28.09.20 Briare to Nevers.

I was down for breakfast early which I ate alone, other than the waitress watching me intently from behind. Maybe it was the weather and the crash the day before, but I can’t say I found the welcome at L’Auberge du Pont Canal “de bon accord”. The rain was coming down steadily as I reviewed the bike before packing up. There was now quite a wobble from the back wheel, which was catching the mudguards. I wanted to get to the bike shop near Nevers a good few hours before they closed, so had to crack on regardless.

I was using Google Maps to amend my planned route to take in the bike place where I hoped they might be able to force my front forks into alignment and replace my back wheel. As it was raining steadily, I had to stop a few times to adjust, and eventually change, the cable attaching the phone to my battery pack, as I could not afford to let the phone die along the way. I also had to fiddle a few times with the rear mudguard to try to limit the drag from what was now quite a badly buckled rear wheel. There were other issues with the navigation tool diverting me inexplicably onto atrocious surfaces and up and down some busy undulating roads. With a wobbly back wheel, misaligned front forks, constant rain and drizzle, and a deadline, it was not a comfortable journey.

Eventually, I arrived at “Cycles Up”. just outside Nevers. I rode past it at first, as it was not a shop, but a house. I turned back and saw some blokes in the garage at the side. I went in and explained my predicament. The chap was sympathetic, but explained that he did not do repairs, but made e-bike conversions, and advised me to try Decathlon and a couple of other places in Nevers. Both of the independent places I had already picked out, but they were both closed on. Mondays. I was not aware that Decathlon did repairs.

I pitched up to Decathlon on the edge of Nevers around 5pm. The chap on the service desk was ever so helpful. He explained he could do nothing with the forks, but agreed to have a look at the back wheel. Basically, the hub was loose, which accounted for the clicking I had been hearing, as were a number of spokes, which explained the buckling. Partly due, I assume, to all the rattling around on dodgy surfaces with a a full load. He removed the hub, inspected it and put it back in. He then spent some time tightening the spokes to straighten the wheel as much as possible. He also fitted a new tire – they only had a 35 in stock, but the 32 I had on was pretty bald, so I went with it, feeling I ought to buy something from them as they had been so helpful. Unfortunately, he was then too enthusiastic with the torque wrench tightening the cassette and so when he put the wheel back on the bike, the clicking noise was noticeably worse, as was a marked braking effect on the wheel. Basically, the problem now was that the hub had been over-tightened and the wheel wouldn’t roll properly. He was then unable to remove the cassette, and so told me I would need a new wheel, or a new hub, neither of which they could supply. Slightly embarrassed and apologetic, he informed me that his labour and time was “on me”. With a straighter back wheel, I was able to overcome the drag and made my way down the hill into the town to my hotel.

Nevers looked old and tired, to me, so I guess we were well suited. It was Monday and wet, so there were few options for food and drink. A quick check of Tripadvisor revealed a beer and burger place nearby, so that seemed to fit the bill. Walking past, However, it did not seem too promising. There was one customer sitting at the bar and no sign of anybody eating. I decided to go in to have a beer while considering what to do, but since the only tap that was working was dispensing Carlsberg, I walked back out, figuring that any food available would be equally unappetising. I settled for a pleasant enough place attached to the Best Western, where I was one of five male customers dining alone, all appropriately socially distanced. The food was good, mind. I had a veal fillet washed down with half a bottle of a red Sancerre.

Tuesday 29.09.20: Nevers to Paray-le-Monial

The nearest bike shop to the hotel was just around the corner in the town centre, so I got ready sharpish and was there just after 9. I had a long ride that day to my next stop over and the information on Booking.com was that their check-in closed at 7pm. I had been told by the guy in Decathlon that the folks at Velo-Passion were “cool”, so I was hopeful of getting sorted, but the reception I got was beyond cool, it was decidedly frosty. There was nothing for it but to double back a couple of miles to the other place out of town, Cycl’Espace Fondant, which I had seen the previous day on the way down from Decathlon. There, they were also unable to help with the forks, but managed to remove the cassette from the back wheel, clean and grease the hub, and I was on my way. Between them, Decathlon and Cycl’Espace had got me moving. But it was now 10:30 and I had 80 miles to cover by 19:00. I had reviewed the route I had planned the night before and found a shorter and flatter path. The front wheel was tugging slightly to the left, but now the back wheel was moving nicely. The going was mostly good, with the first third of the journey being along pretty good paths beside the Canal Lateral a la Loire, the final third along similar surfaces alongside the Canal du Centre, and the rest being pretty flat and unproblematic. The weather was dry all day, which also helped.

