Let’s get this out of the way from the off, shall we? Why am I typing this sat on a balcony overlooking the Atlantic in a hotel on the beach at Saint Marc sur mer, near the mouth of the Loire in France “in the middle of a pandemic”? Well, in a nutshell, life is for the living, and at my age, I’ve no idea how many active years I have left, and so I’m not willing to put more of it hold because the government of the UK has been driven mad by a moderately severe cold virus that is no more deadly than a bad winter flu season. So, since the French, in their glorious wisdom, did not impose a tit-for-tat quarantine punishment on travellers from the UK, and despite a higher “case” rate than the UK, seem to be going about their business while applying sensible precautions that keep the country moving, here I am. And, er, read those first three lines again. If I die in the process, well, c’est la vie. I, like most of you, take risk in my stride. As for the chances of me infecting a vulnerable person through my irresponsible actions, well the risks of that as I self-propel myself along mostly deserted cycle paths across Europe are, frankly, negligible. So, Dr Whitty, if you have driven a car this month, with the theoretical risk that you might hit and kill a child, you know where you can shove your moralising, right back from whence it has emerged.
With respect to SARS Cov-2, and where we are at now nationally and globally, I won’t go over all the arguments, the information is out there. Try Sunetra Gupta, Carl Heneghan, Karol Sikora, Michael Yeadon, Malcolm Kendrick and Ivor Cummings, amongst others, if you want a scientific, evidence-based alternative narrative to what you are being fed via Johnson and Hancock from Ferguson (a pox on his name), Vallance and Whitty. Have a read also about something called the “base-rate problem” and what that means for the relative numbers of true and false positive results produced by screening tests when the prevalence of a condition is low, to shed some light on the facts behind the figures of reported “cases”, and why some countries are moving away from defining a case by a positive test alone.
I will, of course, serve my two week house-arrest sentence in accordance with the legal penalty for daring to travel contrary to FO advice. I am a law-abiding public servant, after all.
Right, rant over. I’ll leave that there. It will, of course, be difficult not to mention the “C” word over the next few weeks, but that is not my theme; no, that would be the tribulations, pain and occasional pleasures of middle-aged cycle touring – if you want death, disease and politics, you can doubtless get your fill elsewhere.
So, I left this blog last year in Berlin contemplating a run along Eurovelo 6 – a cycle route from the Atlantic to the Black Sea following major European rivers such as the Loire, the Saone, the Rhine and the Danube. I plotted a route heading east from the mouth of the Loire to the source of the Danube last autumn, intending to set off in late May of this year. That, of course, was put on hold as I did my bit in my corner of the NHS to support the service and the patients during the worst of the pandemic. Expecting things to loosen up in the summer, as they did, (unfortunately not for long, as it has turned out), I reorganised the trip for September/October. After the quarantine was imposed in August on travellers returning to the UK from France, I watched anxiously to see what the French would do, then made another late alteration to my plans as the ferry service collapsed my intended route via St Malo. I worked out that starting two days sooner via Caen would allow me to leave the rest of my plans intact. I put the dogs in storage on Tuesday last and said my farewells to The Baroness on Wednesday, packed up my gear with way too much stuff again, including plenty of face masks and cask strength alcoholic hand gel, loaded the bike onto the back of the car and drove down to Portsmouth.
Thursday 17.09.20: Caen/Ouistreham to Domfront.
After a shortish ferry crossing, during which I slept, I packed up hastily as the ship docked at 05:45 local time and shortly afterwards rode off into France. I was prepared to be grilled at Border Control about the purpose, direction and length of my journey, and my recent medical history and current state of health, and then sent packing on the next boat back to Blighty, but, after a routine passport check, I was on my way towards Caen before dawn. The first ten miles into Caen were familiar from last year. I had hoped to grab un sandwich et un cafe at the Pegasus Bridge Cafe for breakfast, but it was closed. Never mind, the wind was behind me, the sky was clear and lightening, and so I made good progress through Caen and beyond along a dedicated cycle path following the Orne for about 30 miles or so.
The weather was glorious as I turned south west across a couple of valleys, with a bit of up and down, causing me to get off and push a few times. My physical preparation of late had been virtually non-existent, and the terrain resembled the Dales in parts, but I had plenty of time to reach my first stop-over in Domfront, so wasn’t worried. I passed a little village called La Lande. Some wit had scribbled an extra “La” on the road sign into the village. Since this is probably going to be the best joke I will see or hear over here, the French not being renowned for their comedy, I thought I would share it.
