I left Amiens early to head for Lille. I felt optimistic as I set out: the journey was a similar distance to the previous day with fewer vertical meters. I was fairly sure I would find somewhere to grab some breakfast, however, out of Amiens, village after village were devoid of any kind of retail business. I encountered more problems when the route I was following deviated from the road onto paths and trails. I have found in the past few years that the maintenance of cycle tracks in France can be haphazard and I was to be bedevilled throughout the day by long grass, stony, bumpy surfaces and mud. One old Frenchman riding a horse and cart stopped to stare at me as I pushed my bike along. I told him I was going to Lille, “Bon chance”, he said, sarcastically, I think, but he was French, so it was hard to tell. Shortly after this, and about 15 miles and 2 hours into the journey, I emerged from one this impassable track into a small town where some kids were playing an odd game, which I discovered was called Ballon au Poing, not to be confused with “fistball”: a popular game in Picardy the looked a bit like volleyball, only without a net and where the ball is allowed to bounce. Surely, I thought, if there were kids, parents and a playing court, there there would be a boulangerie or small grocery shop? As I stopped to adjust my mudguards, which had become clogged again, something I ought to have done in Caen, I asked a passing Frenchman if there was somewhere to buy breakfast. “Pas ici”, he replied, suggesting I try about 3 km further on. He also signalled that the route was up and down, but I already knew that. The old bloke driving the horse and cart drove by again, and snorted some comment on my lack of progress. “Not yet”, was my reply.

Eventually, I found a supermarket on the edge of Lealvillers, and stopped to stock up with food and drink.

While the total amount of climbing on this journey was slightly less than the previous day, there were more ups and downs and more difficult surfaces to negotiate, and this took its toll on my muscles and morale. In truth, I had still not properly recovered from the century I had put in on the first day from North Yorkshire to Portsmouth. I had also been carrying a mild chest infection since about the first day in Caen, and was in need of a break. It took me 7 hours in total to cross the halfway mark at about 36 miles at Wailly. I rested for a while, ate by a statue of The Virgin, and pressed on. Eventually, the terrain levelled out, as I entered the flatlands of Flanders and my speed picked up a bit as I wearily pushed on the last few miles through Lens to my hotel in the centre of Lille, where, naturally, I was allocated a room on the third and top floor, with no lift. I gratefully accepted the receptionist’s kind offer of help with my bags.

Lille was much livelier than Amiens: more Flemish in appearance and atmosphere than French. I drank a beer in the old town, then ate at a chain steakhouse closer to the hotel. This had been the hardest day so far and I felt spent. I was anxious about the longer journey I was facing the following day to Antwerp, where I would hook up with The General, my co-rider for the rest of the trip, and enjoy a much-needed recovery day.

I woke early, packed, and chatted briefly with my host, before heading off at 7:30 slowly, but steadily, up a gently sloping forest road towards Rouen. I hoped to breakfast there, and have never been more pleased to spy a McDonalds ahead – exactly what was required after no supper the night before: quick, reliable calories and coffee. Of course, as this was France, it was not open until 10:30. Surprised? No – merely, wearily resigned.

The road out of the city was long and steep, so I got off and pushed. At the top was a boulangerie, where I was able to slate my hunger and thirst. Refreshed at last, I made my way along a long straight, undulating road. The elevation profile for the trip was shaped a bit like like Ayers Rock, with a few sawtooth chips along the top, and a large dip and rise midway along, so I was aware that the worst of the climbing would over by halfway, and then the going would be easier. At the midway point, the planned route sent me down and impassable track, I stopped to plan a way round, and promptly fell over, as I had unwisely left one of my shoes clipped in as the bike tipped over, taking me with it. Fortunately, the only injury was a bloody graze just below my patella – awww.

Further along I picked up the track again. The first few yards seemed passable, but then it began to steepen, before seemingly disappearing altogether and leading me into a field. I pushed the bike uphill across the pasture, and around a row of tree, before concluding there was no way out and so I freewheeled back down to the point where Google Maps suggested the path should have been. Sure enough, I could glimpse through about ten feet of chest-high foliage, the continuation of the track. Reluctant to double back and route around, I pushed on through and eventually returned to the road.

The remainder of the route was mostly downhill. One section, at the other end of this elevated plain was a steep, straight descent, which allowed the bike to hit a speed of just short of 40mph.