I crossed the Loire for the last time as I traversed the canal aqueduct a Digoin. Its path was heading South, while I was now heading North-East towards the Saone.

I made it the hotel (well, Motel, really) on the outskirts of Paray-le-Monial with five minutes to spare, where I soon afterwards tucked into a decent Charolais Steak and then slept.

Wednesday 30.09.20: Paray-le-Monial to Chalons-sur-Saone

The weather was misty as I set off, brightening up around midday. I had selected a route that went north east, before curving south east down to Chalons-sur Saône, bypassing the higher ground in between. It mostly followed the Canal du Centre, and it was only when I deviated from the canal, that I found myself in bother, including one “path”that ended at two metre chicken wire fence and a thick border shrubbery hedge between me and the nice road that I had left a few miles back, which, If I’d just stuck to, I’d have been riding along past where I was a good half hour earlier. I managed to force myself and my bike through at a corner, then heave the bike over a crash barrier at a bridge over the canal to regain the road beyond.

After the push yesterday to check in on time, my legs were heavy and the going was slow, but the weather was pleasant and there was a nice long and steepish descent after the canal peaked about 20 miles out. I was not pushed for time, so adopted a “recovery ride” approach, aiming to minimise the strain on the legs.

In Chalons-sur-Soane, I opted for a curry, which was tasty, but designed for the French palate, salty and mild. The waiter warned me that one of the dips he provided me with was “really hot”; it was really not.

Thursday 01.10.20: Chalons-sur-Saône to Dole

The rain was back as I set off towards Dole. I had been checking the pandemic quarantine rules in Switzerland and Germany, and it was now apparent that crossing the border from France and continuing to Lake Constance, before doubling back to Donaueschingen and Mulhouse would not be possible. I had decided therefore to turn around at some point and, instead of getting a train back to Caen from Mulhouse at the end of my planned trip, to ride back. Dole was to be it, therefore, for me this year for Eurovelo 6. The Rhine and the Danube would have to wait for another year.

The Soane flows South from Chalons into the Rhône at Lyons. I followed it up river to its confluence with The Doubs, then rode between both rivers, before picking it up again, turning east at the start of the Rhône-Rhine canal, which took me back to The Doubs at Dole. It rained steadily all day.

I stayed in a lovely houseboat “Chambres d’Hote”, where the host provided a sumptuous dinner for an extra 20 euros. I only left the boat to collect some cash, so, again, saw little of the town. I figured I would come back to continue my vel’odyssee towards the Black Sea some day, so would get another chance to look around.

Friday 02.10.20: Dole to Beaune.

I am now attempting to head in a more or less straight line back towards Caen. I had intended in my original plans a two night stopover at Besançon, so cancelled that and booked the same in Beaune.

It rained heavily all day as I doubled back about 15 miles along the route from the previous day to St Jean-de-Losne, following the waterways, apart from a short deviation through Damparis – mine certainly was, along with everything else. At St Jean-de-Losne, I crosse the Saone from South to North, then headed WSW to Beaune. There were some further routing issues (thank you Google Maps), but mostly the main problem was the rain, which battered down relentlessly all day and all night and, occasionally the wind. I shall rest here today and try to wash and dry my clothes using the towel rail that is the single source of direct heat in preparation for the journey back to the coast.

I’m now in Briare, about halfway across France and one hop further from Orléans, where I took a day’s rest.

Orléans is the northernmost point of the Loire, about 70 miles due south of Paris.