The road reverted to an old railway line, like much of the cycle paths in France and Belgium, for the last few miles to Domfront. A few miles short of the town, at a junction, I was directed to my right. I pulled up and took a look at a narrow stone bridge leading to a steep rough track that a mountain goat would cast sideways glances at, and checked Google Maps for an alternative. There wasn’t one, at least not one that involved going miles out of my way, and, of course, just as high, so I hauled the bike slowly, carefully and wearily up about half a mile and 150 vertical ft until I emerged onto a road. Eventually this led me further upwards to the main road above Domfront to the north west. My lodgings were to be a chambre d’hotes at La Belle Vallee, a stunning French manor house overlooking the valley I had just hauled myself and my gear up. The owner, Victoria, had a broad Lancashire accent. She was from Bolton and so was extremely accommodating when I told her I was from that part of the world, providing me with a glass of iced water, an upgrade to the best room in the house, because I was “northern”, and a lift into town from Pascal to find my dinner. I went for the the full Norman at a little bistro overlooking the church, enjoying maigret, red wine, cider (served in a bowl), apple crumble, and calvados, all for less than 40 euros.
I felt very pleased with myself as I ambled back to La Belle Vallee, enjoying the view of The Milky Way in the dark, moonless sky, until I realised just as I got back that I’d left my hat at the restaurant. I should have been warned, having also nearly left it at the bar in the town where I had enjoyed a drink before dinner, alerted to my impending loss by the waiter. Those of you that are familiar with the Tilly Hat will be aware of its all-round utility and lasting qualities. It is not an item to be discarded lightly. Those of you that are familiar with my capacity to lose my head if it were not firmly screwed to my shoulders, will not be at all surprised. Usually, I dispense with the helmet once I get going over here and use the hat for protection from sun, rain and ground alike. I decided against schlepping back the two miles into town, favouring the extra hour of sleep, and weighed my options. The following morning, Victoria went out of her way to determine that the restaurant would be open to serve morning coffee, and called the proprietor, who had the hat. I collected the precious item as I swung through Dormont on the way west towards Dinan.
Friday 18.09.20: Domfront to Dinan
Head protection restored, I dropped down from Dormont onto another converted rail-line a few miles outside the town, which took me in a more or less straight line the forty miles or so to Avranches and Mont St Michel. This one was a bit more gravelly in parts, which slowed me down at first. In order to catch up with my initial itinerary, I knew that I had to put in quite a few more miles than I would have liked to do this early into the trip. The first half, though, was a breeze, as after a slow gentle climb, it was mostly straight and downhill, and I cracked along in fine fettle and good spirits. The weather was hot, but the route was shaded. Early on, I was passed by two guys heading to Mont St Michel. They were on their last leg of a trip from Paris. They seemed quite impressed that I was intending to go a further 50 miles than that, and that I had travelled 100 km the previous day. As we entered a long downhill stretch, I picked up speed and left them behind. I didn’t see them again, but paid for my hubris later on, when I was flagging and passed an older bloke on a small electric bike, only to have him come past me half an hour later as I laboured badly.
I struggled along the coast past Hirel, turning South to La Fresnais. I was troubled by abdominal pains, as my regular morning routine had been somewhat disrupted by a couple of early starts, long periods of hip flexion in the saddle, and dehydration caused by the hot weather and the relative lack of opportunities along the route to replenish my supply of fluids, but once I had crossed the Rance and headed downhill to the river, I was soothed by the restorative quality of cycling alongside the water, and the knowledge that there were no more climbs until Dinan. A last get-off and push up a steep hill from the port into the town saw me to my destination and relief.