I encountered another obstacle a level crossing was barred with fencing, for reasons known only to the French. Fortunately, the fencing had also been erected by the French and I was able to relatively easily negotiate my way through it and across the train-line. After that, I made good speed towards Amiens – downhill and with a decent tailwind, arriving ahead of schedule, and pausing in the last few miles for some refreshing fruity beer.

Saturday night in Amiens was oddly quiet. After a decent meal at a local restaurant, I was shocked at how few people were out and about and how many businesses were closed. A similar sized town in the UK would have been heaving at this hour. There seems something seriously amiss in the French provincial economy if a regional capital like Amiens is so devoid of weekend night-life. I found one rather dingy bar open close to the house I was staying at courtesy of Air BnB, where I had a couple of beers and chatted to a young butcher – he had previously worked as a graphic designer, but had been unable to make a living and so had retrained in charcuterie. He gave me a little taste of some garlic sausage he had made, and of which he was rightly proud, as it was delicious.

I got away from Caen at about 8:45 and headed out along the canal to Pegasus Bridge. The rain had eased, but it was still quite drizzly. I stopped at the Pegasus Bridge Cafe for breakfast. On the other side of the bridge, people were gathering for a memorial service to the Glider Pilot Regiment, who had landed on that spot just after midnight on D-Day and secured the bridge: a vital component of the whole D-Day operation, and the battle for Normandy. Two men were killed during the operation: Lieutenant Den Brotheridge, who was wounded storming the bridge, and was the first Allied soldier to be killed by enemy fire on D-Day, and Lance-corporal Fred Greenhalgh who drowned as his glider landed in the pond beside the river. I stopped to pay my respects and observe the ceremony.

It was pretty damp as I headed North to the coast on the East bank of The Orne to Cabourg then inland to Branville and Pont l’Eveque. After that, I travelled up a “Route Verte” – a converted railway line. The going was heavy as it was pretty muddy, but progress was steady until my way was blocked by a fallen tree. There was no way past. Fortunately, as the tree had fallen just before a road bridge, was able to get off the track at the side onto a parallel footpath and onto the road. The way back to the path on the other side of the bridge was too steep to attempt, so I had to work out a detour that would not take me too far out of my way. To be honest, I was glad to return to tarmac, That particular bit of “unpaved road” was not the worst surface I had to contend with over the next couple of days in France.

At a road junction, I passed a supermarket and purchased some bread, Nutella bars, a bottle of cider, and a bottle of Fanta (zero sucre). The weather was getting worse, with a strengthening cross wind, and heavy rain, and the roads either side of and through Pont Audemer had no cycle lanes. The traffic was busy and the drivers were French. The next few hours were not much fun. I had to get off and walk up a steep dual carriageway, before a long slog along a busy, undulating single carriageway (the D675) where a strong cross wind almost blew me over. At La-Trinite-de-Thouberville, I left this road and descended steeply to the Seine, where I raced along the road to meet a ferry I could see returning from the opposite bank, in case it was the last one that night, only to then have to wait at the dockside for half an hour, while the ferryman took his scheduled break between 8 and 8:30pm. On the other side, I followed a pleasant and quiet road North to Quevillon, where I was to spend the night in a very comfortable annex to a rather large house owned by a young banker, Jean-Baptiste. He was out, when I arrived, but his wife welcomed me and showed me the lodgings. I enquired whether there was any food available in the town, but the nearest pizza place was a further 5km towards Rouen, and they did not deliver. I settled for a hot bath and a supper of Normandy Cider and Liptons Caramel Tea. I slept well that night

I am now in Antwerp enjoying a rest day, where I have been reinforced by The general. It has been quite a trip so far, and I have been too tired to blog each day. I will try to catch up over the next few days.

The plan for 6 June was to ride out to Omaha beach and work my way back along the coast to Ouistreham. However, after a late night, I set off later than planned towards the coast and so decided en route to cut out Bayeux, which I understand was quite busy that morning, and Omaha Beach, and head directly for Arromanches. On the way I was passed by a large group of Canadian cyclists, wearing “Operation Overlord” shirts, who had ridden from Juno Beach that morning. I stopped a chatted to them beside a cemetery at Bazenville, the first British military cemetery built during the invasion – on 8 June. It contained the bodies of 630 British soldiers, 21 Canadians, I Australian, 1 Pole and 326 Germans.