She wasn’t from Orleans, of course, nor was she from “Arc”, wherever that is, “d’Arc” was her father’s surname. Indeed, she was barely French, growing up in a village that straddled the then border between France and The Holy Roman Empire (Germany, in new money) in Alsace, named Domrémy, pronounced like the first three notes of the musical scale. To cut a long story short, she heard voices at 13 from various holy folk and then embarked on a divinely inspired mission (or psychotically-driven, as we would say these days) to make the young Dauphin, Charles, the next king of France. Our own House of Lancaster had been contesting the succession via Henry V, who was doing pretty well in the latter half of the Hundred Years War, slapping the French around at Agincourt, amongst other places, and he had had himself named as the heir to the throne of France by his father-in-law, Charles VI, before his untimely death at the age of 35 in 1422, leaving behind an infant son, Henry VI. The French King, who had earlier promised him the crown after his death, unsportingly survived him by a mere two months, thereby leaving everything up for grabs between their respective sons.

So, the war continued (for a around hundred years, all told), but the turning point came at Orleans. Orleans strategic position, with its proximity to Paris and its bridge over the Loire, meant that the whole game hinged upon it. The English had besieged it for seven months before Joan appeared on the scene in May 1429 and 9 days later it was all over. After overseeing the crowning of the Charles VII at Reims, she was captured by the Burgundians, handed over to the English, tried as a heretic trial and burned at the stake by in Rouen. Her ashes were scattered in the Seine. The French, however, upped their game after her inspired cameo performance and finally defeated the English in 1453 at Castillon.

All of this could have been avoided, of course, had they discovered chlorpromazine in the 15th century, in which case, everybody in this part of France would now be speaking English.

She was made a saint a hundred years ago after a campaign by a bishop of Orleans and is something of a local and national celebrity.

She is all over Orleans and much of my day off was spent absorbing her story, as there seems to be little else they the town has to brag about. Even the cathedral, which is magnificent, is decorated by a stained-glass windows telling her tale. My favourite was the one where she is burned, which has a legend referring to the “Anglois perfide” – our most endearing and enduring quality, I think.

It took three days to get to Orleans from Nantes, stopping overnight at Angers and Tours, neither of which I can write much about as I arrived, ate, slept and left.

But of course, it’s not about the destinations, is it, it’s the journey, and that has been spectacular – long, tiring, and, at times, stipendously wet, but well worth the effort. On the way I have only once had to deliver the traditional English Yeoman Bowman’s sign to one impatient French motorist, who beeped his horn at me, as I crossed a bridge from North to South of the Loire close to Orleans and slowed to look for a right turning. I also got a few beeps as I crossed a motorway bridge on the opposite side to the cycle path, but as there was a generous hard shoulder, I wasn’t too bothered. I don’t know why they were.

I did manage to leave behind some of the dye from my clothing on a white enamel towel rail in Tours (who knew that could happen?), which delayed my departure as I vainly tried to scrub it off with some soap and a micro fibre cloth, but, otherwise, the stopovers have been relatively uneventful. I ate a high quality burger at Chez Paul in Angers and Argentinian Empanadas. I also found another Irish Bar, but left after a pint as the feed I was watching the footie on (legally) seemed to work out I was in a bar and stopped working.

The Loire a Velo is a surprisingly varied route, constructed of many different types of surface. It mostly follows the river closely, occasionally crossing it, but also sometimes deviating up the valleys either side to the vineyards and villages above. There are lovely long tarmac stretches along dykes, and less fun sandy/gravelly paths, which can be a bit wearing when it has been raining, and occasional rough muddy tracks, and cobbles, they’re my least favourite and appear mercifully only for relatively short stretches.

On the way I have been treated to stunning river views, more architecturally interesting and even beautiful chateaus and eglises than you can shake your i-phone camera at, at least if you don’t want to stopping every half hour, and Leonardo Da Vinci’s last home (at Amboise).

I’ve also rode past several power stations, including a massive nuclear one at Chinon – also linked to Joanie, as it was here that she petitioned Charles the Dolphin and got him to give her the Orleans gig.

Funnily enough, on the ride from Tours to Orleans, immediately as I passed the first directional sign late that afternoon that mentioned Orleans (36km out), OMD’s “Joan of Arc” started to play on my 500 song Spotify trip playlist. Not the Mull of Kintyre sounding “Maid of Orleans”, but the other one. Truth.

