2000km: On the Road to Dieppe

I’d decided on an early start to make sure I made it to Dieppe for the 6pm ferry, there being only the two each day, the other being at 5am, The day dawned clear so off I set off sharpish after a breakfast of my remaining supplies of dried rations.

The wind was against me again and it was relentless pedalling. As I approached Pont Bretonne a cable stayed suspension bridge across the Seine suddenly came into view and lifted my spirits. I thought back to 1974 when equipped for everything in life I still had the courage to contemplate the design of such magnificent structures. Alas all rivers are in valleys so I had yet another hard climb on the northern side.

At a town along the way I refuelled on baguette, muesli bars and fruit juice. As I approached the coast heading for St Valerie the winds became relentless, with the windmills on an escarpment windmill farm spinning like children’s toys, confirming the headwinds, as if I needed such confirmation. So I changed course to Veules les Roses to strike the coast closer to Dieppe, where I knew the back road would provide some shelter from the wind and lead me to a ‘green’ cycle route along the coast. Just short of my 2000km I thought how well the gears had settled back into full operation without my help. Shortly after on a steep climb the new rear derailleur decided to move into the spokes. A quick wrench and I was of again though I’d lost the use of the ‘Granny Gear.’

At another steep climb I spotted a massive German pillbox, strategically placed to sweep the killing ground just behind the coast. I knew it would be my last hill climb. As I turned the last bend the city of Dieppe and the sea suddenly came into view and I enjoyed my last long downhill run to the accompaniment of Jan and Dean’s ‘Surf City here I come.’ There was no surf of course: The sea was as calm as Lake Burley Griffin on a windy day. I grew very melancholy thinking of the 19 year old who dreamed up the trip, when Jan and Dean’s ‘Surf City’ was still in vogue, and life in general and so much optimism lay ahead.

I finally navigated my way to the car ferry terminal wondering why it had changed so much in the (more than I care to remember) years since my last visit. The ferry terminal had moved to a new location some years ago I was later told by a truck driver my age.

The nice young man at the ferry check-in let me through to the ‘departure lounge’ through the security area, after I’d asked him if there were any showers. He clearly sensed the urgency.

The check in Security Officer (yes they have them for car ferries now) had a problem when he spotted my dismantled bagpipes on screen so I had to unload everything to demonstrate I was not carrying rifle parts.

In the queue for the ferry I chatted to two medium haul cyclists (Paris to London – and with support vehicle) and compared notes. It was only then in recounting my odyssey I was able to speak the ‘P’ word without fear of tempting the devil. I’d had not a single puncture in my 2018km journey ‘uphill all the way.’

1900km: Fair Stood the Winds for England

The day started inauspiciously with grey clouds. As I set off the winds competed with the constant hills to torment me. At times the head winds were so strong it was difficult enough to get down the hills let alone up them; and they were constant. I started to curse me decision the day earlier to take the pretty route around Alentours. Worse still this cross country road seemed to be the favoured route for heavy traffic courteous though they were without exception.

Finally in my cross country quest to rejoin the main road to Rouen I reached the town of Gace. As soon as I joined the main road the traffic seemed to ease, the wind turned in my favour and the road became straight and flat. My progress was the most sustained and fast of the entire 1900km of the journey.

At midday I cmae to the town of Bernay, where, slightly lost in the town a MacDonalds appeared from nowhere, giving me the first internet access opportunity for some days.

Refreshed and up to date on news, I pressed on for the town of Bourgtheroulde, where I’d decided to part company with the main road and track cross country to the coast, to make my final run on Dieppe. Still the wind was at my back pushing me along.

At one point I came across a roadside cairn that commemorating the deaths nearby of a small number (patrol) of Canadian soldiers in 1944. I reflected on what a lucky generation I’ve been part of, and how those Canadians would not have realised that fateful morning it was to be their last.

As I finally reached Bourgtheroude it was clear the Canadians had played a vital role in the towns liberation, with several prominent dedications and the Canadian flag flown.

I started to realise that I could now be actually ahead of schedule for a Saturday arrival in London and that I might even knock off early for the day, having had yet another 100km+ day and the 1900km (95%) mark almost upon me.

Just after 4pm some storm clouds gathered and the road took an unusual plunge. Right at the bottom stood the Abbey Du Bec-Hellouin. As I stopped to ponder the possibility of seeking overnight shelter the clouds opened so I dashed inside.

The nun on reception, nicely attired in what nuns used to wear, indicated there was indeed some possibility if I would like to wait half an hour for some higher permission (how high she meant I wasn’t sure – a check of my spiritual credentials perhaps). As I sat there waiting the silence started to get to me and I started to recall the John Cleese movie ‘Clockwise’ and his experiences in a monastery on the way to Norwich – (especially the bath scene). By this time the sun had reappeared, the wind still stood fair for England so I decided to press on for some accommodation that was less likely to involve things spiritual. In hindsight I should have stayed.

