From the June issue of The Sunday Times Travel Magazine

‘Eeeugh, I’m going to have to close my eyes,’ says Sarah. I assess the oyster I’ve half-raised to my mouth and wonder what could have offended her.

Glittering grey-silver, like an amulet submerged in a rock pool, it gives off the salty odour of the sea. Not surprising, I suppose, given that it’s recently been pulled out of the same water that’s sloshing a few metres from our table, and toward which my white-faced girlfriend has averted her eyes.

I squeeze a drop of lemon into the shell and watch the oyster give a barely perceptible shiver. Then I empty the whole thing into my mouth.

The Sunday Times Travel Magazine - January

Brittany: the perfect French gites

Peter Conradi finds holiday home bliss on the French Atlantic coast, plus tips on how to find the best gites for your break

• A trip round Brittany with two chefs

• French gites are cheaper than ever

Beach and lobsters in Ile de Re

Don't be put off by the rain on the Ile de Ré - the balmy Atlantic island hides many treasures

• Life is a carnival in France

Truffle hunting in France

Experience the delights of this sought-after tuber in Champagne

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It’s well known that just looking at the sloppier kinds of shellfish can turn the stomachs of pregnant women. (Ironic, really, considering that their famed aphrodisiac qualities have been at the root of plenty of swelling bellies over the years – Casanova, for one, ate around 50 of them a day to boost his libido.)

In the oyster’s defence, poor Sarah – three months into her baby-carrying – has had the same reaction to baked beans and even muesli over the past couple of weeks.

Indeed, I remember feeling exactly the same myself when, a few years ago in the south of France, I tried my first oyster. The consistency, like half-set jelly, seemed all wrong; and the taste, I thought, lay somewhere between nasal mucus and the brine out of a tuna can. But that sensation, so strange, so strong and so unique, was one I quickly came to love. Which is just as well, really – as there are currently 11 more of the things lying on the plate in front of me.

We’re in Cancale, on Brittany’s Côte d’Emeraude, where to eat anything but oysters would be perverse – a bit like going to Champagne and turning down the local wine because it’s too fizzy.

We’ve walked along its seafront, from the finger-like jetty that points into the bay, to where the road turns sharply up the cliff-face – and there are molluscs everywhere. Almost every single salt-flecked facade strung along the town’s promenade belongs to a restaurant offering a shellfish prix-fixe menu; in the gap between them, smaller, scruffier properties are given over to vendors who pile up dripping crates of flinty shells beneath canvas awnings.

Cancale loves its oysters – and thanks to favourable geography, the oysters love Cancale, too. Sheltered from the strong winds and currents that batter most of the north Breton coast, this east-facing bay is something of a des res for shellfish.

The gentle ebb and flow of the tide over wide marshes means that any resting on the sea bed are rarely disturbed, and they can happily spend three or four years filtering plankton and expanding to their three-chambered hearts’ content.

Such an embarrassment of riches means that prices are low, and prix-fixe menus – nine oysters, a bowl of moules, and a glass of white – hover around the £5 mark. It’s heaven for a tight-fisted Yorkshireman like me, used to paying around £2 for a single oyster in a British restaurant.

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