I arrived in Orleans late and during check-in managed to break the bolt to the bike lock-up at my hotel. If it were really that flimsy, I thought, then I did them a favour. There was also the small matter of the theft of a handful of grapes from the edge of a vineyard between Angers and Tours, which I may, or may not, have witnessed personally – I don’t know, officer, I might have been looking the other way. The culprit was reported to have said that they tasted delicious. My one-man wave of devastation came back to bit me hard on the backside today (see below). Karma, you know what your are.

I’ve had to spend some time messing with the bike a bit, adjusting the mudguards, cleaning and oiling the drivechain, adjusting the luggage fixings, cleaning the pedals so that the cleats will engage, and at one point adjusting the derailleur to stop the chain coming off the large chain-ring. That noise from the back wheel came back the last few miles into Orleans, with a worryingly metallic timbre, but as it was getting dark and was close to the end of long ride, I did not investigate. It was this noise that led to a chain of events that put the whole trip in jeopardy on the leg to Briare.

I’ve also had a couple of comedy falls, the first caused by the surface, a narrow muddy tractor track, and the second caused by a failure to anticipate a sudden need to climb up a ramp, leaving me unable to alter my gearing and disengage my feet in time, resulting in simply coming to a stop and toping sideways. Both these had soft landings and were of no real consequence, although the second resulted in the back of my shirt becoming covered in plant debris, which I did not notice until I deposited it all over the floor in the hotel room in Tours when I took my jacket off. I don’t think I’m going to be welcome back there in a hurry. Today’s fall was also comedic, although more consequential, at least for the bike.

I ate a great steak on my first night in Orleans then spent the next day wandering the sites – all about Joan – before an early night after a fabulous meal at an Afghani restaurant.

I felt really good as I got myself together to set off this morning, despite the persistent rain. The journey was relatively short and I was away at 9:30. I was looking forward to a straightforward ride and an early arrival at my destination. The river bent south east and there was forecast to be a strong north-westerly at my back. That did materialise, which was very helpful, but other factors slowed me down.

The metallic noise from the rear wheel was apparent early on and so, about four miles in, I decided to pause, take my luggage off, flip the bike over and investigate. I took the back wheel off and cleared some debris from the mudguard. I reloaded the bike and as I was about to set off, noticed that the Garmin device, which I use to guide me on my way and record my trips, had decided to do a full reset in my pocket, erasing all my profiles. On top of that, the noise from the bike was still present and the rain was getting heavier.

In between trying to readjust my device and trying to see what was causing the noise from the bike, looking down to see if I could spot what sounded like it was catching in the spokes, I pottered along slowly, attending to both problems, and occasionally glancing up to see where I was going. Then, BANG, my head went over the handlebars as the bike came to a sudden stop, having smacked into a gatepost attached to a gate across the path. I was not injured (I’ve got a bit of a twinge in my lower left back), but the front forks of the bike were badly distorted, so much so, the that the front wheel was pushed behind the main frame and could only turn to the left. My first thought was, “Could this day get any worse?” (Well, I won’t mention the football result this evening), and my second thought was, “I’m going to have to go home.” Well, after about an hour, on the path with nothing to assist. I managed to force the forks back into some sort of alignment, at least to take the front wheel, minus the mudguard, which I discarded, and was able to get going again.

A young Swiss cycling tourist stopped to ask if he could help (none of the Lycra clad boy-racers passing me had shown any interest). This gentleman had been all over France for the past three moths and was now heading back to Zurich, so the same way I’m heading. I took the opportunity to ask him about Covid restrictions in Switzerland, and he said there was a quarantine requirement from France, but I could always follow the Rhine in Germany. I have since looked and have found that the Germans are also imposing quarantine restrictions in travellers from certain regions in France, including those I am passing through, so it looks like I will be altering my plans.

I got to my digs, an Auberge on the edge of Briare, where there is an aqueduct crossing the Loire, at around 5pm. I showered, watched some football, ate an average meal, then came to my room to finish the first draft of this blog, after the woman running the restaurant/bar rolled her eyes very visibly when I asked for one more drink at 8:50pm. I was not the last customer in the place – there was an old French bloke supplementing his desert with items he pulled from his left nostril. That was enough for me to elect to take my last drink to bed. Have to say, I have had better days.