As I pressed on in the direction of the Normandy coast town of St Valery-en-Caux (the subject of one of my favourite Battlefield Band numbers) I stopped to enquire of accommodation available en route. I was assured there were campsites on my route, but few hotels,

I spent the last night of my odyssey in a forlorn campsite in Bourg Achard, in company with four campervans, one each from the Netherlands, Poland, France and Scotland. The occupants of the latter were and elderly couple and a middle aged woman completely disinterested in my company and in my offer to celebrate the last night of my odyssey with me over a glass of (my) wine. I think when some people see you on a bike they assume you can’t afford a car and you’ve a cloth cap in your back pocket.

So I feasted alone on the Pate de Campagne I’d bought earlier, and washed it down with half a bottle of red, fortified for my next day’s dash for ‘England my England.’

1700km and 1800km and Larry

I left the Macon campsite with back roads in mind but at the last minute decided to take the main highway. It was great – light traffic and wide hard shoulders, straight and flat. An hour onto my daily run Ron and Carol gave me a cheery wave as they passed en route Calais.

Just south of Le Mans I spotted a cycle shop so called in to replenish my stock of spare rear wheel spokes and a front gear-set bolt that had mysteriously disappeared (but not the rest of the assembly luckily). As I emerged a man on what appeared to be a child’s bike asked me (in an American accent) if I spoke English. I replied ‘yes, but not the way you do but let’s see how we get on.’ He didn’t see the joke.

He asked me if I knew how to get to Bordeaux, so I told him it was straight down the road about 600km. I asked him what maps he had and he produced a page torn from the back of a pocket diary that had France on it.  I gave him the bottom half of mine, we being right at the join. I asked him how he came to be on a kid’s bike heading for Bordeaux, with a bag tied to the handlebars and a coke can where a water bottle normally goes, and did he have any tools or camping gear. His answer to my last two questions was no and the ‘story’ unfolded.

He said his name was Larry and he was from Michegan and that he’d being working as a cameraman for a Jeremy Irons movie, (but couldn’t remember the title). He then went on to say he’d been refused entry into Britain because he only had a single ticket and was sent back to France (I think). He said he’d bought the bike in Paris for $50 and originally had two bags (tied on with string) but one was stolen in Paris. The he asked me (me being so generous with the map) if i wanted the unused portion of his Eurostar London Paris ticket because they wouldn’t give him a refund. I naturally accepted thinking it might come in handy sometime and said all I had to trade was a muesli bar which he immediately accepted.

He rummaged through his (one remaining) bag and I caught site of an official immigration letterhead, but no Eurostar ticket was to be found. I thought to ask for my muesli bar back but by then it was already too late.

I wished him a swift and safe journey, wondering where he planned to stay en route if he had no tent, sleeping bag, nor apparently money to buy a bus ticket. He and his equipment didn’t otherwise have much to edify all the long haul cyclists I’d encountered.

South of Le Mans the National Highway is in fact the Le Mans racing circuit. Really good for bikes too!

At Le Mans I decided the National Highway had been a bit dull, straight, flat, safe, fast an uncongested as it had been, so (silly me) i decided to swing east onto more minor roads looking for more interesting villages and such like.

All I found was hill after hill, heavier traffic and no hard shoulders, but I’d already gone too far by then to turn back.

Sometime after 5pm I came to the town of Bellem that boasted a campsite with heated pool. I pondered scouting it for company and an early day alas my ego got the better of me because another town lay 17km ahead and in between the speedometer would register 1800km as well as the 1700kms I d passed earlier in the day (1800km representing of course 90% of the journey complete) and another 120+km day chalked up.

I arrived at Mortagne at 6:05pm, five minutes after the Tourist Office had closed. There were no campsites. I had the choice of continuing a further uncertain 30km to the next town or going back to Bellem. The sun still burned hot – I was going to have to find a bed. I was too tired and hot to fall back on my last resort of playing me pipes at a bar with my sign asking for a garden to camp in.

I wondered how many interesting people I’d missed at the Bellem campsite (with heated pool). Worse still there seemed to be only two hotels of any sort in town. The receptionist in the first seemed disinclined to invite me in (waiting behind me and my grease and sweat stained cycling shirt stood a man in a suit) and seemed uncertain of any vacancies. The receptionist also wanted an exorbitant Euros 80 so I went off to the only other hotel in town just up the road with a sinking heart.

Ten minutes later I was soaking in a hot bath, wine in hand, damp book in the other, contemplating some long overdue body maintenance.

1600km: Across the Loire and into the forest.

Another long haul day along back roads that seemed to be the preferred route for heavy vehicles. Odd that bicycles are not allowed on tollways and other major routes in spite of their having ample hard shoulders and perfectly safe for bicycles, while back roads often carry the heaviest traffic but no space for cyclists.

