Normandy Bike Tour: Part 6

This was the longest and hardest day of the tour but also in many ways the best, riding-wise. As usual on our way out of Granville, we were on a bit busier roads for a while (though I must say the vast majority of drivers we encountered on this tour were very respectful, and I never once felt truly in danger from car traffic). But then quite soon we got onto the long and beautiful boulevard that runs along the beaches between Granville and Carolles. The skies were stormy and threatening, but the weather was actually perfect for riding, and the views of La Manche were stunning. This is a notable region for what we call sulky racing in the States (horses pulling two-wheeled carts with jockeys), and races are held down the long tidal beaches. So, we got the special pleasure of watching a couple of jockeys and their mounts stretching their legs in the early sunshine and sea breeze.

From there the path turned into a bridal path to pitch up onto the headland at Carolles, and I was dreading it a bit after the previous day’s experience, but it turned out to be one of my absolute favorite segments of the journey–an old rails-to-trails project that had generated a lovely, well-graveled, leafy path that climbed at quite a civilized grade up the side of the cliffs. I didn’t get any pictures, but someone had made some fanciful black-and-white cut-out beasts to post along the track. At the top we did have one truly brutal uphill, but it was blessedly short, and we got a jolt of much-needed energy from a friendly lady who shook her head and shouted, “Bon courage!” as we started up.

It was all worth it because on the other side of the headland, as we started into a sweeping and fun long downhill to Genêts, we were rewarded with our first view of Le Mont Saint-Michel. The Mont would stay with us like a guardian angel until we were nearly back to Saint-Malo, but it was this first view view of it that really impressed us.

We stopped in the medieval town of Avranches for some (what else?) galettes and a glass of cider at a café in the city center, but this time we were smart enough to park our bikes at the station and walk up (note the word “medieval”….) Honestly, it was a bit of a slog even *walking* up the hill to town. After lunch we had the loveliest ride along the Sélune river estuary, through oak groves and past farms and sheep pastures, until we crossed the bridge at Pontaubault and turned onto the Vélomaritime at last…and into an absolutely ferocious headwind.

The trail here was very nice and clearly signed (though it swerved through wooden turnstiles too often for Cheryl’s liking, as she was riding a bike with a heavy handlebar bag, which made steering strenuous). However, we were starting to feel the day’s mileage at that point (creeping up on 45 miles), and the wind was really not helping us out. We debated whether we would rather be getting rained on or blown backward at that point and decided that we’d take the wind, so that bucked us up a bit until we finally pushed into the coastal town of Mont-Saint-Michel around 4:30.

We had a reservation at 5:30 for the Abbey visit, and we were told it was a half-hour walk out there across the boardwalk that stretches across the tidal flat, so we got turned around quickly and were out the door a little before 5. What we realized, however, as the Mont drew closer to us across the windswept flats, was that that half-hour figure had been an estimate for achieving the *base* of the Mont. Meanwhile, the Abbey sat–guess where?–at the peak of the medieval town. So, after a long day of riding, we found ourselves running up flights of steps to make the last visit of the day before they shut the portals. Cheryl probably hated me at this point…. But we made it! And she proclaimed the Abbey was her favorite church she’d ever been in, so I just barely escaped by the skin of my teeth there.

I could see why Cheryl loved it so much. I’d been told it was unmissable, and now I saw why. Even if you’re not into gothic architecture, just the sheer visible history in front of you of 1,000 years of building up and up and up the Mont was head-shaking. And the wind that had haunted us all day had turned the cathedral into the headiest, most ethereal space as it dropped its shouting voice to a respectful whisper and swept careening swallows and doves around the space, in which the sinking sun provided the only light, streaming through pale, almost austere leaded-glass windows. Outside the dandelion-sprinkled cloister sheltered a drowsing seagull in its nest and opened its south colonnade to a sheer 250-foot drop over the tidal flats and coastal fields. We stayed for vespers with the Benedictine monks and nuns who live there and listened to their Gregorian chants harmonize with the wind, which we made our peace with and now considered a friend after our long day’s journey together.