There was quite a crowd in Arromanches, for the veterans’ parade. On the main street, people were gathering to witness the parade. By the military museum, as one very elderly D-Day veteran (of course, they all are now) was being wheeled past to his position at the start of the parade, a younger man in Highland regimental garb bounded towards him, shook his hand warmly and pressed a bottle of something into his other hand. Up the hill by the Sherman Tank, tv film crews were preparing to film the parade. Higher still, a crowd was listening to renditions of “We’ll meet again” by the D-Day Darlings. I did not stay to watch the parade, but pressed on following the coast East and stopping frequently to read the monuments and memorials to the many unimaginable acts of heroism that had taken place on 6 June 1944 and the days after. High up on a hill overlooking Gold Beach was a stunning new statue, being guarded by. Belgian veteran holding a Union Jack, that had been unveiled by Theresa May and Emmanuel Macron that morning. (See the pictures I posted earlier). I headed back to Caen along the canal, passing Pegasus Bridge again. There was raucous crowd of folks in Dad’s Army costumes who had ridden vintage bikes from The Pink Pub in Bognor Regis to the bridge via Portsmouth and Cherbourg. Back in Caen, A swift Italian meal was followed by an early night. Sleep was interrupted by revellers outside until the early hours, the noise of heavy rain falling and the pain and stiffness in my thighs.

I eventually drifted off to sleep early hours.

I’d cleared the decks domestically and professionally by Monday afternoon and so was ready to focus on packing. In truth, I had been preparing for weeks: arranging for the bike to be serviced; checking the set up for lights and devices; plotting, refining, downloading and uploading routes; ensuring required documents were printed off; washing and setting aside clothing for the trip and so on. By Monday, afternoon, all that was left was the packing. Of course, everything I wanted to take would not fit in my pannier bags. I ruthlessly discarded two t-shirts, one of two spare pairs of cycling shorts, a hoodie for evening wear, a packet of micro-fibre cloths, some blister packs of analgesics and antacids, a bottle of aftershave, some interdental brushes, my sonic air flosser, and a couple of paperbacks, then tried again. I managed to squeeze the t-shirts and the hoodie back in, but the bags were still rammed. I need to do some more work on this. I don’t know what the luggage weighs, but I found out during the course of the next day that it was somewhere between “fucking heavy” and immovable. Souvenirs from the trip will be digital, I’m afraid.

When we were two, the original plan had been to hire a van one-way and drive down to Portsmouth. After The Hairy Nephew confirmed he could not make it, I changed my plans, booked a train ticket from Northallerton to Kings Cross, and decided to test myself by riding from London to Portsmouth. I live about twenty miles from Northallerton and so I knew I’d be up at Dawn’s crack. As I age and need less sleep, I find this is a place I frequent often when waking. In times gone past, I would have more likely been seen there before sleep. This is, I think, a natural part of the human condition.

I woke at about 3:40, before my alarm went off, and after a fitful and short night in the spare bedroom, so as not to disturb The Baroness. The sky was light, but Dawn was yet to spread her rosy-fingers across the firmament. After some coffee, I loaded the bike, bade au revoir and adieu to Her Ladyship, and set off at 4:45 for the station. It was a most enjoyable ride: the sun was just breaking over the Cleveland Hills, there was no discernible wind and traffic was largely absent. I had plotted a route to the station at Northallerton that avoided the dreaded Hutton Bank – a notoriously steep but mercifully short fall and rise across the Leven Valley in Hutton Rudby – so as not to break my spirit too soon. Along the A172 out of Stokesley a barn owl heading for bed flew across my path. The bike, despite its load, was moving sweetly. A word of praise must be given here to Tom at Westbrook Cycles in Stokesley, who set the bike up beautifully last week. It is heavy, mind (my fault), and throughout what was to be a long day, I struggled to cope with anything more than a 5% gradient.

I arrived at Northallerton in good time and after a pleasant train journey (breakfast included) I arrived at Kings Cross feeling fresh. I was very impressed with the bike set-up on LNER: very helpful staff and very smooth on and off.

