June 13, 2022. Tension between Shawn and I carried over from the night before. I woke knowing Shawn wanted more time to see the Roman villa and offered to ask if breakfast could be served earlier. That’s when he looked at me and said, “It’s 8:40. Don’t you know what time it is?”

It might have been a harmless question, but for some reason, it set me off. I told him I have a good sense of time—during the day when I’m actually awake, not the moment I open my eyes. He didn’t seem to get it, and at breakfast, he said he’d be very careful not to trigger me, that he’d try to be “civil.” The way he said it made me feel like some wild animal he had to tiptoe around. I was furious. I grabbed my plate and went outside to eat alone. Then he snapped, “I’m leaving. You can stay here and shout at these people.”

That was it. I lost it.

He accused me of making a scene. I felt completely misunderstood, like I was being made wrong at every turn. He told me to “control myself,” which only made it worse. And then, as if to shut it all down, he said, “Yes, I’m wrong. What else do you want me to say?”

I told him what I actually wanted—for him to think before he speaks. To stop saying inflammatory things, stop patronizing me, stop making me feel like I was constantly in the wrong, and then just throwing out a quick apology to make it all go away. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to be done. I wanted to drop him off, cross the channel, and never see him again.

I drove to the Fishbourne Roman Palace seething. Shawn had suggested we take a detour to check it out. It is the largest known Roman residence north of the Alps, and has an unusually early date of 75 AD, around thirty years after the Roman conquest of Britain.

The villa was… fine. I’m sure my lackluster response was colored by frustration and anger with Shawn. The Cupid on a dolphin and three other polychrome mosaics were particularly impressive and dated from about 160 AD.  The floor was nice, but I found most of the mosaics underwhelming—poorly maintained and not particularly striking. I think I’m spoiled because I’ve walked around many much more intact Greek and Roman ruins while wandering around Greece and Turkey.

I stepped outside and found myself more interested in the exhibit on Roman cuisine and the foods they introduced to different parts of the world. That part was fascinating. But trying to picture the villa itself was tough. It had burned down, and with so little left, it was hard to imagine what it once looked like. I would have much rather seen a fully intact villa.

Back in the car, I drove toward downtown Chichester. I had exactly ten minutes to see the cathedral and the town. So, I ran—literally. A quick glance at the town, a few rushed photos of the cathedral, and then I was back in the car, speeding toward the ferry, convinced we weren’t going to make it. The place looked deserted when we arrived, and my stomach sank. But somehow, miraculously, we made it. About ten minutes after pulling into line, we were waved onto the ferry.

In a rare moment of generosity, Shawn thanked me for driving and even waited for me to gather my things before we boarded. I assumed we’d have no real interaction during the ride—I planned to work on my blog—but at least, for now, there was a pause in the tension.

Once we parked in line, Shawn thanked me for driving and waited for me to gather my things before we boarded. It seemed like a rare moment of generosity. But I assumed once on the ferry we would be in our own worlds, and grabbed food for the journey. I found a quiet spot on deck, and continued writing my blog until my phone died. I enjoyed watching the historic port of Portsmouth fade into the distance—the old walls, the fort, the small but charming old town.

Hours later, Shawn came over. He said he felt bad about what had happened. But the moment we drove off the boat, it started again. He said, “I’d rather be alone at Mont Saint-Michel” and asked me to drop him off at the train. Then he added, dripping with sarcasm, “I know you only want to go to another church.”

I stopped the car. “You’re being an asshole,” I said.

He just nodded. “Yes, I am.”

We sat there, locked in this awful, unspoken standoff.

Then he said he’d travel the rest of the trip on his own.

I didn’t want that. As much as I wanted to throw him out of the car some days, I didn’t want to end things in the middle of a trip. I asked him to stay for the week, at least. Not to make any big decisions about our relationship right then.

That morning, he had said, “I’ll try to be civil and not trigger you for a week,” but in a way that made me feel like some kind of tyrant. That’s what had set me off earlier. And now, we were just looping through the same fight again.

But somehow, we made it to Bayeux without killing each other.

