Chars a voile, NRJ and medieval mists

We have just returned one tiny black hatch-back Mercedes to Europcar in Caen. It was an automatic, thank goodness, and it had a lot of legroom. J and I drove it through Normandy and Brittany (la Normandie et la Bretagne) for the last three days, pumping French and English jams courtesy of our new favorite station, NRJ (pronounced "energy"), unintentionally filling it with sand from an extreme beach excursion, and switch-backing through the winding roads of the Breton countryside.

We left Caen on Monday afternoon, with me at the wheel and J managing navigation, which was no small task. (Both of us are used to signs for 95 taking up the skyline, whereas the French technique is far more subtle. Due to another French roadway strategy, we have also achieved a new level of roundabout-courage.) Our destination was Dinard, just south-west of St. Malo on the coast, but curiosity got the better of us and we decided to investigate a new sandy activity and hope for the best, accommodation-wise, once we had our fill. We were drawn to the beach when we saw dozens of sails circulating on some hidden track, and once we realized that these sails were attached to go-karts, we decided to go for it. An hour later, we were covered in dirt and sporting windblown hairstyles, having sand-sailed on chars a voile. It was still very light out, so we thought that, before leaving, we would attempt to cross the desert-like dunes to find the actual coast-line. What must have been a mile later, we were in mud past our ankles, seemingly no closer to the pilings that we had been certain indicated where the water began. We gave it 10 more minutes, but decided to can our quest when the mud crept up our calves, and there was still no real water in sight.

By the time we got back to our car, it was after 8 pm, and we thought that we should probably find a place to lay our heads. We ended up in a medieval-tower of a bed and breakfast, welcomed by a charming host, Edith, and her black lab Tempo, who had a red bandana endearingly knotted around his neck. We dumped our things, and dined in St. Malo, finishing our day with a stroll along the ramparts of the old city.

Yesterday morning, after breakfast and easy conversation with Edith, we drove further inland to Huelgoat, stopping for a home-style lunch in Guerlesquin on the way. The village of Huelgoat had everything we had hoped for: mist, tons of hiking trails, some fairy-tale gullies and, to our great surprise, a tiny little cafe hidden in the middle of the forest, where the celtic music tinkled, and local artists had us digging into our wallets. But the best part of the afternoon was the hour or so that we spent scaling and bounding over, around and between enormous moss-covered boulders, not stopping until our shoulders and quads were sore.

Today we spent most of the day on the road, making our way back to Caen, where we are currently sipping beer and waiting for our train back to Paris. Just two more days for me-- I'm determined to speak as much French as possible.