Mont St Michel, France

Pontorson was a no-horse town which prospered solely due to its proximity to Mont St Michel, a fairytale citadel island accessible via a causeway from the Normandy coast. Along with Saint Malo, it was one of the classic French Exchange destinations I was eager to visit.

It was an easy nine kilometres there on a straight road northwards from Pontorson, and my legs felt as if they had healed from yesterday (although my saddle-sore coccyx hadn’t). Shortly  Mont St Michel loomed ever nearer as I pedalled towards it on a lovely but extremely nippy morning, traversing its causeway and stopping to admire the sight of the  Abbey perched on top.

I parked Ron and attempted to bring life back to my blue hands as I wandered through the huge gate of the city isle. The entrance street was lined with shops bursting with tourist tat, a regrettable but inevitable consequence of such a site. I popped into one and spent a long time thoughtfully studying some particularly tasteless cushions embroidered with pictures of cats dressed up as people. The fact they were situated under a hot air vent was entirely unrelated to my interest in them, of course.

The upper battlements of the citadel offered good views over a non-existent Channel (or la Manche, as it is called here), the tide being out. Apparently when it comes in, it invades the car park and will indiscriminately wash away any cars left by hapless owners who haven’t heeded the warnings.

I puffed upwards, exploring the little nooks and crannies of the citadel, right up to the point at which you were encouraged to part with your hard-earned cash, which I chose not to. I had no great interest in seeing the inside of the Abbey anyway, so I descended slowly a different way down and saddled up for the ride back.

The journey back was a great deal more taxing than the journey there, and it dawned on me that the reason I had found it easy on the way was not due to any improvement in my general fitness, but rather that it had been a little bit downhill all the way to the sea. I spluttered into Pontorson and made for the train station to get the hell out of Dodge.

I hadn’t been keeping up with French current affairs, and so I was shocked to see a small notice on the door explaining that the station was closed due to, er, there not being any trains. France was in the grip of a national train strike.

Feeling stranded, I returned to the hotel housing my film noir room to extend my stay, only to find it closed. A small sign on the door declared a fermeture exceptionelle. Perhaps there had been a death in the family, I wondered.

Annoyingly, I had ditched my accommodation list this morning, believing I wouldn’t need it again. I swung by the tourist information to pick up another, but it was - all together now! - closed, so I walked the main street and tried my luck with the hotels.

The first one was closed - another fermeture exceptionelle. Perhaps there had been a death in the local hotel industry? But very soon a pattern arose. Each and every hotel I had checked was closed, either dark or boarded up, with the owners clearly somewhere warmer and more interesting than Pontorson. You can’t really blame them.

I felt panic starting to rear its ugly head after the seventh hotel in a row I had visited was closed, and had visions of cardboard boxes and park benches (in my dreams… Pontorson didn’t even have a park).

There was a once-grand hotel slap bang in the middle of the High Street that I hadn’t checked, because I knew it was a little bit more expensive than the rest. I was relieved to find it open and I grabbed a room, immediately turning on the television to get the latest. The prospects did not look good for a resolution to the dispute any time soon.

Bollocks.

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