Fat-Friendly Normandy: Real Life, Real Comfort, and Zero Judgement in La Manche
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First published: January 2026
Everybody has the right to feel comfortable in their own body. And honestly — especially when on holiday.
Travel can be exhausting before you even leave home. Not because of packing or planning, but because of the quiet calculations people make about their bodies. Chairs. Beds. Distances. Showers. Stares. Whether there will be room — physically and socially — to just exist comfortably.
So let’s talk about this properly. Calmly. Kindly. Without drama or euphemisms.
I should probably say this upfront. This is not a blog about fat-shaming — particularly as I am hardly a size 6 myself.
Normandy has far too much butter, cheese, bread, cakes, pastries and, of course, croissants for that — and I enjoy every last bit of it, happily and unapologetically 🥐
This is about dignity, ease, and comfort that includes everyone. Not in the package-holiday sense — but in the very human one.
Why inclusive comfort actually matters
Many people in higher-weight bodies don’t stop travelling because they don’t love discovering new places. They stop because the mental load becomes tiring.
Will the bed feel solid? Will I have to squeeze into a shower? Will the space make me feel awkward? Will I spend my holiday adjusting myself to fit the environment?
These aren’t dramatic worries. They’re practical ones.
Rural Normandy — and particularly La Manche — doesn’t pretend to be perfect. But it does quietly remove a lot of unnecessary friction.
Space, in the most literal sense
One of the biggest differences between La Manche and many busy tourist destinations is simple: space.
Roads are wider. Unless, of course, you follow TomTom down a country lane it confidently recommends, which will barely fit a bicycle — while tractors glide past with ease. A countryside miracle, honestly 🚜
Villages aren’t crammed. Cafés aren’t designed to move you on quickly. Restaurants expect people to sit, linger, and enjoy themselves.
Chairs tend to be solid rather than decorative. Tables aren’t packed edge-to-edge. And there’s far less sense that anyone is being hurried along or made to feel in the way.
Not because anyone is making a point — but because this part of Normandy simply isn’t in a rush.
A gîte designed for real comfort
Where you stay makes a huge difference — especially for travellers who are tired of making do.
Our gîte is spacious, calm, and built with care. The beds are proper. The bathroom is designed so you’re not squeezing yourself into a shower or bath.
It’s meant to feel like a home from home — just with added luxuries and no compromises.
This is comfort without conditions. Space. Privacy. Furniture that works.
You eat when you want. Sit how you want. Stretch out, curl up, or sprawl diagonally across the sofa (which I highly recommend — it’s super comfy!).
Food here is just food. Something to enjoy. Not something to justify.
Evenings matter more than people realise.
There’s a particular kind of relief that comes when you realise you can actually relax — not perch, not hover, not constantly adjust — but properly settle in.
The sofa here is for real humans. The beds are the kind you sink into and don’t think about again until morning.
Sleep, especially for people who spend much of life adapting to spaces that don’t quite fit, is often the first thing that improves.
Quiet beaches with room to breathe
If you want to head to the coast — whatever your size — Normandy can feel unexpectedly liberating for larger-bodied visitors.
Our local beach at Hauteville-sur-Mer is just a short drive away. Huge stretches of sand. Even in summer, it never feels packed.
There’s space to walk. Space to sit. Space to picnic.
No need to perform confidence. No sense of being watched. Just room to exist by the sea 🌊
One of the things guests often comment on — sometimes with surprise — is how different the coast feels here.
Nobody is watching. People are busy flying kites, walking dogs, scanning the horizon — and if you’re lucky, you might spot a tractor or two collecting mussels along the shoreline.
That freedom — to choose that you feel good in your body that day — is often what people mean when they say they finally relaxed.
If the outside world isn’t your thing
That’s completely fine too.
The gîte has a private front garden alongside a quiet country road, where the main passing traffic is the occasional tractor — and even then, the driver is far more interested in delivering animal feed than in you.
There’s also private access to a field beside the llama paddock. No overlooking. No audience.
Picnic tables, a splash pool, and more to come as our business grows.
From there, you may feel judged — but only by a llama. And they judge everyone equally. They’re extremely inclusive like that 🦙
The Norman gift of not really caring
Normans really don’t care about you. And that’s one of their greatest gifts.
Not in an unkind way. They’re generous, funny (as in funny ha ha, not as in weird!), and quietly full of love.
They just don’t care who or what you are — as long as you don’t mishandle their cows 🐄
Rural Normandy has always been shaped by work. Farming. Animals. Weather.
Bodies here are tools before they are statements. That perspective lingers.
I can turn up at the local Intermarché wearing big boots, neon Snag tights, cut-off denim shorts, and a fluffy jumper with a bejewelled llama on the front (even in jumper form, they remain a superior creature).
Nobody blinks.
The cashier simply reminds me — again — that I need to weigh my vegetables before bringing them to the till.
You’re just another human buying carrots. (And yes, because of the llamas, I buy a lot of carrots 🥕)
Food without morality
Normandy food culture is deeply reassuring.
Eating out usually means three courses. That’s just lunch or dinner.
Menus don’t come with calorie counts. They come with hearty and tasty dishes, seasonal produce, and food that’s often cooked in-house using locally sourced ingredients (and that really is something — the best Parisian restaurants will always boast that their seafood and vegetables are sourced from Normandy).
No one asks if you’re being “good”. No one praises restraint. No one treats eating as a test of virtue.
(I say least judgemental — not completely. When I once announced I was doing a vegan keto intermittent fasting thing before my wedding, the looks I got when I declined cheese and dessert were… memorable 😄)
Comfort without performance
Even excellence in La Manche tends to be understated.
Max, the chef at our local Auberge de la Brothelande, has won multiple awards from La Confrérie des Vikings for his pâtés and terrines — something that would be shouted from the rooftops elsewhere.
Here, you’d barely know unless someone mentioned it in passing, or you happened to see the write-up shared locally.
That’s very Normandy. High-quality food, generous portions, and absolutely no theatre around it.
This way of travelling often resonates with people in curvy bodies who value space, privacy, and the freedom to exist without commentary (although I often get comments on my choice of footwear — my Irregular Choice heeled boots with a cat face are frequently remarked upon, purely because they’re not the usual wellies people wear in the bocage).
Fat-friendly and inclusive travel isn’t about being singled out or celebrated. It’s about not having to perform for other people, or lie to oneself.
If your idea of a good holiday involves space, privacy, good food, fresh air, and the freedom to be exactly as you are — this part of Normandy tends to feel quietly right.
Useful reading
This article is part of a wider collection exploring different ways people experience Normandy — shaped by comfort, preference, pace and perspective rather than checklists or expectations.