The receptionist at the hotel recommended the restaurant next-door, and, of no mind to explore any distance further, I took his advice, enjoying a salad containing smoked maigret, salmon and foie gras, followed by a fillet steak and cheese. For an extra 3 euros, the steak came with a lump of fatty goose liver on top. Oh yes. To wash it down, I was not taken by the whisky selection, so opted for another calvados and a small Cidre Val De Rance, a desert combination which seemed to amuse the waiter, but he did not know how thirsty I was. In the restaurant, I found myself thinking about the emerging etiquette around masks. I am not sure how many people truly believe they are effective against viral transmission, but wearing them indoors is now just simply the polite thing to do. One does not want to cause offence or anxiety, so on it goes. This practice will be with us, I suspect, for a while. I also noticed that in France, the standard minimum social distance is 1m, rather than the 2m recommended at home. It is odd how uncomfortable it feels after six months of staying 6 feet away from everybody, to be sat more closely together. Three young women on the table next to me were talking and laughing quite a lot, as you might expect on a Friday evening out, but I found myself calculating the distance between us and slightly turning my body away. When one of them started coughing, well, it almost put me off my calvados. It certainly made me decide it was time for bed. Being in close proximity to people laughing and talking is liable now to generate a quite different type of paranoid reaction.
Saturday 19.09.20: Dinan to Ploermel
I woke early and took breakfast before the rush – standard hotel cold buffet fare. I took my time getting ready to go, as it was lashing down outside. The rain had eased a little as I set off down out of the town, past the Abbaye de Lehon, onto the gravel track beside the Rance. As it was damp, the surface was sticky and so provided some resistance, adding to the slight strain of a gentle climb. I met an English couple with an Airdale terrier and told them about my own dogs and my planned journey.
The rain eased and the path became more forgiving (tarmac). The route profile was a jagged hump, with the highest point at around midway, although within that there was considerable variation, some of it moderately steep, but after exertions of the previous couple of days, I could feel the fitness improving. The route cut across country after about 20 miles with various types of surface, paths and roads, past farms and villages. Through Mauron, I noticed an odd, irregular clicking from the rear wheel and stopped a few times to try and discover the source, without success. It seemed to clear itself eventually; probably some woodland debris in the mudguard. The last 13 miles or so after that was a straight, mostly descending, voie vert, which was very pleasant, and I arrived at my lodgings at around 17:00. I was staying at a large house on the edge of the town, with some chalets built for guests in the garden. I said hello to Madame, three of her four sons, and two of her dogs. Her husband, eldest son and four daughters were away for the weekend. How she found time to also run a small bed and breakfast business is anybody’s guess.
After a shower and some TLC to the undercarriage, I strolled up to the town. I was on the hunt for pizza, but the place I had my eye on from TripAdvisor only seemed to be doing takeaway, so I stopped outside a small bar-tabac for a beer, waiting for the nearest restaurants to open. A group of three couples arrived in different cars, all exchanged double kisses in the usual French way, then put on their masks and came into the bar’s external seating area. Tres Francais.
I was turned away from the next two places I tried, as I did not have a booking. Eventually I was allowed entry into a large bar-restaurant near the church. The only table available was in the basement whereupon the waitress informed me that pizza was off. “That’s a shame”, I said, and she laughed. Anyway, I ordered the entree du jour, which was a tartare of scallops with mango, followed by a burger. I made the classic mistake of not anticipating the supplementary question, and assumed I was being asked if I wanted chips or salad with that, when, actually, she was asking me how I wanted the burger cooked, at which point the waitress took pity on my embarrassment and revealed she was English, but she wanted English customers to at least try to converse in French. Nice. After that, ‘though, she was nice as pie and the meal and service were splendid, so I left a descent tip. The trouble I have always had with French has been tuning in my ear. I just can’t seem to get past the stage of trying to pick out and translate in my head each individual word, which is very hard as the French tend to run all their words into each other.
I stopped for a pint at the ubiquitous Irish Bar on the way back to bed (rude not to), leaving at 10pm when the staff told us we all had to move inside – it was a bit crowded for Covid-comfort.
Sunday 20.09.20 Ploermel to St Nazaire
I woke before dawn and waited to hear my hostess moving about. Breakfast was to be served in the room next to mine, but I heard nothing, so went about my business, reading the gloomy news from home, and preparing to leave. I ventured outside around 7:50 to find the table in the kitchen next door already set for breakfast, with an enormous stack of pancakes, a sizeable loaf of bread and a massive sponge cake. Coffee was bubbling in the percolator. Not a protein molecule was to be spied anywhere. I ate a little of each variety of carb, then packed up. I was pestered by little over-friendly dog licking my hand and legs while I attempted to lubricate my drive chain, whilst stoical dog stood staring at the host family having breakfast in the main house and studiously ignoring me, as a I was clearly not a reliable source of food.