It is forecast to rain again tomorrow, and the nearest bike repair shop I can see on my route is just a couple of miles short of my destination. So, I will want to be away early to get there in time to ask them to straighten my forks and, perhaps, sort out whatever it is that is making that infernal noise. (My money is on some crap in the rear wheel hub). I’ve got lots of pictures to add

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.

We took our time over Breakfast and packing at the Arthotel Kiebitzberg in Havelberg. The weather was much cooler – overcast, with occasional spots of rain. We began our journey across the former East Germany at a fair old lick, aided by a moderate Southwesterly.

The going was almost entirely flat. The countryside was much the same – flat and dominated by fields of barley and wheat, but the contrast between the villages either side of the Elbe was subtle, but noticeable: less varied, less decorative, more monochrome and uniform in taste.

Just outside Berlin, we were met by an old primary school friend of mine (The Teacher), who now lives in Berlin and is the head of the Berlin British School. He acted as out guide down the main drag towards the Brandenburg Gate from the West. We paused to visit the Commonwealth War Graves Cemetery, which consists almost exclusively of allied airmen and, according to a chap we encountered there, at least one of the men shot during the Great Escape.

Eventually we arrived, after 114 hours of cycling over 1053 miles and up slopes with a total vertical height of 7170m.

After three nights in Berlin with The Baroness, consuming much pork and beer, I am now on a train bound for Amersfoort in The Netherlands, from where I will reacquaint myself with the contours of the Ridgeback’s seat and ride to Rotterdam for the ferry to Hull tomorrow.

I set out on this journey to commemorate those who fought to liberate Europe in 1944-5. It has been my good fortune to have been accompanied a good deal of the way by a distinguished recently retired senior officer, and a formidable expert on the history of the war, particularly the Market-Garden campaign. I have enjoyed travelling across much of Germany, a country I have only ever visited briefly before. Almost exclusively, the Germans I have encountered have been friendly, courteous and helpful. We are truly blessed to be living in such times.

As I reflect on what I have seen, read and learned during this trip, my thoughts are already turning to next year. I intend to return to Germany in the future, and maybe head further East, but for next year, I’m going to give France and the French another chance to delight, frustrate, tire, starve and feed me. I have in my sights the first half of Eurovelo 6: from the Atlantic Coast, up the Loire Valley towards the source of the Danube. Excited already.

Thanks for reading.

It would be flattering to describe Bergen as a “one-horse town” – a three-legged, toothless, blind donkey would be more accurate. Which is surprising, given the size of the military base just outside it. There was one restaurant open, and no bars. The No1 place to dine in Bergen on Tripadviser, “Desperados”, a Mexican Steakhouse, is not open on Mondays, so Pizza del Peppe it was to be. It was okay, like Bergen, nothing to write home about.

Breakfast at The Hotel Dralle was in line with the rest of the town: despite us both being up early, and two of only a handful of guests, there was just one boiled egg left to be had, and a spoonful of rather dry and rubbery scrambled egg. The General courteously declined to forgo an egg, and I took the hard one.

The weather was warm as we left for Luneberg and got warmer throughout the day. Nudging 30, if not more. Lower Saxony passed by pleasantly, if repetitively – field of wheat, then field of barley, some cabbages occasionally, a few dairy cows; no pigs, surprisingly, as this would have completed the German diet: maybe they import them.

After coming down a rough track which was roped over at either end, we sped past the occupants of the houses at the bottom, lest they be offended, and turned onto the road up a sharp incline. The General’s chain came off, but was soon put back on, and we got on our way. With 11.1 miles to go (cricket enthusiasts will appreciate the significance), I stopped to check the route. The General pulled up beside me and I glanced at his chain and, by chance, noticed a half-broken link. We decided to press on carefully, rather than fiddle about with what would have been an amateurish, inept and probably unsuccessful roadside repair. The General rode very carefully in low gear, taking care not to exert too much pressure on the cranks so as not to snap the damaged link. On GoogleMaps we found a bike repair shop in Hacklingen just adjacent to our route and made our way there. Martin, the proprietor, was most helpful and efficient and had the job sorted in no time. Coincidentally, Hacklingen contains the villa where Montgomery made his headquarters and where he received the German Wehrmacht delegation to discuss their surrender. On GoogleMaps behind Martin’s shop one could see a large empty area that looked it might have been they grounds of a villa. Could it be? Well, sadly, no. But Martin was splendid anyway.

