Saturday 9 June
My destination beyond the Loire at Nantes was another Chambre d’Hote outside Suce sur Erdre, Les Clematites. I was greeted by a very pleasant elderly lady, who showed me to my billet, which was more than acceptable. Using my pigeon French, I extracted from her directions to the nearest restaurants, which were in Suce. 
After cleaning up, and stowing my bike, which earned me a look of suspicion as I emerged from the unlocked garage from, I presume, the lady’s son, who had just pulled up in a car outside, I strolled about 3 miles into the town. The top restaurant (of 6) in the town, according to Trip Advisor, was closed until further notice, as was the next one I tried, something of a theme for businesses in France, I was beginning to notice and not appreciate. There was one restaurant open on the way down to the river front, but it was completely empty, so I passed, and three busier places further down facing the water. I was a little underdressed for the most popular, and best rated of those, where the clientele looked rather smart, so I chose Quai 101, a pleasant enough place with an American style menu. I had a rather uninspiring “Cajun” style chicken burger, which had little flavour, and certainly no spice, but was filling. No doubt there was better fare to be had on the menu as I swear Felicity Kendall came in as part of a group of four and sat behind me. I didn’t like to stare, or bother her, so cannot tell you what she ordered.
I took a woodland walk route back to my lodgings, during which my exposed limbs, head and neck were attacked by flying, biting insects. That night, I slept fitfully. The room was warm, my bites were itching and I was, I confess, a little anxious about the next day’s ride, which entailed a return to some slopes, after a long period in the flatlands, with a the weather forecast that promised thunderstorms and a headwind.
Sunday 10 June
I woke a good two hours before my scheduled breakfast, so packed carefully and prepared to leave straight after eating. Around 8am, I could hear what sounded like some motor racing event taking place in a field nearby. I was keen to get away, so did not explore. A typical French carbo-fest breakfast, unsullied by anything resembling a protein, was gobbled up; the process hastened by the presence of my hostess, who stood over me whilst I was eating. Perhaps she wanted to ensure I didn’t go back into the garage unsupervised a third time (I had already removed my bike), or maybe she was anxious to watch the motorbike race. No matter, I did not want to tarry.
The first 30 miles passed off uneventfully. I’d re-attached the cleat to my shoe and secured it, so I thought, with superglue, and the garmin botch seemed to be holding. There were no thunderstorms near me, the wind was relatively mild and the gradients on the hills were not fierce and provided some welcome variety to the landscape, which for the past few hundred miles had been pretty boring. Temperatures were in the mid to high 20s, despite the grey sky. There were some rough tracks to encounter and an occasional detour, but nothing that delayed me unduly. I stopped at a small town where I saw a bar open, and a beer tent in a field opposite where the locals seemed to be enjoying themselves. I thought I would pick up some lunch, but I was completely ignored in the cafe-bar and the beer promotion opposite seemed to have no food, so I left the town. A few yards further on, I had to stop to reattach the cleat, which had detached from my shoe and become stuck in the pedal. Later in the day, I had to remove it again and, having lost a bolt, have since been unable to replace it, so have been riding with one foot clipped and the other floating.
It struck me that rural France is a very uniform place. For hundreds of miles, I seemed to have traversed very similar-looking fields, containing a small number of strangely pale cows, well-ordered woodlands, and small towns and villages which all seem to follow same blueprint: a crucifix at a cross-roads at the edge of the town, some more elaborate or ancient than others; a church of varying architectural interest in a square in the middle, including some of ancient, Romanesque design (thank you Bertie Noone, you taught me something during my time in Art, despite my inability to draw something as elaborate as a cube); and a walled cemetery at the other end. The other thing that I noticed about France is that it is mostly shut. Almost all of the villages I passed though seemed like ghost towns, with very few people visible, and hardly any service establishments open. This was not just on Sundays – for much of France, every day is like Sunday, it seems.
By about 2pm, I was getting hungry and my water supply was low. I had identified one town as a potential stopping place about 45 miles in. As I rode through, there was one bar open, but I’d also seen a sign promising a supermarket a few miles further on and thought that would be a better bet. The supermarket did not materialise. Disappointed, I pressed on.
After about 50 miles or so, my water had completely run out. I encountered a 9% slope past a farm and had to get off and push. I passed a house with a door open and I must have presented quite a pitiful sight as a kindly woman emerged to stare at me, and I took the opportunity to ask for some water. She gladly replenished my bottles, one of which I half drained on the spot. After that it was mostly downhill for the last 13 miles into Rennes, so I coasted. I saw an Essex garage sign ahead and thought I might pick up some nourishment to keep me going until dinner, but the shop was closed and the pumps were all self-service. Quelle surprise. The whole 65 miles then, on breakfast alone.
The hotel in Rennes was modern, pleasant and very comfortable, although opposite La Gare, so there were some unsavoury looking types about. I booked a restaurant in the town and spent the night there and in the bar opposite, too tired to explore much further.
Monday 11 June
Today, I determined to take my time. Yesterday had taken its toll a little on my legs and I felt tired. I briefly considered trying to find a bike shop to get a replacement cleat plate for my shoe. I found three cycle shops in Rennes on Google, but, guess what? All three are closed on Mondays!
It was to 45 miles from Rennes to Ardevon, just short of Mont St Michel, on the Normandy coast. 5 miles outside Rennes, the route took me to the Canal d’Ille et Rance which provided some very pleasant, gently climbing cycling, lock by lock, sheltered from the wind.
I chatted briefly to a Swiss couple, who had set off that morning from Rennes and were heading towards Roscoff, then down the Brittany Coast. After that, the going became a bit more hilly. I passed a wonderful lake in the hills .
My pace slowed, it was windy and I was tired. Whilst labouring up one hill, I was easily passed by a young woman on a touring bike heading towards Mont-St-Michel. The embarrassment of being so easily overtaken by another tourer helped me pick up the pace and I caught her up on the next hill. It helped to have another similarly-laden rider to keep pace with. We chatted a little as we rode: she was a German occupational therapist from Stuttgart, riding a loop around the Brittany coast from Rennes to Nantes.
After another hill, the OT turned off to the right. My route turned further along and took me up a smaller road, which eventually became an uncyclable muddy path through some woods. The rain had started falling hard shortly before so I was obliged to walk. As I emerged onto a road to take my bearings, and ponder whether to follow the road or continue along the rough track opposite, the same woman passed me again. She had clearly plotted a more sensible route and so I followed her along the tarmac ribbon to just short of Mont St Michel. The spectacular Mont appeared ahead through the mist as I rode along the Couesnon river, before I turned right to Ardevon.
I am staying at another Chambre d’Hote. The welcome afforded by Yvonne and Francis, my hosts, far surpasses anything I have encountered thus far on the whole trip. The rooms are great – I have a splendidly equipped bathroom to myself, with a jacuzzi style bath, a large bedroom with en-suite facilities and a complete set of the Encyclopedia Brittanica, and a sitting room, with a Welsh Dresser, a grandfather clock, an oak table, a wood burning stove, a coffee machine and a tin of biscuits. Francis has booked me a table at the restaurant next door and has even offered to wash some of my clothing. I have been supplied with a large bottle of orange juice to quench my thirst and breakfast tomorrow will include a cooked egg. As I type, an enormous flock of sheep are being driven down the road by a bloke on a quad bike and a one eyed sheepdog. Quite a sight.
I have about 95 miles to go to Cherbourg in two hops, then home.
The Trick Cyclist 