THE VASTY FIELDS OF FRANCE
Tuesday 28th
On arrival in Dieppe I diverted us into town to get Euros
from an ATM, which gave Ian the opportunity to enjoy the swing bridge in
action, but also confused us about the Avenue Verte route. Still, we found it
in the end, and at Arques-la-Bataille (the Bataille in question being 1944, when they were liberated by "Les Canadiens") joined the marvellous cycle path on an
old railway track bed, which was level, well-surfaced, and wide, and took us
all the way to Forges-les-Eaux, our evening destination, 55km from Dieppe. On
the way we passed a terrific chateau at Mesnieres, but mostly it was just quiet
Normandy countryside, along the valley of the Bethune. We met the young girl
with huge panniers on the way, and learnt that she was heading for
Gournay-en-Bray, which was another 27km further than us, a distance that seemed
ambitious, particularly since she wasn’t going much faster than we were (but
she had to get to Paris sooner than us). Around Dieppe the path was busy with
pedestrians as well as cyclists, but quiet out in the country, just the
occasional family picking blackberries. At Forges-les-Eaux, a rather unglamorous spa town, we found the Logis
Restaurant-Hotel La Paix sooner than we expected, and found a family of British
cyclists also staying there, who were just behind us on the road. We hadn’t spotted them on
the boat, as their bikes had been on a car, which was their support vehicle
(and was waiting for them when we arrived). They were taking an extra day to
get to Paris, and going via Versailles. It turned out that the father was a
runner, and he and Ian had been in the same race at one time. He had, however,
run from London to Paris a few years ago, essentially seven marathons in seven
days, which even Ian agrees is madness.
The bikes were nicely accommodated in a dry barn, with a
door that locked, and we and the monoglot “patron” seemed to understand each
other adequately. The restaurant was what you might call provincial in
appearance, but the food was very sound. I had guinea fowl stuffed with
pistachios, and a meringue glacee. And lots of bread. And a coke. And we shared
a bottle of local cider. There was a church across the garden with a chiming
clock, but I don’t remember hearing it in the night. The thunder, on the other
hand, did wake me.
Wednesday 29th
The weather forecast had always been bad for this day, and it was our longest distance to travel, so I was apprehensive. It was still raining when we got up, but not much. A decent
French breakfast, with the facility to make Earl Grey, so I was happy. When I
went out and checked the weather after breakfast it was barely drizzling, and
felt quite mild, so I packed my jacket in the pannier. Mistake. We bought chocolate and apples in the
square to eat on the way, but by the time we reached the open road it was
tipping with rain and feeling quite cold. We got soaked quite quickly and I thought at that point that it
wasn’t worth putting a jacket on over a wet jersey, but I realised eventually I
was wrong. When we got to Gournay-en-Bray, 27km of rolling countryside further on, I was shivering uncontrollably,
and so adopted jacket, full gloves and waterproof cap (under helmet). It was
grey, cold and miserable, and neither of us could see properly because of water
on our glasses. The route book had been in danger of disintegrating each time
we consulted it; fortunately the signs kept on appearing. At Gournay we met the
family again (having been inexplicably passed twice by their support car on the way) but
then they went off a slightly different way. We got spectacularly lost in Gournay
town centre in the rain, and faffed about grumpily. I had my first scare when,
on a cycle-only path, I didn’t spot a van about to cross it at right angles on
a lane, and then cycled over a chain which was meant to stop that happening.
Anyway, no harm done.
After Gournay-en-Bray, we were in hillier country. St
Germer-de-Fly had a lovely old abbey, with a gorgeous Romanesque apse, and a
Perpendicular chapel tacked on to the end of that, all very picturesque (but it
was still raining). I had to remove a glove to Instagram. We then met the valley of the Epte, which would have been
fine had we stayed in it, but instead we climbed straight out, a long steady
slog, which was the first real hill since England. In pleasant weather it would have been an agreeable challenge, but when you could feel the water pooling in your shoes it was less fun. Still, we managed, and were
rewarded with clearing skies and some long views. We paused in a photogenic village and I was alarmed to find I wasn't getting a picture when I tried to Instagram, but then discovered that it was simply that the lens on the back of the phone was covered in rainwater. One spectacular descent, and
then a drag into Gisors, which starts out unpromisingly (we thought it looked
like a suburb of Plymouth) but turns out to be very charming. It was the border
town between Normandy and France (a thousand years ago), and so has a big castle,
with a very good example of motte and bailey form. Also a beautiful view of the
decorative church of Ss Gervase and Protase, over the rooftops. We walked around the castle bailey and ate our
apples. The rain had stopped.
The next section was largely on ex-railway path, but away
from villages. It all felt quite remote, and the path was full of crud washed
down by the rain. It was there, somewhere near St-Clair-sur-l’Epte, that I had
my puncture. Rear wheel, curses. Fortunately, Ian is quite good at these
things, and I had brought spare tubes, so he simply changed the tube. Obviously
it took a while, though. Blessedly the weather was pleasant by this stage. At
Bray-et-Lu we left the path and took to the very quiet road for the run into
Magny-en-Vexin, which swung along the side of a little valley in lovely late-afternoon sunshine. Again, finding
our B&B turned out to be quite simple; it’s not a big town. Today’s ride
was 100km, and we rode all day. It was about 6pm when we got there.