The route took me back onto the cycle path 20 miles or so to Questembert, then south across rolling hills, farm country and small towns. I stopped 30 miles in at a pretty place called Le Guerno, with a beautiful 16th century church, to replenish my fluids.
I crossed the Vilaine at the Barage d’Arzal, then climbed up to the final high point, with 10 miles to go.
I was delayed by losing an AirPod as I sped down a decline, and had to spend about 20 minutes locating it with the use of an app. The one that gives a numerical percentage as you approach the object is much more effective than the one which merely tells you you are cold, warm or hot, take it from me. At £5.99, it’s pretty good value. I then descended down to the coast at La Baule Escoublac.
After riding around the bay through Pornichet in warm late afternoon sunshine, I walked the last couple of miles along a narrow coastal path to my hotel at St Marc sur mer. The town and hotel are famous, apparently, for being the setting of a “M. Hulot” film by Jacques Tati, a kind of fifties French Mr Bean. I looked up some of the clips on You-Tube later (so you don’t have to) and can confirm that they are indeed as hilarious as they sound. Still, he was very popular in France and so there is a charming statue of him overlooking the beach.
I ate at the hotel, as there was no alternative, and retired with the remainder of my bottle of red to my room with a balcony overlooking the sea to start to draft this blog.
Monday 21.09.20: St Nazaire to Nantes
It’s now Tuesday and I am finishing this draft in an AirBB apartment in Nantes. After writing about the importance of my hat, I discovered as I packed my stuff at The Best Western in Saint Marc that I did not have it. Luckily, somebody had handed it into reception. I almost lost it again today, as I stopped to check my bearings outside the Gare in Nantes. I got up to leave my seat and a bloke walking the other way pointed out I’d left it behind. This hat and I are clearly not meant to be together. Tonight, when I go out for dinner, it is staying in the appartment.
Yesterday was a shorter ride: 50+ miles, and was the first leg of the journey east along the Loire. After dipping the back wheel in the Atlantic (in the hope that I will dip the front wheel in the Black Sea in a couple of years) I headed off around the coast to St Nazaire.
I had elected not to try my luck crossing the Pont de St Nazaire, which is long, narrow and steep (you can just make it out emerging from the left side of my head above) and bikes are separated from cars and juggernauts by a dotted white line, which, with luggage aboard, struck me as a bit risky, and so I took the northern route, which was for the next 10 miles or so mostly industrial dockland, with a Total refinery as big as a small town in my way. It was hot, with lots of big trucks, and occasional swarms of flying ants. After clearing this, I then wound down various deserted country lanes and gravel routes to the north bank of Loire at Coueron. I ran short of fluid after about 25 miles or so and the next 15 miles were pretty uncomfortable on what was another hot, dry day. I passed nowhere in that time where I could purchase a drink. Eventually, after seriously struggling to resist taking a sip from the irrigation ditches at the side of the road, at Coueron I spotted a paper shop with a small fridge and gratefully grabbed from it three tins of Lipton peach tea and a bottle of blue Powerade, which I glugged on the spot. That was enough to see me the rest of the way to Nantes.
Tuesday 22.09.20: Nantes – rest day.
The AirBB option has provided me with an opportunity to wash my clothing, refuel, and enjoy a day off exploring Nantes. I was a little dismissive of the place when I passed through it heading North to Suce-ser-Erdre a couple of years ago, so thought I ought to give it a better look. It has been worth it. Last night I managed to patronise not one, but two, Irish bars – the first for food and the second for beer and football. Today, I have strolled around the city, taking in the gardens, the cathedral, which is closed to the public after the devastating arson attack in July, and the ramparts of the Chateau du Ducs de Bretagne. These guys had some property empire, so far I’ve seen one of their lakes, a house in Ploermel, and now a castle. Nantes is well worth a stopover, if you’re in the area. Busy, business-like, lively, young and active. A bit like Manchester. I’d have liked to have taken in the art museum (because that’s the kind of cultured guy I am), but it was shut on Tuesdays. That apart, I’ve had a memorable time here and would heartily recommend it. I’ll provide some more specific recommendations in the next post.
Tomorrow, I head up river 60 miles or so to Angers.
The Trick Cyclist 