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.’
