell me it’s the second right, out over the salt marshes, down a road which we later discover spends much of its time underwater. I make a hasty exit, thanking them all for their kindness over my shoulder.
It feels a bit like we’re riding into a dream as we cross the lonely marshes, grasses whipping in the breeze, the only sound the mournful call of birds settling down to roost, and I’m relieved to finally see a sturdy-looking building on the horizon, though owner Nathalie tells us it’s taken a lot of work to get the old barn that way. ‘The first year was all mud,’ she says, showing us a series of traumatic photos straight out of the Grand Designs living-in-a-caravan-on-a-building-site-with-a-small-child playbook, ‘but I like … how do you say …? The wildness here.’
It is indeed a lovely spot if you haven’t read The Woman in Black, and fortunately not so lonely that there isn’t a fancy hotel restaurant a 15-minute pitch-black walk away, neatly saving us from a cosy night in the village with my helpful knights in shining armour. On a fine Saturday in May, it seems we’re lucky to score a table at La Ferme des Mares with its immaculately gravelled courtyard and spotlit wisteria: thank God we’ve decided not to cycle, or we might have been forced to hide the bikes behind the row of shiny Range Rovers to avoid embarrassing ourselves.
The series of low-beamed dining rooms, with windows set in massive stone walls, are politely full, the tables spaced discreetly across a thick carpet, which contributes to the general hush. It all feels expensive (it is), and I’m firmly of the irresponsible mindset that if you’re going to blow your budget, you may as well do so in style, which is why I immediately order the house aperitif, an amber flute of apple syrup, apple cider, apple brandy and a shot of apple and green walnut liqueur for good measure. As a statement of decadent intent, it’s perfect: simultaneously sweet and tannic, fruity and a little bit nutty, and so very delicious with a bowl of papery-skinned roasted almonds that I almost forget about the menu, despite the fact that this hardback tome takes up half the table.
It kicks off with a list of suppliers and their distance from the restaurant, culminating in the jaunty humblebrag: ‘not forgetting the slightly weird-looking vegetables from our vegetable garden – 0km!’
These, and others from further afield, are, I’m pleased to see, unusually abundant in the dishes that follow: my rabbit comes with two different preparations of the (locally) famous carottes des sables, grown in sand and fertilised with seaweed, which, along with a scattering of tiny green leaves, almost qualifies it as a salad in this part of the world. It’s light, elegant and very tasty indeed: modern French cooking at its finest.
Light is all very well, of course, but being in Normandy, we can’t bypass the cheese trolley – and what a feast of softly stinking delights glides over the plush in our direction, crowned by … it isn’t, could it be …? ‘Oui, c’est CheDDAR!’ our waiter announces proudly. I express surprise at finding this black-waxed interloper in one of France’s great cheese-producing reasons. ‘Ah, mais monsieur le chef, il est anglais!’ he explains.
Certainly, the Cheddar has been hacked away at energetically for other diners this evening, but nevertheless, I stick to local boys Livarot, a sticky, spicy washed-rind cheese,