We completed our journey to Luneberg, which we found to be a surprisingly large, pretty, bustling, town, with an interesting history. Member of the Hanseatic League and famous for its saltworks. Would we have had more time to explore it. As it was, we found a steak restaurant, which helped make up for the disappointment of missing out on Desperados the night before.

Today was even hotter. A 12-hour+, 90-mile journey to Havelberg made for an early start. A short detour led to the monument close to the site of the German Army’s surrender to Montgomery on 4 May 1945 on the Timeloberg, a shallow-rising hill outside Luneberg. The monument marks the end of the war between our two countries and the beginning of reconciliation, partnership and friendship, and is marked with a ceremony eatery 10 years. The original monument was moved to Sandhurst after being vandalised several times, and the site lies now in a militarised zone and is inaccessible. The present monument was overturned, damaging the inscription, and so when it was righted a new, identical inscription was made on the other side. The original words can just be made out.

As for the rest of the journey, the four or five moderate climbs were early, and tackled by mid-morning. There then followed by a long grind along generally flat straight roads, occasionally passing through a small town or village, with little to see, and few places to replenish oneself, although two large storks nesting on top of a disused telegraph pole in Deutsch caught the eye.

The heat rose into the mid-afternoon and was oppressive and debilitating. Progress towards the end was further slowed by an unpleasant local habit of switching from smooth roads to cobbles in villages further east. One such cobbled monstrosity ran for nearly 3 miles down to the ferry over the Elbe at Rabel, which was my first site of the river, a few miles short of Havelberg.

Last schlepp to Berlin tomorrow.

Osnabruck is an attractive, medieval, walled town, with winding streets and interesting architecture, but we did not get to see too too much of it as we arrived late, ate where we slept in the dramatically entitled “Romantik Valhalla Hotel”, where the service was excellent and the clientele were elderly, rather like us, and from where we departed shortly after breakfast.  At dinner, The General and I had independently decided to wear the commemorative t-shirts we had purchased in Osnabruck, with the 75 year commemorative insignia, which seemed to attract one or two disapproving looks as we sat at the bar, but, hey, wasn’t Germany also liberated from the Nazis by The Allies?

Two moderate climbs out of Osnabruck in the first 8 miles were the worst of the day. Pausing at the top, a passing German cyclist stopped to ask if there was a problem. After being reassured there was not, and after he commented on the many steeper and higher hills there were elsewhere in Germany, he asked me pass on his greetings to the Queen, and headed off down the hill I had just climbed.

The planned route then led down a busy dual carriageway bypass, with no cycle lane. After a quick check of the alternatives on GoogleMaps this was taken at full speed – primarily to get it over with. A few motor vehicles honked their disapproval at this invasion of their road space, and all the way down, I prayed for it to be over, but it was Sunday, there was very little traffic, and eventually safer territory was reached at the bottom, although not without the after effect of trembling legs for a while longer.

The weather was beautiful and the flat countryside and villages of Lower Saxony flew by pleasurably towards the crossing of the Weser at Nienburg.

We then ambled on to our stopover at Steimbke – chosen at short notice in order to break the original plan to ride 100+ miles to Bergen.

We arrived at the hotel to find a party in full swing and a hostess who seemed surprised at our arrival. I offered to show her the booking confirmation on my phone, and she said she did not understand Booking.com and needed to speak with her husband. I asked to see the manager, who was her husband, and who was busy attending to the party, and she disappeared. As I was starting to look for alternatives in the area, she emerged with two key and we were shown where to park our bikes, before being directed to our rather basic, but comfortable enough, rooms on the first floor. The party was an annual festival in these parts, the “Schützenfest”, which explained the marching band dressed in green jackets a few miles back in Borstel. Our hotelier explained that the festival involved a shooting competition, in which the winner becomes the Schützenkönig (“king of marksmen”) until the next year, followed by much eating of sausage and quaffing of beer. The small crowds of swaying and chanting German youths leaving the party at dusk made for a slightly unsettling air as we sat down for supper at a burger restaurant around the corner. Our feeling of unease was increased when we read that Steimbke was the site of a fierce battle between young SS recruits and British forces in April 1945, and when we wandered up to the local church, the gateway to which was dominated by memorial plaques to the German dead between 1939-45, and the grounds contained a sizeable, rather eerie, German war cemetery. The short, grey stone crosses, and the weeds on the graves, were quite a contrast to the well-tended Allied cemeteries we have visited on this trip. As The General was wearing his Army Medical Corps military insignia on his cap and T-Shirt, we decided to head back to the hotel and have an early night.