We found our place, parked on the street, and checked into a small but comfortable room. I asked if we could stay two nights since we didn’t arrive until 10:30 p.m. Kanga later told me maybe we’d just been together too long. The room had one tiny bed. We slept foot to head, like the grandparents in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

June 14. Bayeux was lovely.

We had a great breakfast—one of the first peaceful moments in days—and headed to the Bayeux Tapestry Museum. I was particularly fascinated by the lives of the peasants and the diorama showing how medieval villages were set up was great. Life was brutal—tenant farmers, heavy taxes. Some had small gardens, others didn’t. The ones without? Even harder lives.

The tapestry itself was beautiful.

Turns out there were two other museums in Bayeux: the Memorial Museum of the Battle of Normandy and the MAHB – Baron Gérard Museum of Art and History. Based on hours of operation, we decided to start at the Battle of Normandy Museum, then head to the MAHB. As usual I stayed till closing, then headed to the cathedral. Though I am not interested in churches as places of worship, I am inspired by their architecture, particularly those built in centuries past. My dad’s oldest sister was for all intents and purposes an architect. Perhaps I come by it honestly.

That night, I met up with Shawn for dinner. We wandered for ages, trying to find a place, until finally landing on a restaurant on Rue de Cuisinier. It was excellent. I wanted to walk around more, soak in the city, but it was late.

For the first time in a while, we had a good night’s sleep.

June 15. I woke thinking I’d take a short stroll around the city… but somehow that turned into a full-on wander that lasted till noon. I’d brought earplugs for sleeping, but total fail—hard as rocks and overpriced. Not a great start.

While wandering, I came across another old mill with a water wheel, then followed the river for a bit. It was hot. Like, really hot. Each day was getting toastier—topping out at 97°F. Ugh. I much prefer temperatures in the 60s to the 80s and up.

Shawn wanted to check out Omaha Beach, so we drove to the coast. We stood on the sand, looked out over the terrain, and tried to imagine the invasion. He was surprised to learn the highest American casualties weren’t on D-Day itself, but inland, in those endless hedgerows and fields where everything slowed to a snail’s pace. Sobering stuff.

From there, we headed to Mont-Saint-Michel and got there around 3:45 PM. Had to choose between the shuttle and walking—turns out it’s much farther than Shawn remembered from his last visit. We walked and didn’t get to the abbey until 5 and had to wait for the 5:30 tour. Big regret. The guide never stopped talking, didn’t let us explore or take photos, and wouldn’t even let us linger after. We got kicked out at the end like schoolkids. I really wish I’d stuck with my original plan and grabbed the audioguide instead.

I felt disappointed. For all the hype about the place, the tour at least was rushed and overly managed. And I missed seeing the tide come in because I was inside—Shawn caught it, though. It was a big one too—full moon had been two nights ago, so probably one of the top four tides of the year. Felt a little ripped off, to be honest.

Eventually, I did find a great little spot at the end (story of my life—only discover the best places after wandering forever). Went into a small church that I discovered is now a major pilgrimage site, second only to Santiago de Compostella. Back in the day, people would die trying to get across the tidal flats—handling all the bodies was a real problem.

Around 8:30, we started the long walk back. Followed the river again. I didn’t say out loud how disappointed I was—Shawn had been saying I was being too negative, so I tried to keep it upbeat. I did enjoy the quiet little side streets—away from the main tourist drag, a few spots had real charm.

Most people were crowding on one side to watch the tide, but turns out the other side was better—narrower, more dramatic. We passed the car by quite a bit and had to backtrack. I felt bad—I thought it was in the second parking lot (which it was), but Shawn was sure it was in the first. Finally found it.

We drove to our place just past Dinan. I’d hoped to swing by Dol-de-Bretagne, but we ran out of time.

That night, we had a sweet picnic dinner outside, then I went for a short walk to check out the goat and the forest nearby—huge oak trees, kind of magical. A bit spooky after dark. I showed Shawn the next evening. Our hosts also have bee hives. Felt like a cozy, peaceful way to end the day—minus the church bells that woke me the next morning at the crack of dawn.