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.