It's the smallest difference

  We are all early risers so we hit the road shortly after the sun made an appearance. The lady of the chateau had told us about a petite port, tres pituresque on the other side of the river so we headed there for a little starter. Though it was a bit brisk, there was the promise of warmth and by the time we had found a cafe and bought a selection of the obligatory pastries, the sun was doing its job excellently.

  From there, a mellow blast west and slightly south towards a quick stop to look at Mont St Michel. On the way, as we passed through a little town, a market in full swing was all the invitation we needed for a mooch and a spot of lunch. Though there were plenty of food stalls that enticed us, it was the offer of a terrace in the sun outside a restaurant that pulled us in. A simple salad was all I needed, washed down with a glass of the local cidre of course and finished with a little visit to the local boulangerie. This was digested as we shot over to the glorious Mont St Michel. ​​​​​​​

Glorious St Malo. Wish you were here.

  If you've not heard of it, it's a tiny town on a teeny island but it's as cute and romantic a vision as you can imagine, and as result it sucks in tourists more efficiently than Buckingham palace with the Eiffel tower on top. Being bikers, we rode past the queues into the car park where shuttle busses pick up visitors and whisk them to the spectacle and then rode past the shuttle busses right to the entrance. No one batted an eye. This is France and bikers are revered, unlike in England where we're hooligans. How civilised they are.

  Our accommodation wasn't much further and though not as grand as the first night's, it is clean and cosy so no complaints. Once our stuff was dumped, we saddled back up and poodled over to St Malo, a stunning walled town. Once a rich trading port, it now entices holiday makers with its sand beaches, myriad eateries, narrow streets and unspoiled, original architecture. There's no getting away from the milking the visitors get but I dare say it's done tastefully so it doesn't feel too mercenary.

  As I'd eaten so well, I was quite happy to share a sumptuous salad with one of my fellow travellers. We nibbled happily while we watched the hungriest one chow down on a rib-eye with pepper sauce. A short walk away, we found dessert in one of the local ice creameries. I went for a dark chocolate sorbet and one delicious scoop was quite sufficient. Somehow, the steak eater managed three. We all agreed that there is something sensible about a culture where high quality food is a given. Whether we're in a small town or a tourist spot the exceptions to this are rare. Most of the time a pride is palpable and this is one of the obvious contrasts between their food culture and ours. However, if you are disciplined and mindful enough to discriminate against low quality garbage, you'll not be sullied by it. Stay strong, it's worth it.

Kirk out

Chefsebastian.com