I had a late start from L’Isle Buchard due to my chatting to Brian and Janet, especially Janet who was concerned that I’d had a few finger cramps the evening before and she didn’t want to let me set off in less than perfect health. A lovely lady – Huddersfield’s best.

I finally set off cross country, northwards towards the Loire, with chateaus every few kilometres of so. No wonder the French turned on their owners – such fortified opulence at the expense the ‘villaines.'

I saw my first fallow field today. The French seem to use the land so productively.

Just as I approached the magnificent River Loire my speedo registered 1600.00km, Of my estimated 2000km to London this means I am 80% of my journey complete with only flat country ahead of me.

Undernourished and badly jaded

The bike soldiers on but I heard a loud ‘ping’ at midday followed shortly by another. Two rear wheel spokes had given in, fortunately on the other side to the gear cluster so they were easy to replace from my stock of spares. Since the wheel is brand new I wondered how many rear wheel spokes I might have gone through with my old rear wheel.

I rolled into Chateau du Loire (just south of Le Mans) at 5pm ready to call it a day, The two ladies in the Tourist Office competed to advice me on the nearest campsite – I didn’t realise sweat and grime were so attractive to women before (note to work on that). They very nicely didn’t respond to my French in English so maybe I‘ve finally cracked the French accent. I put it down to my frequent use of the expressions 'poof.' and 'voila.' Or maybe they just didn't speak English.

As I left town en route the campsite a grumpy looking man in French 'blues' stared at me as I passed his gate, then burst into a big grin and gave me a vigourous Tour de France  'wind up' gesture and as I climbed the long hill past his gate. I  returned the grin and waved.

At the reception for the remote lakeside campsite I shamelessly asked if there were any English or Australians resident, thinking it remotely unlikely (or indeed that anyone was resident). Again I was astounded to learn of three English campervans in corral formation almost, to match the nearby corrals of French campervans and Dutch campervans.

For the rest of the evening an ex ‘British Army of the personal experiences of all things military. The other Brits had long since retired to the comfort of their TV insulated campervan worlds, while I pondered the daylight still left even after 10pm, and still so long before the summer solstice.

1500kms 120km long haul and more Sheffield types

As I passed through Givray I as I spied the Tourist Office, and stopped hoping to get some more detailed maps. Three long haul cycles rested against the wall, two lycra clad types sat having a coffee. I asked the usual polite question in French about route and received a clear response in French but slightly accented, so I switched to English. Steve and Amanda were heading for the Atlantic Coast. Steve graduated from Sheffield Uni in 1974 in Law. He and Amanda lived in France and were off on one of their regular long haul bike tours together.

We were both pressed for time and exchanged contact details. And we didn’t think to get a photo of two long haul cyclist from Sheffield University crossing paths across France.

I didn’t see who owned the third long haul bike.

Later in the day I came along side two young French cyclists and we cycled together for 30kms or so and shared our lunch together on the banks of the river Vienne, where I couldn’t resist a swim fully clothed for the air conditioning effect later on in the hot day.

Towards the end of another long haul day I passed several campsites, determined to find one on the river, and late in the day. I did not have great expectations. As I rolled into L’isle Buchard campsite just south west of Tours, I finally found the campsite, still open at 7:30pm, with the most cheerful lady on reception. Not only was the campsite right on the river, it had a supermarket just above.

As I returned from the supermarket laden with Pate de Compagne and other fresh delicacies I met Brian and Janet from North Riding, who’d just arrived too in the campervan.

After a swim in the river Vienne (which consisted of plunging into the fast current upstream and landing back at the campsite) Brian Janet and I settled in for the evening over a shared dinner. Of all things Brian is a Construction Manager.

I found it odd that the only two occupants (apart from me) of this out of the way campsite were English couples in campervans. The other couple said they were happy with their own company and chose not to join us.

A mapcheck the following morning revealed I was actually only about two to three days from Le Havre at my current rate of daily long hauls. And the bike has settled down finally so its England here I come by the weekend hopefully.

Civray campsite - a lay day

Civray campsite was fascinating for the number of British people passing through, or local resident and there to eat at the camp restaurant. Whenever I heard English I said hello curious to know their routes or their circumstances in being at this out of the way place.

One retired couple, he Scottish and she from Glouster were en route their frequent caravan holidays through France

Another couple were retired Prison Officers with a house in Kent and one in Civray. After several years of spending holidays in the area and without any French between them they’d bought their friend’s house and managed to navigate all the issues of living in France without any troubles. They mentioned a place I’d hoped to visit – Oradour Sur Glanne now a ghost town since the Germans had killed all the inhabitants during the Second World War. Alas it lay 50km direct to my east and now too far off my route for me to summon enthusiasm.

The following day, with the prospect of persistent front derailleur problems slowing me down, and with two bike shops nearby I decided to spend the day retuning the bike with the opportunity of spares close at hand if needed. Close inspection revealed the real cause of my bike problems; the outer front gear set had deformed outwards due to the chain constantly falling between it and the middle gear set under force. Once I’d managed to bend it back into shape I was ready to get back on the road early next day.

