After weeks of anticipation and kilometres of freshly laid tarmac the TOUR DE FRANCE passed by Bethanie en route from Dinan to Lisieux.

We set up roadside-camp at the top of our lane and waited with bated breath for the arrival of the caravane; a high-octane-carnival of floats whizzing by at break neck speeds, blasting euro-pop and launching plastic freebies into the waiting crowds of vultures.

I managed to grab a skoda sunhat, two bags of haribo, cheesy crisps, tour guide, fridge magnet, bic inflatable drumsticks and some washing powder.

An hour or so later we spotted the yellow tour helicopter on the horizon hovering over the tete de la course. Within minutes the race was upon; Italian rider Adriano Malori leading the peleton by a small margin.

As quick as they came they were gone. But for those few seconds something strangely supernatural stirred in each person on the roadside as we became part of something greater than the sum of its many parts. Our cheers like primal screams urging the riders through the howling wind and torrential rain towards the finish line.

Soaked through, we rushed down the lane to watch the last 10kms on TV… what an experience… bring on the alps!