French Ghosts, Russian Nights, and American Outlaws: Souvenirs of a Professional Vagabond. Susan Spano

      Caution is a good thing, as all travelers know. But trust is also called for sometimes. Without it, I’d never have gone walking 45 miles along the Emerald Coast of Brittany, from the walled seaport of St. Malo to Mont St. Michel, just across the River Couesnon in Normandy.

      I knew that this was possible because France is crisscrossed by 25,000 miles of walking paths, called Grandes Randonnées, including the GR34, which follows the deeply indented Brittany coast for 360 miles. And I was planning a trip to London, putting me in striking distance of the path. So I booked passage on a ferry across the English Channel from Portsmouth to St. Malo, an 11-hour voyage.

      While in in a bookshop just off Portobello Road in London, I chanced upon a copy of Alan Castle’s The Brittany Coastal Path, which compares the merits of numerous seaside walking paths and finds the GR34 “far superior to any other with respect to the quality and variety of food on offer along the trail.”

      I should say so. Brittany is a chief producer of Muscadet wine, considered the perfect accompaniment to its exquisite oysters, carried daily to Versailles for the degustation of Louis XIV. I ate my first Brittany oyster many years ago and have never forgotten its pithy taste.

      I could have made the trip in a rental car, available at the ferry terminal in St. Malo. Buses and trains take inland routes from there to Mont St. Michel too. But I wanted to walk because the GR34 sticks close to the scenic coast; walking is great exercise, meaning I could indulge at meals; and it’s inexpensive.

      Actually, the four-night trip would have been virtually free had I brought along camping gear, because the GR34 passes plenty of lovely spots to pitch a tent by quiet coves or atop lofty cliffs. But I don’t like to camp by myself. So I trusted that I’d find rooms along the way in private chambres d’hôtes and modest one- or two-star hotels, which seemed likely because I’d be there before the busy summer season.

      When I reached Portsmouth Harbor, I caught my first sight of the ferry—a sleek white vessel called The Bretagne, built in 1989 for Brittany Ferries, carrying automobiles, freight trucks, and up to 2,030 passengers. It looked like a cruise ship, with cinemas, a children’s playroom, duty-free shops, a wine bar, a cafeteria, and cabins.

      The sun was setting as we steamed out of the harbor, passing Portsmouth Naval Base, Admiral Nelson’s HMS Victory berthed in the historic dock area, and the Isle of Wight. Standing by the stern rail, I noted the appropriateness of going to Brittany from Britain, which were connected physically before there was an English Channel and in other ways later. In the sixth century, Celts made the crossing, led by monks like the Welsh Maclow, who gave his name to St. Malo. Brittany was a battleground and prize coveted by both the French and English during the Hundred Years’ War (1337–1453), and no one who sees its rugged coast can fail to remember the Allied invasion of France during World War II.

      In fact, Allied bombs destroyed 80 percent of beautiful St. Malo at the mouth of the River Rance. But you’d never know it when you arrive by ferry, slipping through the rocky islets scattered below its formidable granite walls, because after the war old St. Malo was rebuilt, stone by stone.

      A modern city has grown up around it, and the sweeping beaches to the north and south are now lined by small, dignified hotels catering especially to English sun-seekers. But the 18th-century walled town remains an inviolate testament to the spirit of its residents, who resisted the French crown and the Duchy of Brittany, proclaiming St. Malo independent from 1590 to 1594. Its favorite native sons are the philosopher, Chateaubriand, buried on the little island of Grand-Bé, connected to the city by a sandy spit at low tide; the explorer, Jacques Cartier, whose statue stands atop the ramparts; and Robert Surcouf, a pirate who retired around 1800 as the wealthiest ship-owner in France.