After a somewhat hesitant start away from the station, as the route I had plotted took its time to load up on the Garmin, I made my way through Camden and the West End down towards the Thames and on through Westminster. I encountered some protesters in Parliament Square with an inflatable figure that looked strangely like Emily Thornberry, and I passed Diane Abbott, the Shadow Home Secretary and celebrated arithmetician, taking a selfie of herself with it in the background. I then negotiated my way through Chelsea, Fulham, Putney, Barnes and Roehampton to Richmond Park, where I had a close encounter with some very tame and pale deer – white hart, I would say, but I don’t really have a clue. It was a beautiful moment anyway. It had just started to drizzle, but I didn’t mind, as it was keeping me cool. The rain, or at least its effect on the terrain, was to cause me more of a problem later on, but I was blissfully unaware of this at that time.

I followed a riverside path to Weybridge, where I stopped for a well-earned and substantial lunch at a pub by the river. After this, I was on my way again along The Thames and then the Basingstoke Canal past Woking, which was very nice, provided you were only out for an afternoon amble, and it wasn’t raining. The bumpiness of the surface and its effect on my perineum made it difficult ability to maintain a decent rhythm, but the biggest problem was the mud that gathered between my rear mudguard and wheel, which gradually became such a drag that I had to pull over, take the luggage off the back, turn the bike over, take the wheel out of its housing and manually remove it. I still had about six miles of this type of surface to traverse before I could hit some tarmac near Aldershot, and it was quite a drain on the quads. The drive chain and brakes are still not right and will need to be cleaned up and adjusted tomorrow before the trip really begins.

Anyway, yadda, yadda, yadda, South Downs, up and down, tired, slog (still some drag on back-wheel and heavy feeling in the legs), a vicious 17% gradient 72 miles in (a get off and push): I made it to Portsmouth at about 10:30pm, with weary legs and a sore undercarriage.

Lodgings were basic, but fine (room with a view = window) I slept well, and was away early for the ferry, which was very smooth, and full of servicemen. It was raining when I arrived in Oustreham, but that soon stopped. I rode gingerly along the river to Caen, passing Pegasus Bridge where I stopped to shake the hand of a 94-year-old D-Day veteran: listening to him being interviewed by a UK news crew made me feel quite emotional.

After settling in at my apartment in the centre of Caen for the next two night (trust me, that makes it sound grander than it is, but it will do), I wandered up to Abbaye de Saint Etienne where lies William The Conqueror.

Now for some R+R, before touring the beaches tomorrow.

For those that are interested, so far I’ve rode 125 miles, climbed 948m, and spent nearly 13 hours in the saddle in the 36hrs between leaving home and arriving at my base in Caen.

Now my journey begins.

Like Nathan Jones, I’ve been gone too long, and it is time to update my loyal readership (if he’s in) on my plans for this year’s trip.

First, a quick update…

After returning home from France last Summer, I spent a restful few weeks fitting in a bit of paid employment around watching the World Cup and attending the odd international cricket fixture.  Cycling momentum was maintained by a day-long (Long Day!) cross-Pennine ride from my home in North Yorkshire to Manchester to mark the start of the football season, during which I learned that YORKSHIRE IS BIG, MAN, REALLY BIG.  AND LUMPY: 90+ miles, encompassing both side of the Pennines, before I reached Lancashire somewhere along the Rochdale Canal.  I followed that up with a highly enjoyable and successful week-long circuit in Holland with The Baroness in September, before Autumnal torpor and the pressure of work led me to let things slip.

I picked the bike up again in Spring, having by then formulated my plans for June.  A warm weather training holiday in Majorca early this month did not go entirely to plan, what with British Airways contriving to send my baggage with all my cycling kit in it to Rio, a great hotel with very accommodating staff and beer on tap, a lovely little cafe that served the most excellent cocktails, and The Baroness suffering a nasty fall; suffice to say, my shorts have been fitting a little more snugly since I got back.  I did manage one 70 mile circuit along the North East coast on a rickety hired hybrid bike, which has helped convince me that I’m more or less ready to go.  I guess I’ll find out after I set off in just over a week.

This ride has been in my mind for a few years. 6 June 2019 marks the 75th anniversary of the D-day landings, so I thought it would be a nice idea to commemorate that and raise a bit of money for ex-servicemen on the way by plotting a route that roughly follows that taken by Montgomery’s 21st Army Group across North-West Europe in 1944-5.  After arriving in Normandy for the anniversary commemorations, I’ll be riding solo from Caen through Northern France and Belgium to Antwerp, where I will rest for a day and meet up with a friend, colleague and recently-retired, long-serving army medic and military historian.  Suitably reinforced, we will both then strike West to the Belgium-Dutch border South of Eindhoven, from where we intend to traverse the battlefields and bridges of Operation Market Garden (“A Bridge Too Far”) to Arnhem / Oosterbeek.  We will then cross into Germany, and head North-East pausing at Bergen-Belsen, before reaching Luneberg, the nearest town to the site where the Germans surrendered to Monty at Luneberg Heath.  From there, we will head South-East to Berlin for a few days R&R.