I began to reflect that after 1400km it was inevitable that any bike was going to get out of adjustment so didn’t blame myself too much for my choice of parts.

During the afternoon another English couple called into the camp restaurant and we chatted. They too had bought a holiday home in the area several years ago and had now retired here, though with the security of keeping their home in England, spending six months of the year in each. Their choice of the area apart from other things was the proximity to England with only four hour drive from the Channel Ferries.

Later in the day another lone long haul cyclist (French) arrived heavily laden, with a bike of similar configuration as my own – sturdy older frame and assortment of new bits from here and there. When I looked for him to chat at 8pm he'd long since hit the sack.

1300km and 1400kms.

After leaving Chris and Monica’s house in Faux I cycled 140km to the north of Angouleme through more hills than villes. The day presented strong head winds, heavy traffic with no room for cyclists, hot stormy weather then rain, then the problem of navigating through the city late in the day, with no signs for campsites nor likely lodgings.

I’d spent parts of the day searching for the Voie Verte, the cycle friendly route that passed this way. Whenever I took it I wondered how much the pretty route was costing me in time. I spent the rest of the day regretting taking whichever route I took.

When late in the evening I found the only campsite Angouleme had to offer it was almost dark. There was hardly anyone there and after a shower I saw no reason to stay noting a soccer field nearby with a secluded corner among the trees - my first ‘wild camping.’ The first thing I noticed as I set up the tent was the absence of tent pegs - I’d obviously left them behind somewhere along the way. Two tyre levers provided some backup.

Once I’d cooked and bedded down for the night I discovered that after dark in a secluded spot the womb-like security of tent is little different for a regular campsite.

The next morning as I tried to navigate my way to the Voie Verte I knew to exist nearby I spotted another cyclist having an early morning ride. Charlotte tuned out to be from Bristol University studying French and Spanish and here for work experience. So we had a pleasant chat as we rode along as she led me to the Voie Verte.

The rest of the day presented me with more hills and uncertainty directions: the direct routes offered heavy traffic and no towns, the less direct routes lovely towns but such slower going.

I was struck by how many houses were for sale and how so many magnificent solid stone houses were being let go to ruin. Something to do with the Napoleonic system of inheritance that favours family squabbles over ownership.

Later in the day I chose to follow another Voie Verte, though thinking it a risk if my bike gear change problems worsened. Half an hour later my rear derailleur wrapped itself in my rear wheel. Help soon arrived in the shape of a man in a van and trailer who took me a few kilometres up the road to the next town where miraculously lay a (mostly) motorcycle shop with a rear derailleur on offer. After fitting the new part and making a few adjustments and with some hours of daylight left to make up time, I was on my way again to the next town that had campsite (or any accommodation).

Somewhere during the day I’d passed both my 1300km and 1400km points on the journey.

1200Km at Faux and Sheffield / ENTS nostalgia

As I left the campsite and the canal that had been my constant companion for the last several days. I felt I was having my umbilical cord cut. No more water and no more idling with no decisions to make.

As I headed north towards the River Garonne, a milestone on my journey like the Pyrenees, I came to a small town (with English Pub / Bar and Fosters beer in evidence) and stopped at an Agence Imobilier  to confirm my route. The friendly Immobilier lady suggested I continue along a canal ‘lateral’ until I reached the Garonne again. It turned out to be one of the prettiest stretches of canal with one of the prettiest canal boat ports I’d encountered and even had a small lake alongside with sandy beaches and fountains. I was clearly popular with both the canal boat and campervan fraternity.

I climbed out of the Garonne valley through a few steep ascents glad to be back among villages again. Unlike along the canals, there were signs for campsites, Maison d’Hotes (B&B), at frequent intervals, gentle rolling hills, small meandering rivers; the earthy smells of manured fields. Every piece of land seemed to be under well tended cultivation.

I passed a young man on a bike with a trailer and accompanied by his Alsatian dog trotting alongside. I wondered how much the dog was enjoying it.

I stopped a supermarket to replenish my fruit-juice supplies and got into conversation with two English ladies; one from Lancaster and the other from Kent, both agreeing how much they and their menfolk loved living in these parts rather than in England. Neither seemed to have much of an aquaintance with French in spite of the years they'd been here.

As I peddled on late into the late afternoon it dawned on me that almost every day I had changed my mind radically on my route from the day before. I wonder where I'd ended up in all those parallel universes.

After four hours and 75km straight cycling with a late afternoon start I was starting to tire. As I finally reached Faux Monica was waiting to greet me by the roadside and it was with huge relief that I dismounted alongside their lovely house, as my speedo clicked over on to 1200km.

We spent the next two days reminiscing about Sheffield University days, people we knew. The ENTS committee and living in France and all sorts of other things that need another chapter to cover some other time.....

