Dinner at Le Mascaret did not disappoint, and was marginally better than the meal I had enjoyed at Le P’Tit Nicholas in La Rochelle. The salmon entree was exquisitely cooked and the Camembert mousse was delicious. I was one of only 6 customers in the restaurant, which made for a hushed atmosphere, with the other guests speaking in whispers, as if fearful of disturbing each other’s gastronomic reverie. The young woman sat with her parents on the next table seemed to be so enraptured by every mouthful, I almost mistook her for Meg Ryan. They do like their food, the French.
Each course was accompanied with a glass of wine chosen by the chef, carefully poured by the waitress to avoid being too generous, but, no matter, the pub was open over the square. The wine was good and complimented each dish well.
In the pub, I played a strange, French version of darts with Denis, the owner, and locals, Fred and Patrice. Fred had previously beaten Denis, before issuing the invitation to me to join them in a game of doubles, and Patrice, as it turned out, was rubbish, so, I accepted the invitation to pair up with Fred. I wont explain all the rules but the game involved hitting the numbers 15-20, doubles and trebles of the same numbers and bulls – apparently the game is known as “cricket”. When it was my turn, Fred directed me where to aim in Franglais: “You – quinze”. The music played in the bar had progressed from a Bowie collection, through Jazz to Rachmaninov. Denis had just put some Ravel on before I emerged from the loo to throw the winning double 17, so that was timely.
Breakfast the following morning was another cordon bleu experience with cheeses, fresh bread, and eggs cooked at the table. I was asked if I would like one or two eggs. Well, I had a long ride ahead of me, so …
Conditions during the ride were much better than the previous day. There was hardly any wind and no hills to speak of until about 40 miles in. The route was mostly along a converted railway line so was very flat and tree lined. Unfortunately, that meant there was little to see, other than pretty cottages converted from old stations every few miles, and my face was peppered for by mile after mile by clouds of flies. About halfway to Cherbourg, I saw a sign pointing left to a “panorama”, and so, a little bored by now, I detoured East up a hill for a kilometre to the village of Catteville. I caught a glimpse of a view across a valley, but the panoramic viewpoint with picnic table seemed to be down a steep slope on the other side of the village, and, not having any food on me, and keen to avoid pedalling a long way back up at this stage of the journey, I abandoned my mini-quest And settled for a look at the fine 13th C church of St Ouen with war monument and accompanying presbytery at the village crossroads.
I returned to the cycleway and pressed on. I stopped at a small town with an artisanale boulangerie that was, astonishingly, open and serving customers in the middle of the afternoon. Ahh, the North. I had 13 miles to go, with a fairly substantial climb up to about 600 ft, the highest since Spain, just before the drop to Cherbourg harbour, so I stopped to take advantage. Refreshed, and moving onwards, the path was deserted, so I played one of my favourite tunes aloud on my phone: the Floyd’s “Fearless” – “You say the hill’s too steep to climb … ” – and sang along.
The cycle path ended and I followed a road down a long descent. Halfway down, my navigation device told me to turn left onto a precipitous, rocky, woodland track, which I did not fancy, so I had a choice of either turning round and riding back up the hill (the right choice) or pressing on and curving round later towards the North (wrong, wrong, always wrong). I chose the latter. There was, naturally, a steep ascent up the other side, followed by a disconcerting stretch along the busy Route Nationale into Cherbourg, without a designated cycle path or hard shoulder, and vehicles speeding past me at 110km/hr. I got off there as soon as I could and walked up a rough, woodland path alongside the road, before finding my way back to my pre-planned route just past up the last steep hill of the whole trip.
Soon, I was at the top, so I stopped to take in some monuments to 1944 and La Liberation. All that was left now was a steep descent weaving through the traffic into Cherbourg and my hotel at the harbour.
My delight at completing the journey was tempered slightly by the lack of facilities for storing a cycle at the hotel, but that issue was eventually resolved and I ventured into Cherbourg for sustenance.
It is now the morning after and I am looking out of the hotel window onto Cherbourg harbour where the water is being whipped up by a strong southerly wind – a bit late for me. I plan to take a stroll up the rock to the war museum before my ferry this evening.
I totted up last night the miles covered and the vertical feet climbed: 810miles and 32,000ft respectively – almost as long as Land’s End to John O’ Groats (now there’s a thought) and higher than Everest (nah, you’re alright – I may be fat and have grown a beard, but I’m not Brian bloody Blessed.)
I’ll pack the bike away for a few weeks now while The World Cup is on, then get on with planning the next trip.
It’s been quite a journey.
Adieu.
The Trick Cyclist 