You sure it’ll improve?

A gamble, I knew, but it felt safe. The seaside isn’t the seaside when it comes with cloud. But I’d observed the weather since I’d been here. Every day had been the same. Lazy mornings spark into life over lunch, leaving glorious weather in the afternoons and evenings.

Just gone ten. Time I was going.

The holiday had gone well so far. But I had another step planned. To revisit an old haunt, a place etched firmly into my memory bank these last twelve years. A picture postcard. A chocolate box. I might have thought of it as the perfect location, had I not witnessed its outright hostility during one February tempest. But today is June 1.

As I leave the hotel to unexpectedly bright skies, I’d already “walked” my route a dozen times, thanks to Google. Preparation. With preparation, more goes to plan. Through the Porte St Vincent, I make straight for Tourist Information, where the site has assured a ticket machine.

And there it is. An immediate “win”. But straight away, balance is restored, as I realise that I can’t see the screen. Not understamd. Though my French is rusty after a decade without practice, buying a ticket should be straightforward enough. See. The sky is too bright. I can’t see the words. I should have popped out here last night, but that last demi of cidre rosé (pink? I need to check this!) had been so seductive.

Tiny wins, tiny losses. That’s my life, now. That’s all our lives. Only now, I keep score.

But this isn’t a biggie. The machine would have been cheaper, that’s all. I can buy the same ticket on board. It never fails to surprise – being disabled makes the same things cost more. From the shampoo I need to buy which comes with that special pump-action nozzle, to using a bloody ticket machine… everything costs a few pence more. A Disability Tax. I can but shrug. It is what it is.

Though brightening, it isn’t particularly warm. I’m hampered by a stiff breeze. I’ve walked this sea road many times, before. Many hotels are out this way. Though as I begin to tire, I observe for the first time that the hotels outnumber the public seating. I mean, just benches. To allow people to rest for five minutes. It’s the same at home. Councils don’t like people sitting down any more, lest somebody perceives an invitation to sleep. That’s how they “prevent” homelessness these days. They hide it. Out of sight, out of mind. But that chap still sat outside the supermarket, begging me for a few Euros. I gave him 20€ and wished him well. I know what it is, to be at the bottom of the pile. I do what I can. I wish I could do more.

And don’t start me on the mass extinction of the litter bin.

Tentatively, I stop and lean on the sea wall. Beach wall, I suppose, for on the other side lies a vast sandy plage, an obliging sea still hundreds of yards away. My first thought is always the same when I lean on things. I hope it doesn’t give way. Immediately, I realise the absurdity. A ten-feet-wide granite wall, that’s maybe stood for centuries, and withstood countless winter storms, straight in off the Atlantic… Against me. But, you never know. And one day, some poor sod will get a shock.

I know the walk will be long. Preparation, see? I even know how far, to within a few metres. But I also know I should have the range. Yes, I check these things. Same as from home to the Co-op in the village. Beyond my comfort zone, but do-able if I run out of chocolate after work on a Thursday. And, I also know the Disability Mantra. Take it as slow as you like, rest as much as you like. Listen to your body. Time is nothing. Not this early, anyhow. But a blister would wreck the day and the stay. And I’ve been pushing myself these last few days. I’ve already noted that next time, maybe take a few more taxis? Pace myself better? But I know that I’ve cracked this particular march when hotels peter into shops, and my relief is complete when I reach the traffic lights. Preparation, see?

For the lights are where the Promenade du Sillon becomes the Avenue Pasteur. More importantly, fifty metres beyond, is where I pick up the bus.

You’ve already guessed. I’ve prepared this. Bus companies in France have web sites, too. I mean… technology… France… meh. But better than nothing. Sometimes. Occasionally. The timetables were useless – how did I know how long that walk would take? – but the route maps invaluable. No matter, I catch my breath. There is a timetable printed at the stop. I sigh. If only I could read its 3pt font! But having already discovered that the bus runs every thirty minutes – straightaway, 3x better than my service in the UK – I take 5€ from my wallet. Cheaper, too. And a seat, at last!

I assume I’ve just missed one, as ten, twenty, thirty minutes pass, without my seeing a single Number 5. Tardiness, it appears, is universal. But arrive it does, eventually, giving me time both to relax, and to reminisce. I have a half-hour journey ahead of me.

My last visit to Cancale, I ate lunch there. July 2013. A cycling nut, the Tour de France was passing through, and I crossed the Channel especially. Catching the overnight ferry, I breakfasted in Saint-Malo, then rode the dozen kilometers without batting an eyelid. I sat outside an imposing, vastly-oversized church – a testimony to the power, here, of Roman Catholicism – and tucked into a tuna salad sandwich, bought from the Carrefour Express on the edge of the square. Before heading back out, to find a perch to view the race. Effortlessly, I had cycled the steep slope between the centre ville and the port, along roads decorated specially. They do that, when the Tour comes to visit. Not the romance of a century-old race. Capitalism in action. Pure, clinical advertising. Speculate to accumulate. The Tour has more influence than we think.

It struck me as odd that such a small place could have both a port and a centre ville, but there again, my own village, smaller still, has top-enders and bottom-enders. Who knew? There are even people alive, who have told me which bridge forms the boundary! Suffice it to say, I’m a top-ender, and proud of it.

I think.

That’s if I’m anything, yet. I’ve only lived here 25 years. I’m probably still an Outsider. Do I really care?

A tiny port nestled on the bay of the Mont St Michel, Cancale was always beautiful. I always kept coming back. And I had promised myself, I would do so at least once more.

I become giddy with excitement as the bus nears its destination. Again, somewhere I thought I’d never revisit. I check my phone – it’s about time. And as the bus enters a sleepy town, I recognise the large church ahead.