      On disembarkation, I shouldered my backpack and walked along a busy sailboat basin to the office of tourism just outside the northeast entrance to the walled city, called the Porte St. Vincent. There a nice woman sold me an excellent map of the Emerald Coast and, after much consultation, booked hotel rooms for me along the GR34. The first day I’d go an easy six miles to the hamlet of Rotheneuf and the Hotel Terminus; day two would be a 13.2-mile trek, with lots of ups and downs along the jagged coast, to the Hotel La Houle in Cancale; on the third day, the 11.8-mile walk would level out as I reached the polder-land surrounding Mont St. Michel Bay and a chambre d’hôte in Cherrueix called L’Hebergement. From there, I’d head 13.8 miles to Mont St. Michel, tour the abbey, and catch a bus or train back to St. Malo—all on my last day.

      It would have been nice to have a little extra time so that I could break up some of the longer segments of the walk and stay overnight at Mont St. Michel. But my schedule didn’t allow it. Still, I refused to worry about what would happen if the weather turned foul or I got too tired to go on. I was in the hands of fate now.

      Inside the walled city, there were reasons to believe that it would treat me gently, beginning with the steamed-mussel lunch special I had at one of the cafes on the Place Chateaubriand, and the sweet room I found on the third floor of the Hotel La Porte St. Pierre, its window looking out on the promenade atop the ramparts.

      My one afternoon in St. Malo passed much too quickly. But I still managed to walk all the way around the ramparts and buy a blue-and-white striped French sailor’s jersey. In the Municipal Museum on the Place Chateaubriand, I saw photos of the devastated city taken in August 1944, and on Bon Secours beach, I watched people walking out to Grand Bé and two little girls building a sandcastle that looked remarkably like St. Malo. Then I dressed for dinner at the pretty Restaurant de la Porte St. Pierre, where even the eel in the tank by the door looked happy. I ordered a half bottle of Muscadet, a seafood crepe, and tarte tatin for dessert.

      The next morning, I ate a croissant and drank a big bowl of café au lait served downstairs at the hotel, put on my hiking boots, and walked out.

      Actually, I could have gone barefoot for the first two or three miles, which traversed one long smashing beach after another on the way to the Pointe de la Varde near Rotheneuf. Halfway there, I wandered into an old hotel that houses a fancy spa called Thermes Marins de St. Malo, where I got a 30-minute algae wrap for 160 francs. It was an indulgence, but I had to consider my constitution, and the algae was local.

      Later, standing at the verge of the clover-cloaked Pointe de la Varde, I imagined fitting the scalloped coasts of Cornwall and Brittany together like puzzle pieces, and caught my first sight of the red and white striped GR34 markings, which tend to be rather infrequent and subtly placed. Then it was on to Rotheneuf, where I settled into a room at the trim stone Hotel Terminus, walked half a mile to Jacques Cartier’s home, Limoelou, saw rocks on the Pointe du Christ fantastically sculpted by a 19th-century hermit, sunbathed on the beach at Rotheneuf Harbor, and had an excellent prix fixe dinner at the Restaurant Limoelou in the center of the village. There the assorted cold seafood appetizer featured so many unusual mollusks that it looked like a shell collection, and the lotte came equitably coated in two sauces.

      Castle’s book offers two options for getting to the far side of Rotheneuf Harbor: a lengthy detour on the road or a careful crossing if the tide is out. At 8:00 the next morning, there was almost no water in the bay at all, so I doffed my boots and set out, passing stranded sailboats, great heaps of seaweed, and a fellow on a bike.

      Then I rounded one rocky headland after another, tramped across secluded beaches, picnicked, and occasionally passed walkers who wished me bon courage. On the 130-foot cliffs at the Pointe du Grouin, I spotted a pimple on the broad flat bay to the northeast and realized ecstatically that it was Mont St. Michel.

      That day was the walk’s high point, partly because it ended in charming Cancale, overlooking the oyster beds of Mont St. Michel Bay. It has a long pier and waterfront main street lined by dozens of seafood restaurants and hotels, like the pleasant, old fashioned La Houle, where I wearily settled in. Then too, there was the special I ordered at a cafe called Le Herpin, just a few doors away, consisting of six oysters on the half shell, bread, and a glass of Muscadet. When I finished, I asked the waitress to bring me the same thing again, and watched dusk paint the bay exquisitely soft shades of blue.

      The oystermen were out when I left early the next