Today, after a pleasant breakfast, I decided to examine and tune up the bikes. The back wheel of The General’s bike had developed a marked buckle and the poor chap had been grinding it against both of the brake pads every revolution for God knows how many miles. No wonder his thighs had been aching. The only thing for it was to loosen the back brakes. He certainly found it smoother going today.

Once fettled, we were on our way. We continued on the road East with the intention of stopping to visit the site of the Bergen-Belsen Memorial. The barometer has been rising for the past couple of days, and the temperatures today have been in the high-20s – low30s. However, the paths have been well-shaded by trees, and the going has been good. Along one long stretch of the 214 towards Winsen, we passed a motor-home parked off in a side road to our right. It was occupied by a young woman sat alone in the passenger seat, smoking a cigarette. The General, who is more observant of these matters than I, noticed that she was rather scantily clad. Further along, we passed another three such vehicles similarly occupied. Without wishing to be prejudicial, none of these heavily made-up ladies looked like typical campers. The conclusion that we were riding through a small, rural, German red-light district was hard to avoid.

After about 30 miles we arrived at the site of the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp.

Here, I am afraid that I really do run out of words. I could try to write something about “Man’s inhumanity to Man”, or how the site and the exhibition helps one to understand the true horror of Nazi Germany, but there is nothing I can honestly say that will convey any understanding of what I have seen today. One is just left feeling stunned and overwhelmed at the sheer scale of the place, and of suffering inflicted on the people held there by other people. I urge you to see it for yourselves, because I can’t describe it.

The raised areas are massed graves, each containing thousands of unidentifiable bodies, who had been left to rot on the open ground for weeks and months before the British XI Armoured Division liberated the camp. The individual gravestones are symbolic.

 

 

 

 

After a splendid breakfast at The Bilderburg, we rode the short distance to The Market Garden Museum at The Hartenstein in Oosterbeek, West of Arnhem: the headquarters, hospital and, effectively, centre of the shrinking perimeter held for 9 days by the British 1st Airborne Division North of the Neder-Rijn against overwhelming enemy forces, before their retreat to the South bank on 25 September. The museum is exceptionally well-laid out and tells the story of the operation skilfully, faithfully and in impressive detail. The audio-visual displays, comprising news-reel footage of the battles fought in the area, are particularly compelling. One aspect of the story told is the close bond that has remained between the residents of the town and the soldiers who fought there. Each year, in September, there is an annual commemorative ceremony in the cemetery there. I would expect that, as in Normandy, it will be well worth a visit this year for those interested in the fight to liberate Europe in 1944 and 1945.

There was some light rain as we left Oosterbeek and followed the river to Arnhem, and onwards West / Northwest to the border just south of Enschede. The sun broke out around midday and it remained fine and bright for the rest of the trip across Gelderland. What can I say about the journey? It was The Netherlands – Dutch: lots of peaceful, beautiful (flat) countryside, interspersed with small, neat, ordered villages, and populated by forthright, polite people going about their business with little fuss.

We spent the night at a Spa retreat just two miles from the border, where we were too late to eat inside, as the waitress was making up the restaurant for Breakfast, but were amply fed on the terrace outside. Having had beef-burgers on the last two nights, I decided to vary my diet by opting for a chicken burger: which was enormous and probably more calorie-laden than a deep-fried Big Mac. It was delicious. The General had “Chef’s Spare Ribs”, which had so much to spare that they were hanging over the side of his plate. The pile of bones at the end of his repast suggested they too were satisfactory. We retired early, fatigued, but sated.