In contrast to previous trips I have undertaken, the route in Europe is not a circular one, so I will not be able to drive myself and the bike to a convenient UK port – instead, the trip will be sandwiched between a mix of train journeys and some challenging bike rides to get me to the ports and home again.  All in all, I expect to cover around 1,200 miles – a substantial increase in distance compared to last year – and climb over 10k metres.

I’ll update this blog as I go.  In the meantime, if you feel like donating a few quid to SSAFA, I have set up a Just Giving page (link below).  All proceeds, apart from the website’s admin costs (11%), go directly to the charity, and do not in anyway contribute to my expenses, which are entirely self-funded.  Donations will provide a welcome boost to morale when the legs are flagging, or lagging from too much beer, and will go to an excellent cause, so please consider it.

More to follow. Adieu, mes amis.

Donate to SSAFA

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.

Breakfast a La Mare aux Anglais included Dundee cake, marmalade, and toffee spread – all home made. I was served with 2 beautifully poached eggs by my genial host, Francis.

Francis is an organist, bibliophile, entertaining conversationalist with perfect English, and such a warm, cheerful, cultured, and welcoming gentleman, you could not hope to meet. If you are visiting Mont St Michel, I would heartily recommend his place.

The ride today was a slog into a headwind, which was only moderate, about 10 mile per hour or so, but was sufficient to sap my strength and slow my progress. The ground was mostly open and provided little shelter and it felt relentless. There were a few hills to negotiate, but they would have provided little problem without the effect of riding most of the day directly into the wind. There seemed to be no opportunity to build up momentum, to take a short break whilst coasting, or even build up speed on a downward slope. I just had to keep the pedals turning the whole way, mostly slowly, with every revolution requiring an effort. I hate wind in my face when cycling.

There were some pretty views to be had and charming villages to pass through, with everything shut, of course, but I had a bit of food left over from the supermarket the previous day, so was able to stop and snack on the way. I did forget to fill up both water bottles before I left, so ran dry again for the last few miles – bit in the trip to be learning this lesson, I thought.

There were two small hills to negotiate before the town, which were tougher than they ought to have been. I read somewhere that foul language can assist when confronted with tasks that require physical effort, and I employed that method as I toiled towards the crest of the last hill. I can confirm that it works. Apologies to the innocent garden centre I passed to my left, but, having cursed the wind, the slope, France, Napoleon, Joan of Arc, and William the Conquerer, I was running out of things to curse, and that was the nearest target. I don’t think anybody heard.

I had envisaged Blainville-sur- Mer to be a small, busy, seaside town, with plenty of cafes and bars along the promenade, where I could while away an hour or two, and maybe even dip my toes in the Channel. Its name is misleading: Blainville-a-decent-walk-from-la-Mer would be more accurate. It seems the coastal resort is few miles away at Coutainville. Blainville is an upgrade on most of the rest of France in that, although the “pub” that was open when I rode in at about 2:30pm had closed before I could shower and get back out of the hotel, there was one bar still open in the town. After a beer there, I decided to walk down to the sea front, where there is another bar, only, I’ve had to put my drink in a bag to keep the flies out of it.

The hotel restaurant apparently has a Michelin star, so I’ll be giving that a go later. However, opening the Hammam / Spa for me, I presume their only paying guest, was too much trouble. The woman on reception made a show of ringing somebody, but, by then I had worked out that she was the owner, and the yoga practitioner and masseuse, so I allowed this pantomime to play out having already decided to soothe my aching thighs with a beer and a stroll to the beach.

The wind is moving around to the East and may even have a southerly component tomorrow, which will be a relief, and the sun has emerged to warm my scalp. Another leg is complete. I head to Cherbourg tomorrow – my final ride, before the ferry the next day. I’m gazing over the Channel now and already plotting the next trip.

It’s been quite a journey, but now it’s almost over.

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.