SteveCycles

Hi, Day 4. It didn’t quite go as planned.

I was awoken by the noise of rain hammering on the Velux window in my room. My heart sank. The winds were already up and raging too. I stood up and immediately my knee started where it had left off yesterday. After breakfast I waited an hour as the Beeb weather app had set the rain was soon to stop. I wheeled out of the B&B at shortly after 9 to wet roads, no rain but high bloody winds for the 4th day on the trot. It started with a good climb out of the town and once out into open countryside (it is very open in these parts!) the wind was howling once again but thankfully was now from the West. This was a bonus as it was now coming directly across me. I just had to be careful not to be blown into the path of passing traffic. The next 15 – 20 miles or so were on a dead straight D946 through undulating countryside and it was literally a case of pedal up a hill, freewheel down the other side. Pedal up, freewheel down. Repeat for the next hour and a half. Eventually I rolled down into the town of Marle in Hauts de France and in some discomfort. Crossing the railway line and river, then, yet another climb up and out of the town (Normally, if you descend to a town with a river, you’ve got to ascend on the other side – they do it this way in Devon too!). By the time I’d hoiked myself and my bike up, my knee wasn’t in the best of shape and it was a struggle to put any downforce through the left pedal. I left the main road and turned west for a short while into the wind. With the knee problem, I could bearly make progress. I eventually limped the bike into the village of Autremencourt just as the rains returned. Seeking cover in one of France’s fine bus shelters, I took out the camping stove and made a brew. It was decision time. Do I carry on? Can I carry on? I resolved to dose up on Ibuprofen and continue forward some 20+ miles to the town of Laon and see how things were from there. An hour later, dosed up, I packed up my pannier and wheeled away. The route immediately took me west out of the village. The pain was so intense on pedalling, I immediately turned tail and headed back to the bus shelter. It was hopeless. All these months of planning. researching routes, accommodation, equipment. All the sponsorship I’d received. Here I was on day 4 only! Stuck with a shagged knee 3 miles from the nearest town. I had no option but to walk the bike back to Marle, the last town I had passed. I then had to work out how to get home. I phoned my Boss who is from Lille to sought some advice (and a little comfort and reassurance if I’m honest). He very kindly offered to contact his family to meet me if I could get a train back to Lille. They would even put me up for the night if necessary and hang on to my bike there so I could get home easier. I managed to get a train with the bike to Laon and a quick check on google meant I was less than 2 hours from Paris where I could get a Eurostar home. Time was getting on though and I envisaged getting to London and missing the last train to Devon. I also didn’t relish having to keep loading/unloading the bike from train to train and taking off/refitting panniers.

Eventually, whilst at Laon station, I researched a 1-way car hire to Roscoff in Brittany and then a simple ferry crossing to Plymouth. This seemed to be the best option. The bike would be safely deposited in the car and it was just a case of a 700km drive across France to Roscoff for an afternoon ferry the next day.

I left Laon at about 1530 and the car’s GPS navigated me straight towards Paris. Paris on the peripherique (it’s M25) at 530pm on a Friday evening isn’t for the faint-hearted I can tell you . Mind you, I did see some sights –  Eiffel Tower in the distance, the Sacre-Coeur, Mont-Martre, oh and 2 Parisian tramps fighting on the hard shoulder – there’s always something to see in this country!

I made it as far as the town of Dreux and after consulting Booking.com, I found a motel for 40 euros. It looked quite pleasant on the webpage. Brightly lit, nice bar and restaurant. welcoming reception area. On arrival however (I should’ve twigged as this place was at the back end of a scruffy trading estate), it couldn’t have been further from the truth. I think the pictures must’ve been taken when the place was within its prime and not within an industrial area. The restaurant and bar were long closed down and bricked up. I was greeted by a dour french/indian gentleman whose white t-shirt looked like one of those ones you’d long discarded but your mum kept under the sink for taking the polish of your shoes with. A ashtray brimming with dog-ends lay on the counter with a smouldering cigarette resting on top slowly burning those filter tips underneath. The place was stinking. Exhausted,  I reluctantly paid my 40 euros and was presented with a key.  “Dix-Sept!” he barked (17 to non-frenchies). He then pointed to the stairs and barked his second and final instruction of the evening ‘a la gauche!’ (to the left). My immediate remark to myself was ‘Hmmm I wouldn’t recommend the charm school you attended!’

Anyway, into the room! Hmmmm well, it was about 8ft square with twin beds and a table (no chair) that measured about 18 inches by 10. High on the wall in one corner and quadrupling the value of everything within the room was a flat screen telly although the remote was long gone – I’m amazed the TV was still there! The bedding on one bed didn’t look too bad but a quick look at the other one was a different story. I dared to pull back the bottom sheet and look at the mattress. It looked straight out of a field hospital in the crimean war. What was on there was anybody’s guess. It’d keep a forensics lab busy for weeks!