The bike gearset redesign

I decided to solve my bike gear-change problem and the mysterious back wheel buckle before I set off north. The buckle was easy enough to fix. My suspicions that the gear change problem was one of my own design proved partly correct. When I bought the new middle chain ring, my workhorse, I fitted it with the markings matching the other two chain rings. It emerges they all have a slight centre offset. Reversing the chain ring solved the problem. It also appears that the young bike mechanic had removed a few chain links without telling me (or lost in translation) so that the chain was now too short for the most extreme gear combination and which quickly badly jammed when selected. Fortunately I had s spare short length of gear change so I was able to reverse the problem he’d caused.

The repairs had cost me the whole morning. To help me decided on whether to stay another night or making a other short hop north I wandered over to the adjacent Garonne River. It has been so long since I swam in such a sweet, clear river, with a current just swift enough to match my freestyle pace upstream and allow me to stay alongside where I entered.

I decided to stay another night on the Halte Nautique campsite to take the opportunity of the wifi to replenish my library of current affairs podcasts and to catch up on my emails.

At 3pm I received an email with contact details of Chris (ex Sheffield Uni and onetime ENTS member) and his wife Monica, who live to the north not far of my route. A quick phone call to Monica for an invite and directions and I was on the road in record time headed for Faux and with Google map print in hand.

1000km + 1100kms

Today a reasonably long haul day; 125km. I could have easily done 200km in the time available but I stop for photos, a chat to other long haul cyclists and every boat carrying an English or Australian flag.

My first encounter was a Frenchman with bike trailer heading to Santiago de Campostella on bike. He had also a 2000km journey overall what with where’s he’d come from. He said his 30kg of luggage was mostly clothes. My clothes would weigh no more than 2kg so I can only speculate...

We rode alongside chatting as unnoticed I passed my 1000km.Frenchman.

The canal was full of Santiago de Campostella pilgrims etc, all with their seashell on their backpacks. I wondered if once they got to their destination they left the shells their like some huge aboriginal midden.

The canal towards Bordeaux is lovely, especially in the sun with the sun’s rays slanting through the trees and I was starting to enjoy the ride, in spite of the otherwise unchanging scenery.

A cycled alongside a boat with an English flag and chatted for a while. Their boat was huge and they said equivalent to a three bedroom house. They had their own house back in England like many others.

As I came to a popular mooring I spotted an Australian flag and once again shamefully dropped in for a cup of anything going. Judy and Alan were the former proprietors of ‘Balloons Aloft’ in Canberra and had basically established the air balloon business in Australia with 27 balloons. They had now sold what became a franchise and now lived on their very spacious houseboat spending about half the year here. They kindly shared their lunch with me. They solved the problem for me on how what they do with their car. They just leave it at the nearest rural railway station and leapfrog it with folding bike to their next mooring.

At another mooring a South African couple invited me aboard for a lemonade. It appears they’d had the same difficulties as had I with buying a French laptop modem and like me had given up. We discussed my route and I said how I regretted not travelling north via the Rhone which would have allowed me to pass closer to Switzerland. Since they had travelled that river the put my mind at rest by telling me there were no towpaths or cycle paths - just not a viable cycle route.

My gear change problems returned and became annoying and in spite of the diagnosis of the lad in the cycle shop’s work. It was then I noticed for the first time the space between the two front gear chain rings was different. The problem was my own design fault after all and had not previously emerged. When I had bought a new middle chain ring I’d either used spacer washers that were too wide on one side or I had reversed the middle or outer chain ring so that the gap between them was too great and hence my chain dropping between them.

I enjoyed another day listening to my MP3 player until its battery ran low. I decided to try my rear wheel rim mounted dynamo charger. It was then I noticed my rear wheel was slightly buckled yet no broken spokes. How my new back wheel came to be that way will remain a mystery. Perhaps one of the several times my bike fell over off its dodgy stand.

As I approached my 1100km I thought how nice were the canals are nice in their own way but they don’t pass through villages as I recall English ones often do: Consequently there were neither shops nor campsites.

It was fortunate that I came upon the campsite at Moissac and now I began to look out for and ask directions for the next, knowing that I’d be leaving the canal to spear north the next day. Almost exactly at 6pm I pedalled into Halte Nautique to find two English boats, and the French cycle group I’d encountered two days earlier. I’d done the same distance today as they had done in two, thanks to my one day wasted fixing my bike.

I called into the Port office to arrange my campsite and after only a sentence or two realised Mike had an English accent. He was from Lancashire and now with his wife managed Minervois Cruisers, and the adjacent campsite for ze ‘Municipal.’ His shop was nicely stocked with a library of preloved English books and essential bike spares (like gear cables- clearly in high demand).

And he sold Ice cold Coca Cola, beer and wine. I bought all three and wandered off to the English boats, the French cycle group sitting at the tables with cold drinks and cold gazes for me.

