With just a couple of days left of our latest French trip, we head up to the coast to be in spitting distance of the return ferry. This time we’ve broken with tradition and opted to return from Cherbourg instaed of Caen.

A town called Erquy looks promising and a campsite overlooking the beach. We leave poor Machecoul and the hopeful ducks, who place themselves stolidly behind the van so that I have to make stern and noisy gestures before we can reverse out of the space.

On arrival to Erquy we become confused, as does the SATNAV, trying several lanes and being instructed be various trying-to-help passers-by. Erquy appears to be spread over a vast area. At last we locate the track down to the site- and it’s steep. We check in and are given a pitch number, 61, although when we find it on this huge site, it’s steeper than any chocks can deal with. As there seem to be plenty of empty spaces, we walk back to reception, where the two young women look mystified by the problem. It’s now I realise that the pitch number is not 61, but 19. Problem solved.

We park up and put chairs in the sun and there’s a view over the rocky shore and ‘Petit Saint Michel’- a tiny island that replicates Mont St Michel and has a miniature chapel perched on top.

But we are dismayed by the distance to Erquy port, where we’d assumed there’d be bars and restaurants, fertile hunting ground, perhaps, for the elusive oysters we’re after. A quick look online shows there’s ONE cafe/bar in striking distance, so we wander along the road outside the site to take a look and yes- past the end of the campsite and around the corner is a small bistro with an outside terrace and a conservatory. Phew! We sit in the sun with beers- there is a narrow view of the shore, then we book a table for later.

At last- there are oysters- and a big plate of crevettes for Husband.

Next day we set off on the coast path, which dips, climbs, crosses roads, goes through a strange housing estate where there’s nobody to be seen, through woods and to some stunning beaches with barely a soul on them.

Eventually we arrive on the outskirts of Erquy the town and port- although it’s still quite a hike- and a steep descent down to the port, although when we get there it’s pleasant but not stunning. We treat ourselves to an ice cream as a reward for trekking so far and to reinforce ourselves for the steep climb back out of town. But it feels like an achievement.

We leave Erquy and travel on to an aire overlooking the sea in striking distance of Cherbourg, where we’ve stayed before. It’s another achievement to have managed the entire trip without electric hook-up. Now- home to get it fixed!

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com