I was at the stage now where the ridiculousness of the situation hit me. Eight hours ago, I was cycling through the french countryside. Now here I am in some sort of ‘$10 Bates Motel’, tired, sore and with a long drive in the morning. I laughed out loud to myself, said F-word a few times to emphasise certain phrases and duly fell into the cleaner of the 2 beds and tried to get some sleep.

An hour later, I was awoken by the noise of someone shouting at the top of their lungs. There was only one voice. Now, he was either mad and addressing himself, speaking to a individual who is dumb, or on the telephone. I’d like to think it was the latter. He was clearly annoyed and in a state of disagreement with the other participant of the conversation. He continued speaking loudly and then moved out into the hallway. Then, from where I can’t be sure, a second voice joined the proceedings. Whether the poor sod on the end of the phone was still part of it, I don’t know. The two voices were now at full tilt arguing in the hallway before, yep – a third voice appeared. 3 french men (I’m assuming they were men. You can never tell these days!), bellowing at each other in the hallway of a hotel at 1130 at night. Then, it got a tad physical as the noise of body-body contact could clearly be heard and then the paper thin walls began to shake as bodies and arms impacted into it. I’ll freely admit I was scared. It was the sort of place where the sound of a gunshot wouldn’t be out of place. I waited for the furor to die down and quickly packed my panniers and got out. At reception, Monsieur ‘White’ T-Shirt had finished his shift and had been replaced with what could’ve been his brother. Similar looking but with a slightly cleaner shirt! I made up some rubbish about catching an earlier ferry and left whilst congratulating him on what a delightful establishment he’s running here!

Leaving Dreux, I phoned my wife to let her know I’d made it out of ‘Le Bronx’ and was back on the road. I was going to try and find another hotel but was so tired I was just as content sleeping in the car. After about 40 miles, I found a lay by and managed a couple of hours’ sleep. The drive across to Brittany was arduous. I didn’t know the route at all and not trusting my judgement, I left it to the car to guide me. Between Dreux and St.Malo, I didn’t see one dual carriageway. I thought the N12 was going to be the obvious route but it was closed and I was quickly diverted well away from it.

Roscoff couldn’t have come soon enough and I was so so glad to get onto the ferry, get the right side of a pint of John Smiths and retire to a cabin to sleep. What a 24 hours it had been. Not the way I’d planned it that’s for sure but so, so bloody glad to get home!

Although, this trip was cut short due to injury. Plans are already afoot to return to finish what I’d started. I’m looking to return in April 2019 to finish the job. Whether I’ll start where I left off or do the whole lot again, I’m not sure. Gutted that I didn’t complete the ride but this experience has made me more than determined to nail it next year. Many thanks to everybody who has sent such kind messages of support and of course to those that have donated to the Brain Tumour Charity.

Cheers

Steve

I awoke to bright sunshine this morning and a brief glance outside at the nearby trees promised that the winds had finally dropped. Breakfast was the typical french thing of croissants, fresh bread and homemade jam etc etc. Just the ticket! Today was to be a shorter day of 58 or so miles so a bit of an easy one after the last three.

I’d managed to fix the GPS last night after my dear daughter had emailed me the route files. The thing was working perfectly now. Why it had occurred yesterday, I don’t know. Hopefully, that would be an end to it playing up.

10 or so minutes after wheeling out of the town and into open countryside, the wind soon made its return. South/South-westerlies once again and almost as strong. My route today was going to take me south-east(ish) but then turning south later on. After about 15 miles or so, I was ready for a cuppa but also keen to get off the bike for a few minutes as I was getting pain in my knee (not a good sign as a cyclist!). I’d had a few twinges in the days leading up to leaving London but dismissed them as nothing. After a cuppa and malt-loaf fix, I carried on and the pain had susbsided. The temperature was certainly starting to warm up as I ventured further south and I stopped to stock up on water (more bloody weight to carry!). Again this area of France was blessed with great cycle lanes keeping traffic well away from you. These were also shared with pedestrians. I was stopped at one point by a french dog-walker (I’ve never seen anyone walking a dog in France before – they’re either running free near where they live and try to bite your shoes or are confined to their gardens barking as you pass to the point of near exhaustion!). This chap  waved, shouted at me to stop and then struck up a conversation. He was obviously a past-finalist in the French Speed-Speaking National Championships and was averaging around 250 words per minute. I didn’t catch one of them! He could’ve been saying anything – he probably was. “Lentement Monsieur s’il vous plait” (slowly please),I protested. I attempted to explain in my best pigeon french what the ride was all about whilst he cast me a stare that told me he hadn’t a clue what I was going on about. In his response (and he’d clearly forgotten my request to speak slowly) he was back up to 250 words per minute. I also couldn’t help but notice that his eyes blinked at the same speed as his jaw, almost like those disco lights you buy that flash in time to the beat of the music. It was most fascinating to watch. He also started pointing in both directions – at what, I haven’t a clue. I simply nodded and interjected the odd “oui” when I thought it appropriate. Eventually and as we had exhausted our vocabularies, there the conversation ended. I did hear a ‘Bon Courage’ though right at the end which sounded more like ‘BoCrage’  The phrase taking a whole microsecond to complete. What he hadn’t notice whilst all this was going on that his spaniel was feasting on a dead rabbit with a Michelin tread pattern across it’s hind quarters. Now my french does extend to “Monsieur, your dog is eating a dead rabbit” but the dog was having such a good time, I just didn’t have the heart. The dog on the other hand, had the heart, the liver and probably the kidneys!