Maggie May is a larger cruise boat. As I came aboard I was greeted by Maggie so I supposed his name was May but it was Kit, a retired Mechanical Engineer from London. Their house is in Woodford Green in Essex, just a stone’s throw almost from where my family once lived. They informed me my favourite pub was no longer there but the bronze Winston Churchill statue still was, and still with usual addition of a makeshift catapult in Winnie’s forward thrusting hand, just as the local scallywags like it.

Dave and Carol, on the other English boat invited me over to cook on their boat. While my contribution to our shared meal was un-noteworthy Carol cooked the best curry and in fact the best meal I’d had on the whole trip.

Dave and Carol had once lived in Australia and now lived in their retirement permanently on their canal boat. It was of English design and construction and made of aluminium. While only modest in size I it had everything most peole would need in a Canal boat. A floating pocket palace!

I went to my tent (well apart from the French cycle group, in the otherwise empty campsite) contemplating my need for some more bike repairs before heading off the next day, and that I’d finaaly and sadly leaving he canal part of my journey, and that the nearest ferry port for England (St Malo) was probably only about 500kms away – potentially only 5 days ride.

People you meet

http://www.moet-chandon.co.uk/

Don’t tempt the devil

Having said both boy and bike were going fine it was only inevitable that one or the other would react. It was the bike, the sore knee having yielded to the odd anti-inflammatory.

As I set off late in the morning after socialising too late the previous evening with the local Anglo /Australian canal boat community I got 100m from the campsite when my bike’s front gear changer demanded attention. Priding myself on never having had anyone else fix my bikes I spent two greasy hours fiddling when a French cyclist came by with news of a cycle shop 5 kms down the road.  The young man there spent almost three hours before throwing the towel in and suggesting a new front gear changer. He could only charge the standard fee of Euro 9 plus the new gear changer so I felt vindicated.

So here I am now sitting late at night with a German and Dutchman (all of us the same difficult age) and in the same internet room of the campsite discussing our journeys in our mutually best common tongue of German with the odd English words thrown in, comparing notes, all of us on long hauls and agreeing the canals lose their appeal after a few days and that central France and the Massive Central are areas to steer well clear of.

The campsite also yielded an assortment of English retirees with a range of France agendas, several of whom now reside here permanently rather than England which they all claim has gone to the dogs. Which dogs they didn’t say.

Another interesting fellow (a retired ‘Reinsurer’) with 10 years and 20 Kilograms in excess of mine, and on his old trusty English built Raleigh bike, was travelling Bordeaux to Marseilles. His passion for the Insurance business was alas lost on me.

So tomorrow I hope to finally pass the  first 1000km, via Agen then north to Bergerac, and Angouleme and north to whichever Channel Port takes my fancy.

The Best Day

As I emerged from my tent I fell into conversation with the couple in the campervan alongside me. They were Dutch and here to help the local Jewish community. They asked if I was Jewish. I replied that my Grammar School was 75% Jewish (in spite of ‘The Reverend’ Alec E Williams Headmaster) and that I’d spent a week in Israel trying to buy military hardware but I could see by her expression that those did not qualify for full membership.

They also (like everyone one else round here it seem) have a child in Australia. In their case the son-in-law spends 3 month alone every year cycling round continents unknown. Quite barking.

After tempting the devil by saying both boy & bike were doing well it came as no surprise to me today that my front gear-set cable snapped (again) and my left knee tendon should attempt the same. Replacing the gear cable was easy; I even had a spare spare. Fixing the knee problem will depend on how my anti -inflammatories kick in. Odd how my left knee (so injured I was told I’d never run again) soldiers on, while my right knee (untroubled by former injury or strain) now grumbles for attention.

Today was decision day. Should I head due north through mountainous Limoges leaving all options open – or should I head via mountainous Clermont Ferrand – closer to Switzerland. Or should I head to the flat (but longer) route via Bordeaux. The strong northern winds convinced me that west, then north was the way to go - St Malo in reach and avoiding the Massif Central.

I found myself in 'exercise central' along a lovely but otherwise quiet canal. Not a single boat underway. A French group of heavily laden cyclists seemed disinclined to engage with me so I went ahead, glad not to be held back by their very slow pace.

I followed the canal as far as Moissac where I was ready to stop for the day only on account of the grumbling knee. But Moissac turned out to be a gem of a town - a hub of English retirees on houseboats.

I shamelessly asked the first Union Flag festooned boat I saw if they could offer a cup of tea to a weary English traveller. I picked the first accent as North London, the next as Yorkshire (Leeds but not Sheffield); I came close with the woman with the Buckinghamshire accent (just out of Marlow) missed the Birmingham (how could I, but she was with the Leeds man) and never got round to identifying the man with the roving accent who’d been everywhere.

They were all off socialising for the evening so I made my farewell and headed off to the campsite. Moissac Municipal Campsite charges Euro 6:50 for a pitch on the banks of the magnificent River Tarn. The best campsite I have found on my journey.

