French Ghosts, Russian Nights, and American Outlaws: Souvenirs of a Professional Vagabond. Susan Spano

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      Later, standing at the verge of the clover-cloaked Pointe de la Varde, I imagined fitting the scalloped coasts of Cornwall and Brittany together like puzzle pieces, and caught my first sight of the red and white striped GR34 markings, which tend to be rather infrequent and subtly placed. Then it was on to Rotheneuf, where I settled into a room at the trim stone Hotel Terminus, walked half a mile to Jacques Cartier’s home, Limoelou, saw rocks on the Pointe du Christ fantastically sculpted by a 19th-century hermit, sunbathed on the beach at Rotheneuf Harbor, and had an excellent prix fixe dinner at the Restaurant Limoelou in the center of the village. There the assorted cold seafood appetizer featured so many unusual mollusks that it looked like a shell collection, and the lotte came equitably coated in two sauces.

      Castle’s book offers two options for getting to the far side of Rotheneuf Harbor: a lengthy detour on the road or a careful crossing if the tide is out. At 8:00 the next morning, there was almost no water in the bay at all, so I doffed my boots and set out, passing stranded sailboats, great heaps of seaweed, and a fellow on a bike.

      Then I rounded one rocky headland after another, tramped across secluded beaches, picnicked, and occasionally passed walkers who wished me bon courage. On the 130-foot cliffs at the Pointe du Grouin, I spotted a pimple on the broad flat bay to the northeast and realized ecstatically that it was Mont St. Michel.

      That day was the walk’s high point, partly because it ended in charming Cancale, overlooking the oyster beds of Mont St. Michel Bay. It has a long pier and waterfront main street lined by dozens of seafood restaurants and hotels, like the pleasant, old fashioned La Houle, where I wearily settled in. Then too, there was the special I ordered at a cafe called Le Herpin, just a few doors away, consisting of six oysters on the half shell, bread, and a glass of Muscadet. When I finished, I asked the waitress to bring me the same thing again, and watched dusk paint the bay exquisitely soft shades of blue.

      The oystermen were out when I left early the next morning. But soon a stiff wind kicked up, and the GR34 began to follow the busy coast road, which I found unpleasant. So I was relieved to reach the village of Cherrueix, with the bay at its front door and verdant polderlands at its back. L’Hebergement turned out to be a 200-year old farm with six pretty rooms in a renovated stone barn. The astute proprietress quickly assessed my situation, and by breakfast the next morning had gotten me a ride as far as Pontorson, about five miles east of Mont St. Michel, with two other guests from Paris. This allowed me to reach my destination around noon, and I still got to approach the great abbey on foot, like a pilgrim, among sheep grazing at the sides of the modern causeway that permanently connects it to the mainland.

      Building commenced at Mont St. Michel eight years before the Norman Conquest and continued through the Middle Ages, which is why the glorious church, cloister, refectory, and guest hall reflect both the Romanesque and the Gothic styles. I took the tour, stood on the ramparts to check the tide (which can recede as much as 10 miles), and had lunch at La Mere Poulard on the Grande rue beneath the abbey.

      The restaurant is famous throughout France for its omelets, and shockingly expensive. But I decided I’d earned it. So I ordered the fixed-price menu that included a plain, incredibly frothy omelet tasting slightly of wood smoke, bread, and a slice of chocolate gateau. Afterwards, sated and happy, I caught the bus back to St. Malo.

      The trip took only an hour, passing many places I’d walked by. But if I’d traveled by bus both ways, I wouldn’t know that there is purple clover at the Pointe de la Varde and lovely soft muck at the bottom of Rotheneuf Harbor.