In the first of a two-part series on a motorbike jaunt in France, PETER MURTAGHwrites about how he and his companion stumble on an important ceremony
ROSCOFF WAS drenched in fog as the Oscar Wilde, Irish Ferries' beautifully appointed ship, glided in after a smooth crossing from Rosslare. Within minutes we were riding through Brittany, the port in our wake, heading for Morlaix and our first fix of France - a beautiful, atmospheric fin de sièclecafe on a market square.
It was bustling with Saturday morning shoppers browsing the stalls, one manned by farmers giving away milk in protest at low prices. Odd, we thought, French farmers usually block ports, burn sheep on motorways, that sort of thing. Here, they smiled benignly and were giving away litres of fresh, pure milk.
The square's Irish bar was not hard to avoid . . . coffee and fresh croissants under a pavement awning are the real deal here.
After Morlaix, we (Tony, me and our bikes, a BMW 1200 Adventure and an 1150 GS) headed south-west to the coast, riding over misty mountains for all the world like the Featherbed above Dublin. The Brittany version, this cold morning, is smothered in a damp shroud, autumnal, brooding, heather-covered. It feels very Irish.
We glided along the coast towards Vannes the next day, turning inland (for no particular reason except that's what biking allows you to do, somehow more effortlessly than in a car). Suddenly, the road is in a small village, Sainte-Anne d'Auray.
Two men in Day-Glo yellow vests wave insistently at us. "This way! This way!" went their arms as we rode by, ignoring them. And just as they were about to exit the corner of my eye, I caught sight of them. I slowed, turned and rode back.
"C'est ici! C'est ici!" they shouted. We had, apparently, gone the wrong way, had missed the turn; this was way we should be going - up the small access road there, through the pedestrian gates - "oui, c'est ça, c'est ça", said the stewards.
Baffled but curious, we went as directed. It was then that we saw them: a gleaming array of maybe 80 motorbikes, all polish and chrome glistening in the sunshine, lined up in front of the Basilica of Ste Anne, she of Sainte-Anne d'Auray.
This was clearly a significant local event - no less than the annual Sunday morning blessing of the bikers! Fresh evidence of how the delight of travel lies not in getting there but in who you meet on the way.
Here is this tiny village bathed in morning sunshine, the riders and their machines were out in force. There were Hondas and Yamahas and Kawasakis and BMWs. There was a Harley, a couple of Ducatis and a Royal Star, a Yamaha-made sort of faux-Harley. Inside the Basilica, Mass was being said - or rather sung - in Latin.
There were dozens of about-to-be-blessed bikers, some young but mostly middle aged: hairy bikers, petrol heads with greasy fingers and black fingernails, all leather and rounded shoulders, mooching about ape-like, peering at other's machines, exchanging observations and nodding sagely. All torque and not much riding...
Inside, the church was jam packed. All seats in the nave were taken, the transepts too. The aisles were filled and even the space behind the altar was crowded. In front of the altar, attended by no less than five fully robed priests, the focus of attention was on the crash helmets arranged neatly, if slightly bizarrely, in a heaped pile on the floor.
After the Mass, the congregation pours out onto the motorbike-filled plaza in front of the church. The five priests follow, together with their alter boys and girls, and the bikers line up beside their machines.
Father Jean Audrain steps forward clutching a bouquet of bay leaves. A young boy carries a container of holy water. The priest pauses and surveys the assembled motorbikes and riders standing, as if to attention, the altar helmets now tucked under their arms. Fr Audrain smiles broadly and then he's off at a clip, striding through the throng of bikes, dipping the bay leaves into the water and showering bikes and bikers, dispensing blessings. And he blesses us, Tony and me and our bikes.
The ceremony over, the other blessed bikers have a celebratory 100km ride to make. For us, another route beckons - the levee roads on the banks of the Loire, the Auvergne, the Lot... and, who knows, along the way.
And with the blessing of St Anne and Fr Audrain, nothing can go wrong.