After pitching the tent I returned to the canal port, wine in tow, in search of a fabled Orstralian canal boat. While I didn’t find it I did find English Sue; George and Aussie Pip and Colin enjoying afternoon drinks together. My arrival, unannounced and uninvited, seemed to fit in with their relaxed plans for the evening and several hours later, fed and watered I was fortunate to find my way back to the campsite.

It seems France is awash with baby boomers having a whale of a time on canal boats and the like, renting out their homes while they endlessly relax and socialise in the South of France. And good for them!

My days observations included:

·         Women outnumber men 2:1 jogging along the canal

·         When I approach men for directions they generally have no idea, while women are almost always painstaking in their advice and always correct. Even if they don’t know which way is North (or South).

·         There are far madder people than me out there. One man (ex Military – no wife) spends all year cycling round Europe alone.

Boy and bike

Both boy and bike are doing well; the boy better than the bike in fact. Oddly the effort of cycling (headwind aside) is the least of my worries. Even the bum has given up complaining. If I had no reason to stop and sufficient muesli bars and fruit juice and so on I could probably manage 200kms a day (Haydon note). Though on cue as I write I have my first attack of leg cramps of the trip: Cycling fine – sitting down is not apparently.

The bike is also holding up well apart from the new rear wheel bearing which I’ll have to dismantle and repack with grease and tighten before long (or maybe just get someone to do it if I spot a bikeshop). I haven’t even had a puncture yet. This means of course I have just tempted the devil and will get one tomorrow.

So tomorrow, all being well, I will pass my reach 1000kms and with St Malo now on the port helm be over half way from Barcelona to London Unless - I change my mind again.

And no one said I had to travel to the very north of France and its ferry ports of Calais etc lets face it. And I’ve seen all the pretty villages I need for a while. And any port in a storm will do.

But now I thnk l I'm going to change my mind again.....

STOP PRESS - I fixed my back wheel bearing with a tool I just ought so on on..

Canal Du Midi #2

Finding the Canals from near the airport was the easy bit easy; gaining access to was the hard part. Then I accessed it on the wrong bank for the first 5km, travelling along overgrown stinging nettle infested jungle path.

Once I’d found a place to cross onto the other bank there was an improvement in that the nettles had been cut back. Once the towpath improved a little moreit became a languid day and I was tempted to dive in.

I reached Castelnaudery late in day in the gloom and rain. Almost everyone I asked directions from turned out to be English and lost themselves.

As I cycled past the Canal du Midi basin I spotted an English flag on a boat and called in to say hello. Roland & Jill are a retired couple who’d had a business selling heaters to greenhouse owners and the army. They had two sons both in Australia. I left after their generous supply of three glasses of wine to fortify me against the drizzle.

After farewelling them I went in search of a hotel. Had I had any credit on my voraciously hungry French SIM I would have located a local camping site but I was too dispirited.

It checked into the first hotel I found but apart from the clean sheets and double bed the other advantages of TV etc were lost on me given my mood. And why can’t the French come to grips with fitting the shower head onto the wall rather than dangling in the bath.  The comedown from travelling by car was taking its toll.

The next morning dawned with more drizzle. As I checked out I fell into conversation with an English couple form Ongar: On the London Central Line near where I once lived. She told me she’d been to Ayers Rock but not to France and spoke no French. Odd I thought since I’d never been to Ayers Rock. Her husband nodded confirmation with her every word but had nothing to contribute on his own account. Years of happy docility I expect.

As I continued my journey along the Canal Du Midi I was struck by how many happy baby boomers I was coming across on boats, some just couples but most in small groups sharing a canal boat, all having a great time tucking into drinks and snacks at any given hour. My own Canal Du Midi journey alas was being blighted by my solitary travel mode and the drizzle.

At one stage I took a wrong turn and found myself on the upper of two tracks running alongside the canal. The upper track turned out to be the worse and so muddy I had trouble keeping upright and on course. It was then that I saw my first long distances cyclists in over 800km, laden down with large panniers. Two of them – a man of my tricky age and his wife (probably – who else would follow a man in such dreary weather). Alas I was far above them and they wouldn’t even have seen me had I waved. I just wanted to stop and say hello and compare notes but they passed below me in the drizzle and gloom like ships in the night. My heart sank.

Not long after that my bike seized with mud in the rear derailleurs, demanding a pit stop. A local house provide me with a hose to carry out a high pressure hose down of the everything. In the process I noticed the new rear wheel I’d bought in Spain now had a very slack bearing. In the rain I tried my best to tighten it but my tools and mood were just not up to the task, so I applied some oil and blessed it and headed off. It seemed to make an improvement.

Later on in the day I came across a lycra clad Frenchman on mountain travelling light from Bordeaux to Carcassonne staying at Gites etc. We had a nice chat long and went our separate ways and wished me ‘courage.’ I’d need it.