Our host was very charming, (he'd texted details of how to get in, but I hadn't actually checked my phone) and welcomed us effusively. It was an eighteenth-century townhouse opening onto the pavement and had a little bike rack in
the stairwell. The room was lovely. We had a sofa-bed and a double, but were
too weary to bother with the sofa-bed. Instagrammed myself looking incoherent and Ian totally crashed out on the bed. We had a little walk around the
stunningly attractive and unspoiled town. The church was open, and had an
outstanding stone vaulted roof. We left a prayer for Helen at the shrine of Our
Lady. Our host said there were several places to eat, but on a Wednesday we
could only find one open, but fortunately this was the exceptional O’Billot. I
cannot remember a better meal. Asparagus with jamon serrano and Parmesan; cote
de veau; deconstructed lemon tart with orange sorbet. A bottle of chilled
Cabardes rose. This was not provincial! This was highly sophisticated, and
quite unexpected. Also quite reasonably priced. We walked back through the silent town to the B&B very satisfied. The only drawback to our room
was that you heard lorries rattling over the cobbles every so often.
Thursday 30th
By this stage I had got used to a night full of dreams and
feeling I hadn’t slept soundly, but I seemed rested. My legs were holding up
all right as well. We had exquisite croissants (and marmalade) with Earl Grey
for breakfast (and excellent bread and cheese). We enjoyed totally empty country roads for the first few km back
onto the Avenue Verte at the amusingly named Wy-dit-Joli-Village (actually one of the less jolie villages we had passed through), but it was
there that Ian got a puncture (front wheel). He had brought one spare tube, and
changed it out. Other cyclists whooshed past, unselfconscious in full team
lycra. With that it took us a couple of hours to do the 23km to Cergy, although
there was a stiff climb on the way. Cergy is at the end of the suburban rail
network, sitting in a relationship to Paris like Watford to London, so we felt
pleased to have got there. After that, though, it became rather
soul-destroying, as we passed a sign saying 30km to the centre of Paris, cycled
for an hour and came upon another sign that said 30km to the centre of Paris (a
few miles further on we found one that said 31km to Paris, but by this time we
were past caring). In fact, it was further by the Avenue Verte, about another
57km in fact (from that first sign in Cergy).
We then added to that by making a massive error and wasting an hour’s
riding. The route requires you to cross the Seine five times (as well as the
Oise once, just before the confluence at Conflans) and we miscounted, and so
got very confused.
We met our first huddled migrants at Conflans, and then a traveller
encampment right on the route heading for St-Germain-en-Laye. Crossing the dark
forest of St Germain on deserted forest tracks we felt very isolated, but when we came out onto a road
there was a working girl, how very French! From St Germain the route took us
through Maisons-Laffitte (saw no racehorses) and then round a great meander of
the river. We cut off another meander by a shortcut instructed by the book (but
not signposted) through Nanterre and Puteaux (twinned with Hackney!) it was
there, coming over a hill, that we first caught sight of the Eiffel Tower and
actually believed we would get there. Then it was along the river again, across
again, and through the Bois de Boulogne to the Port de la Muette, and then down
a cycle lane in the middle of Avenue Henri Martin and Avenue Georges Mandel to
the Trocadero, where we entered traffic. It was on the approach to the Pont
d’Iena, which actually leads to the Eiffel Tower, that Ian led me through an
amber light, causing me to curse loudly and work harder than I had intended at
that moment.
So, photos at the Eiffel Tower (and chocolate). Then back on
the bikes to cycle to our hotel beside the Gare St-Lazare, taking in a hundred
yards of the Champs-Elysees, just so I can say I’ve done it. The hotel
receptionist was duly impressed (actually he looked rather surprised) and put
the bikes in a stairwell (I nearly lost my bottles at this point, taking them
off and putting them down, but he collected them up and they were waiting for
me behind the desk). The Hotel Opera Deauville was a bit tatty, but did the job
supremely well. Reception, friendly. Beds, comfortable. Shower, hot.
Restaurant, across the road. Station, across the road. What more do you
need? We collected tickets from the
station and quietly consumed boeuf bourguignon and Pelforth beer. We didn’t
have the energy to celebrate wildly, and we needed to have our wits about us
for the return journey in the morning. In any case, I was a bit weepy, and had
been for much of the day, thinking of Helen, for whom we were doing all this,
and who would have been enchanted by the idea of riding into Paris, like the
Tour de France peloton.
Friday 31st
The journey home all went to (Ian's) plan. 9am train from Gare
St-Lazare. Change at Rouen (carry bikes over stairs). Cycle from Dieppe station
to 12.45 ferry. Another flat crossing, but on a boat full of families. Lunch on ferry
(dodgy curry, eaten with enthusiasm). Slow exit from Newhaven port, alongside the grizzled old gent on the Galaxy, who turned out to live in Brighton and longed to get his wife to cycle in France with him. Train from Newhaven, change
at Lewes (more stairs). Cycle home from Victoria, arriving back about 7pm.
Ravenously hungry, and liable to fall asleep at any moment, but otherwise
unharmed!
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