My first foray into France was Brittany at 12 years old. My passport? A piece of cardboard issued at the local post office, valid for one year (Anyone remember those?).

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My French? Three years of middle school French lessons that gave me the skills to ask for a tin of sardines or a kilo of apples.

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So, when we arrived in Portsmouth to board the ferry, I was equally excited and terrified.

Six hours on a ferry later (fuelled by questionable beige food and dreams of flaky pastries), Cherbourg, France loomed on the horizon, looking suspiciously less grey than Yorkshire. Suddenly, my three years of “Je voudrais un T-shirt s’il vous-plaît” felt woefully inadequate but my teachers had filled my head with stories about the culture, food and the French way of life and I was finally about to experience this for myself.

The hotel was a cute, family run place in a beautiful coastal town. The first morning we headed down for breakfast and our first meal in France. We were greeted by the most amazing smells. My first bite of a pain au chocolat was a religious experience. This was a far cry from my usual bowl of Sugarpuffs – this was sunshine on a plate, wrapped in buttery magic.

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The scenery just blew me away. Rolling hills, quaint villages, and cliffs so dramatic they could’ve starred in a soap opera. Even going to the supermarket was exciting and only just topped by a day trip to Mont Saint Michel. Every day was a croissant-fueled blur of adventure.

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By the time I boarded the ferry back, Brittany had stolen my heart. The cobbled streets, the sun-drenched markets, the people who laughed over cheese instead of arguing over football. I swore I’d return, even if it meant hitchhiking on a flock of baguette-loving pigeons.

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So, here’s to Brittany, the land of epic cliffs, buttery magic, and proving that even a 12-year-old with questionable French can fall head over heels for a country, one croissant at a time.