Miles better

A car younger than 14 years and with fewer than 94,000 miles on the clock would have been nice, but you can't have everything.

This was to be a motoring holiday, with 1,800 miles covered in two weeks. Part of that was the 350 miles or so from York to Portsmouth. The pleasant, watery bit in the middle added no miles to the aged car.

The rest were accumulated in Brittany, burning up cheap French petrol, and driving back to York, with the suspension groaning under the weight of wine.

Apart from complaining via its suspension, rather as the elderly might comment on their knees, the valiant Volvo did the trip almost without incident. That is if you discount the evening when everything stopped.

We were in the charmingly-named village of St Malo Des Trois Fontaines. For a few moments, it was renamed St Malo And The One Kaput Volvo. The children sat in the back, having stopped nodding to their Walkmans. My wife went a funny colour. I said the sort of word daddies aren't meant to say.

And then, for the first time in my life, I fixed the car. A tinker with the fuse box saw us on our way.

For us holidays in Brittany start with the ferry. Generally we pass between Portsmouth and St Malo, sailing with Brittany Ferries. This time, our route was varied, as we went the usual way but came back via Caen, leaving in the sunshine as sunbathers dotted the long sweep of Normandie beach and yachts darted through the blue waves.

There is something about a ferry, perhaps thanks to childhood memory of trips to the Continent. It just seems the right way to go to France, with a proper voyage rather than a trip through a dark tunnel.

We were staying with my brother, who owns a cottage just to the left of nowhere. It is a lovely dot on a splendid canvas of countryside.

The French don't favour inland holidays, so the area is open and quiet, and devoted almost entirely to agriculture. Houses are cheap as the French want to buy places by the sea.

We were somewhere in between Plemet, Gomene and Coetlogon, the sort of places you might mistake on your map for a squashed fly. With children to entertain, we could only spend so much time relaxing in the quiet countryside. So we drove, and drove.

This is a fact of life in the countryside, both French and British. Once we had got used to driving, it was fine. We explored the countryside around central Brittany and, after that, we drove the 60 miles or so to the coast in southern Brittany.

A similar distance would have taken us to the northern coast, but we always headed south, where the weather tends to be warmer.

For the first trip, we returned to Carnac, where we had our last French holiday. We celebrated by going on to the beach and getting burnt. Carnac town is pretty but crowded; the beach is pretty crowded. We picnicked on the sand, swam in the chilly sea, and went home to watch our skin turn a fetching red.

On other days by the sea, we avoided Carnac, instead going to the Golfe de Morbihan. This lovely area has a natural advantage, boasting two watery cultures. The gulf is enclosed, a giant tidal bay, with sailing, fishing and enchanting coastal walks. A short drive takes you to the proper coast, with countless beaches and open sea. The water isn't warm but it was clear and lovely for a swim, once the scream had died from your lips.

On a series of hot days, we drove to the coast. We visited the town of Sarzeau to buy bread from the market, wine from a shop for passing tourists, and body boards for children to get wet in the sea.

A favoured nearby beach was at Landrezac, where after tenderly exposing ourselves to the sun again, we stopped off at the Chateau at Suscinio, once the coastal base for the kings of Brittany.

This is a beautifully restored castle. We took the pristine tour and ended up outside in the sun, where rehearsals were under way for a production of King Lear.

Closer to home, we attended the annual horse fair at Loudeac, which seemed like a timeless ritual, and a reminder of the region's sturdy agricultural heritage.

Josselin proved a favourite place, visited twice. Once on market day, when the jostling stalls spill down the steep main street. And another time on a quieter day to enjoy the space in this beautiful medieval town.

We visited the chateau (a grand building but a dry tour) and had a drink under the umbrellas in the sunshine on the pavement, a very French holiday activity.

Other favourite pastimes included assorted walks round the cottage in countryside which undulates nicely. A word to the canine-phobic: rural Brittany teems with dogs, but you get used to them.

The village of Plemet was charming and quiet in the sun, and noted locally for its crepe stall. Less profitable, sun or no sun, was a visit to the Foret de Paimpont. Brittany lays claim to King Arthur, a dubious historical assertion which gives rise to the perfectly naff waxworks at Broceliande. Sniggers are guaranteed.

As ever, dropping in on French bakers is still a treat. If you happen to pass through Taupont, stop by at the bakers and patisserie. It is stacked with assorted breads and cakes. Just what a French bakers' should be.

Phone 0870 514 3537 for a Brittany Ferries brochure or visit the website: brittany-ferries.co.uk

Updated: 09:49 Saturday, December 28, 2002