Well, apart from the occasional duck ‘le quacking’ along the river, quite at odds with the stillness of a hot Breton morning, I had a solid night’s sleep in Morlaix, heat notwithstanding. Feeling refreshed and ready for the next stretch of the voyage (and perhaps a proper galette), I checked out and quite literally headed for the hills. When I asked the receptionist how long it would take to walk to the station, I got the classic Breton shrug and reassurance: “Dix minutes, maximum!” Thirty-five sweat-soaked minutes later, climbing what felt like half the height of the Tour Eiffel, with a viaduct looming above as a not-so-subtle clue-I finally reached La Gare.

I boarded the Brest–Paris TGV and, like stumbling upon a perfect crêperie tucked away in a cobbled lane, it was an absolute delight. Back home in the UK, catching a train can feel like a gamble and a Blackpool Casino. You’re lucky if it turns up, let alone offers a seat free of muddy footprints smeared on by a disinterested traveller. This, by contrast, felt like travelling first-class in a Breton legend. Just over two hours in ‘Première Classe’ for a little over 20 euros (6 Euros more than standard)…an utter bargain. Back home I’d have had to sell the family silver and still be waiting on the platform. The double-decker carriages, the generous seats, and the clever little lamp and table setup made the journey feel almost like lingering over a long déjeuner. I watched the Breton countryside rush past, patchwork fields, clusters of stone houses, the occasional church tower….and honestly didn’t want it to end.

But end it did, as I arrived in Rennes.

I spent the best part of half an hour wandering the station in search of left luggage, feeling a bit like I was navigating a marché without knowing where the wine was kept. Eventually I settled on one of those slightly dubious “book online and hope your bag is still there later” arrangements. With that sorted, I headed into town, stopping first at the Musée des Beaux-Arts. A pleasant cultural amuse-bouche: a well-curated spread from Renaissance pieces to 20th-century works, including a couple of Picassos and a Raoul Dufy, always a joy, like finding just the right amount of salted butter on a warm crêpe.

Then on into the old town.

Rennes is a remarkable blend of architecture with more timber-framed houses than I think I’ve seen anywhere else, many leaning at improbable angles as if they’d had one too many scoops of Chouchen. There’s charm in abundance, though it’s tinged with a little melancholy seeing some of them in less-than-perfect repair. The town centre feels like a living tapestry: medieval houses, grand churches, remnants of fortifications, and elegant 18th-century façades, all woven together. You could lose hours just drifting through its narrow streets, perhaps following the distant sound of Breton music or the promise of a galette complète. It feels like any moment someone will throw the contents of La Toilette out of the fenetre….

Even better, it has its own little métro-proof that even somewhere so steeped in tradition keeps a foot in the modern world. It was just as well, as I nearly forgot to go and get my dropped off bag, but with the magic of the Rennes Mini Metro, whisked to collected it and back in no time.

The afternoon was spent in cafés, sketchbook in hand, as the heat built up like steam over a galette griddled to perfection.

The whole city seemed to spill out onto terraces-students, locals, and visitors alike, drinking cider and making merry. Rennes clearly embraces what might be called “Thirsty Thursday,” though here it feels less like a habit and more like a full-blown fest-noz without the bagpipes. With around 60,000 students in town, it’s no surprise that by evening the squares were alive with laughter, music, and the unmistakable hum of Breton conviviality.

By nightfall, the place truly came into its own. The timber frames and winding lanes provided a perfect backdrop to what felt like one long celebration- equal parts history and high spirits.

As for my apartment, it’s tucked down a small cul-de-sac just five minutes from the main square, in a neighbourhood that could best be described as “bohemian….with a hint of mischief.” When I first arrived, I half expected to be invited to some mysterious Breton gathering, but all was well. Inside, it’s as quintessentially French as you could hope for: third floor, no lift, a spiral staircase barely wide enough for my shoulders, no air-conditioning, and, most charmingly, a washing machine in the bedroom. It’s full of character, a far cry from anonymous hotel rooms, and the walk home offers its own parade of colourful personalities offering me all manner of delights Francais…. not sure the Gendarme would agree.

I’ve really taken to Rennes. In less than 24 hours, it’s left a lasting impression—warm, lively, steeped in history, and just a little bit eccentric. I can easily imagine returning, especially as I suspect I’m becoming rather fond of these TGV journeys—almost as addictive as a good Breton galette with a crisp glass of cider.

Next stop tomorrow: Le Mans… rings a bell, though I can’t quite place why.