Saint Malo, Brittany. Where I spent the first nine months of life in France. But that’s a story for another day. In spite of the “adventures” there, I still love Saint Malo. The sea air, the beautiful old buildings rebuilt in typically French manner exactly the same way after 80% were bombed during World War 2. If you’ve never read “All the Light We Cannot See” by Anthony Doerr, now’s the time to do so. When I worked at the hotel, I created a tour of all the places from the book. Amazingly popular.

This time I was going back to see the friends I made, my first friends in France. One was from an english speakers’ group that I joined – frenchies wanting to practice their english. The other was a chap learning english in a class with Philippe. He ended up becoming more my friend, as we shared a love of wine, and his delightful girlfriend completed the picture.

Getting off the train and a wave of memories flooded over me. Brushing them aside I covid-hugged (a mimed hug from a safe 1m distance) Maelie* at the station and she hurried me off to her apartment where she told her husband we were off to St Lunaire for a little apero before dinner.

Apero is very traditional in France, and consists of anything from a white wine, kir (white wine with cassis or peach) to porto, pastis, to an italian aperol spritz, or even a glass of champagne. Here in Brittany you can choose the kir breton – cider with cassis and it was my choice of apero seeing as I hadn’t had it for so long. Brittany is famous for their cider which you can have dry or sweet. Dry and raw all the way for me.

We sat at the beachside café dutifully masked up, toes in the sand, watching the last of the sun at Saint Lunaire beach. Gorgeous.

Then it was back to Maelie’s where she had put on a true Breton feast. She and her husband were away the next night and had kindly let me have their apartment. So she wanted to make the most of the Friday evening. Naturally this involved another apero, this time of white wine, along with a Breton apero platter – charcuterie and a giant araignee – cooked spider crab. Then she brought out a tureen of palourdes clams, cooked simply in butter, parsley and a dash of white wine. She informed me this was the entrée. I was already bursting by the time she brought out the main, another tureen, this time filled with cotriade. Cotriade is the breton answer to bouillabaisse, the fish and shellfish dish famous in the south coast of France. Here, cotriade consists also of an assortment of local fish, some added whole (minus head and tail), some fillets, with baby potatoes and carrots and in a light fresh tomato wine broth. All washed down with a bottle of rose.

Well, by 1am we were well stewed and crawled off to bed.

In the morning, off they went, so I forced myself off to Cancale for a spot of shopping and my favourite experience : the oyster market. Yes at 10:30am in the morning. It’s a thing. Cancale has an oyster market by the sea in which lies the oyster farm . Can’t get any fresher, or cheaper. 5 euros a dozen and, conveniently, they are shucked for you, plated up and served with a wedge of lemon. Also conveniently is a cabin nearby selling glasses of wine. The guy at the stand where I went to shyly spoke some english to me when he heard my accent and grinned a big grin when I said I was a kiwi. Turned out he had spent a year in Australia. We chatted away as he made up my platter and then I picked up my glass of wine from the cabin.

I had already bought my baguette and breton butter with me, so I joined everyone else doing the same thing sitting by the sea. Perfect day for it, and the seagulls enjoyed the scraps from the shells thrown down to the beach.

After shopping I headed back to Saint Malo, grabbed a Saint Malo custard filled beignet (like a big doughy custard filled chunk of yumminess) and munched away as I walked the ramparts to get to the beach and have a dip in the sea.

I was just in time for the Piscine de la Mer – the swimming pool of the sea. It is literally that. The mayor decided he didn’t want all the tourists going to the village on the opposite side for swimming when the tide went out so he had a pool built that captured the sea in it when the tide went out. It’s got a diving board and everything. Ingenious though it is, it can only be used at low tide as when the tide comes in the whole thing gets covered up. I had an hour before that started to happen so I made the most of the clear, warm water.

Determined to get an early night this time, I caught up with my other friends for an apero before going for a bowl of local Mont Saint Michel mussels which were just in season and nice and plump. They’re an acquired taste for me. I’m used to the big juicy NZ green lipped mussels. These ones are tiny little black ones that take more energy to eat than what they give you but the simple mariniere broth they are cooked in is to die for.

My friends invited me for breakfast the next morning and I had casually mentioned that I was trying to find a fait maison (handmade) kouign amann. A kouign amann is a breton pastry like a deep fried croissant. It’s made of three ingredients : butter, sugar and flour. “Que de bonnes choses” my breton doctor once said “only the good things.” The French paradox is alive and well – despite eating a diet high in saturated fat and cholesterol, the French have one of the lowest incidences of heart disease in the world. Not so if you eat too many kouign amann, with its crispy pastry smothered in caramelised sugar and sometimes served with a salted caramel butter sauce, another breton specialty.

Bless their hearts, not only did they put on croissants, baguettes, and pain au chocolat, but they got me a handmade kouign amann.

Normally I would have tea with breakfast but the French have never understood tea, especially tea with milk. They can never get it right. Whenever I ask for tea with milk, I always have to specify cold milk. If I don’t say it, without fail, they will bring me tea with hot milk. So I’ve given up now and just have coffee, seeing as in France coffee with hot milk makes it very weak. My friends served theirs in bowls, so you couldn’t get much more French.

I thought I should have something healthy for lunch given that I’d just eaten my body weight in pastries and baguettes this weekend. Although to be fair I ate a lot of seafood too. So I went to one of the touristy restaurants and paid an extortionate price for a langoustine salad (28 euros) before hopping on the train and sleeping my way back home.

I’d love to buy an apartment in Saint Malo. I don’t think you could find a better place full of tradition to holiday in. Except maybe the Camargue. But that’s another story too.

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