Later on a saw a familiar boat moored. It had a car on it with GB plates. It was Ian and Ros I met a week earlier. They were indifferent to the drizzle of course being down below blissfully enjoying a cup of tea and some digestive biscuits, with their novels in hand. After they’d fortified me with the same manna I left them to their paradise and returned to my purgatory, pedalling off into the drizzle.

It was then I met my alter ego: A Belgian my age, just retired; bound for Perpignan from Lisle to meet up with friends there with a boat. We compared notes on bikes, cargo and camping and he recommended I use Maisons d’Hotes which he said were very cosy and cheap. I’d seen them but hadn’t thought to check any out. I will.

He said he’d been in the communications industry. He confessed however he had neither smartphone nor laptop with him.

Interestingly he had the exact tyres I had promised myself to buy but penny pinched at the last moment – slick in the middle for minimum rolling resistance – knobbly on the rim for the odd mud patch: TravelContact - no other model on the market. Next shop I see with them and they’re on.

As we set off in opposite went in opposite I thought I’d never asked him if he found the going lonely. Maybe it was a subject we’d both subconsciously steered clear of.

Later on I came to a Boat Hire yard with lots of Americans seeking attention. The shop sold flags so that every boat could identify its occupants. I decided to buy an Australian one then realised I had nowhere to really fly it from plus who’d care anyway.

One American lady told me how one of the3 men in their party had withdrawn had wads of Euros earlier that day in Toulouse then lost his wallet to a pickpocket. The French shop lady warned the thong canal boats and their occupants were high profile targets.

I finally reached Toulouse navigation mostly by asking directions. One charming and distinguished looking man my age (why can’t I do that) was very interested in my journey and gave me excellent directions and we chatted for while in French. As I left he wished me a safe journey in faultless unaccented English.

Navigating through Toulouse via the canal led me straight to the road to Montauban and the North. Two cyclists drew alongside me and we chatted. They warned me of the foul weather forecast for the next four days and recommended I travel north via Bordeaux and onto the ferry from St Malo rather than via Limoges and its hills. I pondered this for a while thinking that I had nothing to prove to anyone on this trip (least of all myself): And I didn’t actually have to visit every village and hilltop in France en route because they would still be there for future car + bike excursions (or even just car let’s face it).

I pushed on in the drizzle along the canal out of Toulouse heading north to Montauban, certain in the knowledge a campsite lay not far ahead. As I did I noticed the many squatter tents part hidden alongside the canal and pondered the large immigrant population I’d noticed earlier in Toulouse. I got the impression Toulouse is a staging post for all stations north.

Being 5km short of my 100kms today and wanting to pass the 900km point today, I decided to call into the campsite to ask where the next campsite lay along the canal. An Australian couple Mike and Lea were checking in at the same time in their campervan. I immediately decided to stay and sod the pedalling off into the dark. After I’d set up camp and removed several layers of mud and had a hot shower we all headed off for the nearest steak restaurant.

Canal du Midi and the 800km

Passing 800kms along a better towpath section  of the very quiet canal. Cleary it's not yet 'the season'

And the tow path normally....

House hunting around Mirepoix #2

House hunting today turned into a guided tour of the region by Philippe. He seemed to want to spend more time showing me the local attractions such as the Voie Verte (rail trail) than houses. And his English was only so good that he was happy for us to chat in French most of the time.

When I mentioned a 12 bedroom chateau on sale for Euro 270K he showed me a couple of 5 bedroom ‘maisons du village’ in the area as well as one closer to my specification. Both of the larger houses were in delightful villages and one with ‘nothing to do’ was going for Euro 140K (negotiable). In the process I met Emma the previous owner who now runs a Gite with her family in the same village. Emma was able to fill me on so many things including the local English she knows. And the best way to keep a car available in holiday home

Philippe’s information was that Mirepoix has such a large English community because it reminds them so much of rural England, is close to the Rail Trail, Canal Du Midi, the Riviera, and snow skiing all within an hour’s radius. And close to Carcassonne and Toulouse airports with Euro 30~40 return airfares to London etc. He also tells me the Germans who buy here like to live apart in isolated houses, and the Spanish buy here to get away from the summer heat in Barcelona, which is not so far away to come for the weekend.

Welsh People!

There are only parties camping here in the Mirepoix campsite - but I’m shocked to find I’m not ‘the only Gray in the Village.’

Alan and Chris Gray are in a Bedouin scale tent with car alongside with a CYM sticker. My tent would pass unnoticed in one of their rooms (or even perhaps under thier car).

The first morning I’d hoped to say hello but they were still in bed at 9:30am so I decided to call in again later in the evening hoping they might be up by then.

When I returned at 8pm to find them now up and about I discovered Chris also plays the pipes (and hurdy-gurdy) but doesn’t have hers with her.  (How could she not I thought when she has the advantage of a car at least to transport them).

So I played them a lament and a few jigs and we chatted away the evening over a bottle of wine (mine) and cheese (theirs).