Today we have journeyed West to Osnabruck. An equally pleasant and benign day, after a bit of early rain, and across pretty, but slightly more undulating countryside. German drivers have, so far, been just as sympathetic and respectful of two ageing, un-svelte, moderately-paced cyclists as the Dutch, although the cycle paths are sometimes only separated from the main carriageway by a white line, and sometimes disappear altogether.

Tomorrow, we have altered our schedule and will be stopping about 35 miles short of Bergen, where we will spend the following night, visiting the concentration camp museum on the way.

We set off in heavy rain from Antwerp and once we had found our way out of the city, we made good progress along the Albert Canal, forking West at Herentals on the Bocholt-Herentals (or Mass-Schelde) Canal. We were slowed momentarily when the route inexplicably took us across to the South side, where the surface was much rougher. We moved back to lovely, smooth tarmac on the other side shortly after.

We stopped at about 1:00pm for a hearty lunch at a very busy canalside restauraunt past halfway. Thereafter the rain eased. For similar surface reasons, we approached “JOE’s Bridge”, North East of Lommel, from the North Side. This was the site of the launch of the British offensive North into The Netherlands on 17 September 1944. The advance was led by the Irish Guards, commanded by Brigadier John Ormsby Evelyn Vandeleur (played by Michael Caine in Attenbrough’s film of the Market-Garden campaign, “A Bridge Too Far”. The original bridge had been destroyed by the Belgian Army in 1940, and the Germans had built a wooden pontoon, which was stormed, taken and held by Welsh and Irish Guards on 10 September 1944, establishing a bridgehead across the canal and a route North towards Eindhoven for XXX Corps.

We crossed the border a few miles further then paused at a British War Cemetery just south of Valkenswaard. Almost all of the soldiers buried here had died in the week between 17 and 24 September 1944.

We travelled North through Eindhoven, where I had expected we would be held up passing through the city during the morning rush-hour. Instead, the route followed well-maintained cycle paths through parkland, and suburbs to the East of the city centre, and most of the commuter cycle traffic was moving briskly South, in the opposite direction, out of the City. On the northern outskirts, we saw a memorial to the American 101st Airborne, who had landed in this area on 17 September 1944.

From there we crossed bridges at Son (over the Wilhelmina Canal), Veghel (The Zuid-Willems Canal), Grave (The Mass), Nijmegen (The Waal), and Arnhem (The Neder-Rijn). The Americans dubbed the long road we passed, “Hell’s Highway” and it was easy to see from the geography how difficult it would have been to send a long column of heavy armour up so far up a raised road through hostile territory, with open country, or woodland either side that was unsuitable for tanks.

Periodically, we would pause to take in the various monuments to the campaign along the way.

Once across John Frost Bridge at Arnhem, we skirted Oosterbeek to the North, through some unexpectedly hilly terrain, and spent the night at The Bilderburg Hotel, the venue of the annual (world governmental?) conference of financiers, industrialists, politicians, and other people of influence – the entrance contains pictures of Kissinger, Rockefeller, and Prins Bernhard, founder members of the Bilderburg Group.

Today, we will be visiting the Market-Garden museum at The Hartenstein before heading towards the Dutch-German border.

618 miles (horizontal); 4823 m (vertical); 65 hrs 23 mins 1s (arse in saddle).

7 days, and 420 miles to Berlin.

It was raining quite hard as I rose early to be first in for breakfast a little after 6:00. I ate well, packed, and left the hotel at about 7:30. There were two gentle climbs to negotiate out of Lille and into Roubaix, where I picked up the Roubaix Canal and left France.

Immediately after crossing into Belgium, the cycle trails improved. I enjoyed a long, but steady day, riding mostly along canals and well-maintained cycle paths to Antwerp. The only mishap was that I was feasted on by midges, and arms and hands today are covered by red lumps that are itching like mad. I made good time, covering the 88 miles to Antwerp in a little over 10 hours.

I had ridden just short of 500 miles and climbed over 4000 metres in the past 7 days, so I was most affronted by the barman who refused to believe that I had cycled from Lille that morning.

After some much needed R+R, we are ready to head to The Netherlands tomorrow, where we will be travelling through Operation Market Garden territory, the next major Allied airborne assault of the Second World War after Overlord.