One More Croissant for the Road. Felicity Cloake

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СКАЧАТЬ baguette and Breton butter as you can fill your boots with. After ranging the length of the Normandie Express, dodging excited children and clicking up and down stairs in shoes already beginning to annoy me, I’m forced to concede that this particular vessel boasts little more than a bar – so as the engine finally grinds to life, and Portsmouth’s Spinnaker Tower recedes into the distance, we head out on deck to raise a bottle of ‘Gourmandie’ cider (see what they did there? I didn’t, until Matt pointed out) to the success of the expedition instead.

      Once on the open sea, having realised Matt knows an awful lot about the Royal Navy and its various aircraft carriers for a man who allegedly works in another department entirely (definite spy), the cider and the excitement soon catch up with me, and I spend much of the rest of the voyage passed out in a reclining chair, waking up only once when my companion brings a microwaved boeuf bourguignon back from the café, and then, apparently only seconds later, finding myself staring at the foggy harbour walls of Cherbourg in puzzled stupefaction.

      ‘Why does it say port militaire in English?’ I ask Matt, discreetly wiping the dribble from my cheek.

      ‘I think you may need a coffee,’ comes the polite reply.

If cycling onto a ferry is a joy, disembarking is the reverse: there’s nothing like a boatful of Brits eager to get to their chateaux in the Dordogne to put the wind up you when you’re not quite sure which side of the road to choose. Special as we may have felt among the cars in Portsmouth, turns out we aren’t the only cyclists to have made the crossing, just the tardiest, and as we wait in line for passport control we discreetly size each other up. Only one woman has more luggage than me, and, sensing the chance for some friendly one-upmanship, I try to get close enough to ask her what she’s up to, but on seeing her American papers, the gendarme whisks her to one side to fill in various forms and we stream past, casually flapping our maroon passports. ‘Wonder what it’ll be like next summer,’ I hear a man behind me say.

      The rumbles of continental geopolitics come a distant second to those of our stomachs, however; having not eaten more than a few peanuts since that avo toast back in King’s Cross, I’m ravenously hungry – which is, of course, the very best way to arrive in France. After only a few angry honks, we lose the stream of ferry traffic to the autoroute and find ourselves in a prosperous-looking little port, the quayside thronged with people strolling in the evening sunshine, boats bobbing in the breeze. I check Eddy into the luxury of the hotel’s laundry room, where I suspect he’s gearing up to leak chain grease onto the stacks of clean sheets, hang up my Lycra ready for tomorrow (spoiler: this is the last time it will be thus honoured until my mum gets hold of it in the Alps), and go downstairs to find Matt already halfway through a bottle of La Cotentine Blanche, named after the Norman peninsula we’ll be tackling over the next few days.

      First beer polished off at appropriately British speed, we repair next door to the Café de Paris, recommended as ‘a true seafood brasserie – invigorating!’ by the Michelin Guide. The dining room is full to bursting with tables of merry French eating seafood.

      ‘Well, this looks good!’ said Matt cheerfully as we’re led to the back of the dining room … and then up some curved stairs to an empty room decorated in the height of 1980s ferry chic, all pale pine and frosted lights and napkin fans on the tables.

‘Do you think this is where they put the British people?’ he whispers, his voice echoing around the space.

      We laugh and order kirs (because one celebratory drink is never enough), and are halfway down them when another party is ushered in, men and women alike clad in faded chino shorts, pressed polo shirts and expensive waterproof sailing jackets. Before they even begin to speak, Matt winks. We are indeed in the Anglo-Saxon ghetto.

      The food, happily, is pure French, and proves a distraction from their disappointingly dull boat-related conversation. Star of the show is a magnificent platter of fruits de mer bedecked with fat oysters and tiny crunchy little prawns barely bigger than Morecambe Bay shrimps, and just small enough to pop in whole in all their whiskery glory. Below sit bigger prawns, firm and salty-sweet, the best winkles I’ve ever had (too much information?) and a selection of curiously round clams I later discover are known as dog cockles in English, and more poetically in French as almonds of the sea. On the side, half a baguette and a bowl of piquant yellow mayonnaise.

      The punchy Calvados sorbet that follows, melting into granular fruity sweetness on the tongue, is pure delight – the first in a long line of shots of local firewater masquerading as desserts that make me wonder why we don’t make more of the digestif tradition in the UK. I, for one, would certainly order a sloe gin slushy if I saw it on the menu.

Strong liquor it may be, but excited to be off at last, I spring eagerly from bed the next morning as the chilly light of morning brightens the eaves (happily ignorant of the fact that this will be the last such springing for several weeks) and pull at the curtains to reveal … a misty grey world of damp slate rooftops. Oh well, I think cheerfully, yanking on the Lycra, at least this will give me the chance to make a pretentious joke about the Parapluies de Cherbourg when I see Matt. Every cloud and all that.

      Clearly, it’s important to start as I mean to go on, so, joke dispensed to only moderate acclaim, the second item on the day’s itinerary is to find a croissant. After politely rejecting the hotel breakfast, I don’t feel brave enough to solicit a recommendation from Madame, so we wander the backstreets in search of something, anything open. Cherbourg looks rather more down-at-heel than in the honeymoon glow of last night, though among the boarded-up businesses we do stumble upon a rather spectacular basilica: as one TripAdvisor review notes, ‘inside is calm and smells of history – so does the entrance that reeks of urine’.

      Following an old lady with a large wicker shopping bag, we finally hit what passes for a jackpot in my world: a Saturday market full of spider crabs imprisoned in lobster pots, trays of cockles and mussels, wheels of cheese and a big terracotta dish of something with a burnt orange, wrinkly skin that I bookmark for further investigation once we’ve fulfilled a more immediate need.

      Having located a boulangerie with an impressive display of patisserie, which often augurs well for the general standard of baking, I secure the first croissant of the trip, along with a douillons aux poires – unseasonal in May, perhaps, but we are in Normandy, apple and pear country, famous for its cider-based sauces, often gilded with lashings of cream, and fruity patisserie. It’s also the home of the aforementioned apple brandy, christened for the region of the same name, which is so punchy the local apple crop was apparently requisitioned during the Great War to make explosives for armaments. (As I said, it’s good stuff.)

Once money has changed hands, I can finally draw breath and explain the art of the petit déjeuner to a slightly twitchy Matt. I will also share this wisdom – accrued through much trial and error, disappointment and pastry-based joy – with you, gentle reader, in case you find it helpful.

      PAUSE-CAFÉ – Breakfast in France: A Beginner’s Guide

      In general, the best breakfasts in France are bread based – yes, you might well enjoy a bowl of sun-warmed figs and sheep yoghurt at your villa in Provence, but just so you know, most people around you would regard this as an eccentric way to start the day. God gave us the boulangerie for a reason, and that reason is breakfast. (The sensible French householder also keeps a stock of pain grillé, or toast crackers, which can be purchased in the biscuit aisle of supermarkets, to guard against the terrible eventuality of ever running out of bread.)

Baguette with butter and jam is a СКАЧАТЬ