So on the 30th of May, we drove to Plymouth and caught a Brittany Ferry to St. Malo, in the Brittany Region of Northern France. The ferry moves slow; ours took a comedic eight hours. We tried to get drunk in the well-stocked canteen but failed. We tried to sleep in our unreclining seats but failed. Instead we weaved through the sleeping bagged, well-prepared corpses passed out along the floor of the big boat and froze whilst telling bad jokes then reading bad literature.
Upon arrival, we were delusional from the lack of sleep but had to wander through the still sleeping village of St. Malo before an eight-hour drive to Les Essards, a tiny village an hour outside of Bordeaux.
no surfing in the city? 
We also took a twoish hour pitstop up the coast at Mont Sant-Michel, a beautiful monastery in Normandy. The monastery is connected to the land by a small, shaky bridge and is otherwise surrounded by very salty water and marshlands where local shepherds take their sheep to graze. This creates some kind of local delicacy that I had the joy of not trying.
From what I was awake for, I recall the drive along the coast being beautiful. But as the drive waned on, we began to lose hope that we knew where we were. We pulled into Les Essards in the pitch black around 11pm and were greeted with a beautiful, but eerie cottage style house. We made Chuck take the room closest to the door, in the event of crazed country lunatics, and Natasha and I shared a room further in the crannies of the house.
catching world cup sticker book fever in france Lots of French food to come!
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