Morlaix, Roscoff ... Plymouth

The last two days in northern France have shown themselves at their best. It was only 50km to the ferry, so I could take it easy. In Morlaix I sat in the café near the impressive railway viaduct and watched the hustle and bustle of the town. I cycled leisurely to my campsite, where I got a spot on a hill with a 360° view and was able to experience another fantastic sunset.

Before boarding the ferry in Roscoff the next day, there was still time for one last French galette and a crêpe for dessert.

At the port, I felt a bit lost with my bike among the cars and trucks. I then walked into the huge ship's throat all alone and at the end of the dark ship's cave my bike was tied down by two employees. I waited for the next 6 hours until I could see land again. Even though Brittany and Cornwall have a lot in common, I somehow felt like I had landed on a new planet. Nobody spoke French anymore, my passport was checked, everyone drove on the left, the signs were in mi/ft/yd and I hadn't really prepared myself for the new chapter of my trip. At least I had already picked out a hostel in Plymouth, which seemed very daunting from the outside. But I was given a very warm welcome and had very good conversations with the other backpackers. Unfortunately, the tour of the city the next morning fell through. After I got an adapter and walked past the port once, I was wet to the skin - despite wearing a rain jacket! Also because of the really bad weather, I then took the train to Truro.