Granite Coast Adventures in the Motorhome

Some people take a yoga mat on holiday and actually use it. I take a yoga mat, yoga blocks, and a pair of weights… and give them a very relaxing break in the back of the motorhome. But as it turns out, the Granite Coast of Brittany gave me all the movement I needed — swims at dawn, long cliff walks, the occasional run, and a sprint back to a restaurant when I left my rucksack (with the keys!) behind.

We’d planned five nights away, but left home early and managed to stretch it to eight. That extra three days made all the difference — more time for swims, markets, and discovering little corners of Northern France.

First Stops: From Housing Estate Chic to Beach Bliss

Our first night in France was spent on what looked suspiciously like a housing estate car park with a few campervan spots, we arrived in the dark and after having abort the origional plan due to a low bridge, we came across the next best thing. Not exactly the dream. But by morning we’d found something far lovelier at St Martin le Plage — the kind of place that instantly makes you think: next time, we’ll come straight here. Right next to the beach and motorhomes a plenty parking nearby.

A wander around Binic followed, complete with boats we could see were from home bobbing in the harbour, with people enjoying breakfast on the deck and then on to Saint Quay Portrieux. By 11:45, we’d found a table outside at a marina restaurant called Les Plaisanciers. At first glance it looked a little plasticky — the kind of place you’d expect a limp salad. But within minutes the place was heaving with workmen (always the best sign in France), and lunch turned into a glorious buffet of prawns, pâté, salads, eggs, and a plateful of fish and steak that could have kept us going for days. Washed down with wine, naturally.

That night we moved on to Plouha — a perfect beach camp where we stayed two days. Mornings began with swims, evenings ended with mussels and chips. Really, what more could you ask for?

Markets, Granite, and Memories

No trip to France is complete without a market. I don’t need to buy much — a few hours wandering among fruit and veg, fish stalls, chicken, pieces of pork and ham roasting on a spit and cheese wheels is enough to make me grin. (Although bread always finds its way into the motorhome, along with “just a little” cheese.)

From there we followed the coast towards the pink granite of Perros-Guirec. The scenery here is simply jaw-dropping — tides rushing in and out, rock formations glowing pink in the sun, and the kind of cliff paths that leave your legs aching but your heart full.

The Characters That Make a Journey

Travel is never just about the scenery; it’s also about the people you bump into along the way.

At Penvenan, we pitched up at the Dunes campsite and were greeted by a woman called Chantal, the reception for the campsite was closed over lunch but she just appeared from nowhere. Chantal spoke almost no English but insisted on bringing us a bag of apples from her garden. I stewed them, and we brought them out with meals for the rest of the trip. She was eccentric, generous, and made us feel utterly welcome.

Then there was Vincent, our taxi driver. After a long walk into Perros-Guirec (memories of family camping holidays came flooding back), we rewarded ourselves with fish soup and cider in cups. It was magnificent. Sadly, in our post-meal haze we left the rucksack — with the keys — at the restaurant. Vincent not only phoned ahead to check they were still there but drove us all the way back to fetch them. He turned what could have been a disaster into just another story we’ll laugh about.

Not Every Meal is "Magnifique"

Of course, not every French meal is a revelation. In a particular village we shall not name here, we wandered into a restaurant run by a grumpy couple who lived up to every review we read afterwards on a website. We therefore retreated to the campsite bar where the food was “fine” (never the best adjective), though the oysters at least were excellent. The next day, however, France redeemed herself with the finest fish stew of the trip — smoky, rich, packed with prawns, and so good it made me forgive every grumpy waiter I’ve ever encountered.

Late Summer Magic

What strikes me most about this trip was the late-summer beauty of Brittany. The weather was mostly glorious, the sea bracing but irresistible, and the sunsets long and golden. Even when the rain arrived, it only added to the drama of the landscape.

On Sunday we squeezed into a busy hotel restaurant just before it filled to bursting. The meal was exquisite — veal, fish, and a dessert that looked like autumn on a plate. It was pricier than our usual set lunches, but felt special, and the Muscadet was the best I’ve ever tasted.

Our final night, thanks to a cancelled ferry, was spent in Cancale. Sitting by the sea with a glass in hand, we both agreed: this had been a late-summer gift.

Encore Reflection

This wasn’t just a trip about places. It was swims that woke me up better than any coffee, cliff walks that reminded me my legs still work, and meals that deserve to be remembered in detail. It was about generous strangers, small mishaps that turned into big stories, and that golden glow of Brittany in September.

Next time, maybe I’ll actually use the yoga mat. Or maybe not.