Time was getting on and after being navigated through a woodland path, I was eager to find somewhere for lunch before the whole of france shut down for the afternoon (as was the case in every village I had passed through so far). I eventually stumbled up on a ‘Fritterie’  – french style fast food type place. Not the Macdonalds/Burger King rubbish but a small privately owned business serving the usual pro-obesity type foods. I mentioned I was hungry and ordered a Galette Anglaise (Turned out to be an egg, bacon and tomato wrap! – Delicious!) and what looked to be enough chips to feed a family of 6. It was immense and although I was 30 miles in, I really couldn’t do it justice.

Another observation I made was the road markings denoting a cycle path – cycling must be very popular with the cast from Close Encounters of the Third Kind in these parts (See below!)

Note the baguette in the top of the shot. Fallen out of someone’s basket no doubt. You’d think they’d have noticed!

The afternoon part of the route, guided me south which, like yesterday turned me into the wind and it strengthened as the afternoon progressed. As the wind increased, so too did this damned knee pain. I made it to Le Cateau-Cambrésis where I stopped at a Pharmacy for some advice. The lady who served wore an immaculate, pressed white coat and was probably in her late 50s. She walked out from behind the counter to examine to defective knee (or ‘genou’ as it is called here). To onlookers entering the shop, it could not have looked any worse. Here we had a chap in his late 40s, clad in lycra shorts, whilst a middle-aged woman in a white coat was crouched in front on her knees. She then whipped out a tape measure just as someone walked in. I turned my head to look and got the most alarmed look from an old pensioner. Anyway, after measuring my knee, Madame disappeared for 30 seconds and returned with an elasticated sports bandage. I thought she would just hand me the box, take my money and I’d say my Au Revoirs. No, she insisted on stooping down once again to fit said bandage. Now these support devices, they’re not supposed to be loose and can be a bit of a chore to fit (especially on someone else). However she did her best and managed to get it 99% in position.  The final 1% though was her undoing as she pulled this bandage in an upward direction, grasping it with only her fingertips. As quick as a flash, her fingers lost their grip and her knuckle shot in an upward direction to catch me clean in the parts that should never be hit by anything travelling at high-velocity Even through the padding of the cycling shorts, it still smarted a bit and my eyes did water. Embarrassed, Madame repeatedly cried “Pardon”. All I could muster was a quiet , yet strained “It’s OK!”. So, there I was in a small French town with a knackered knee and I end up getting punched in the nuts by a pharmacist! Now that’s not something that happens every day!

The bandage did help. It got me to the end of the day but the pain was a worry. I made it to Guise over undulating road against this wind. Hopefully a rest tonight would do the trick and things will be improved on the morrow.

Thanks for reading. Bye for now .

 

Hi, Day 2 started in Folkestone, Kent. I pedaled away under overcast skies with great optimism as the winds from the previous day had subsided. It was actually like being back in Devon as immediately I was faced with a 500ft climb out of the town. I was warned about Dover Hill being steep and they were not wrong.  I actually walked the bike up the last bit. I could see little point in exterting myself unnecessarily as there was a long way to go today (10 miles to the ferry and a further 77 on the French side!).

At the summit of Dover Hill stands the pub, The Valiant Sailor and I can only think it was named after some old seadog who used this drinking house as his local but lived at the bottom of the hill. You’d have to be bloody valiant to make that trek every day- although, it would make you build up a thirst!

The remainder of the trip on the English side was a quick downhill all the way to Dover. I arrived on the seafront to a glorious sunrise, a calm sea state and a feeling that today was going to be a good day! This optimism was maintained with a thoroughly painless check-in process and being a two wheeled customer, I got priority boarding along with other cyclists and motorcyclists. I’d also payed an extra supplement (£12) to access the ‘executive lounge’ onboard which enabled some decent seating, unlimited pastries and hot drinks.

Crossing the channel gave me a little down-time and enabled me to write up yesterday’s blog on the trip through Kent and time passed quickly. Soon enough I was back below decks amongst umpteen lorries waiting to be spewed out into France and the lack of passport control meant it was a very speedy exit from the vast Dunkerque port. Speedy that is, even though the winds had resumed – that part of the French coast being so flat and open, it offers no shelter from winds of any bearing. Cyclists are again well catered for straight off the boat with dedicated cycle lanes to keep the 38 ton ‘artics’ away from your wheels.

About half a mile out of the port, I then realised that my Garmin GPS wasn’t on. I could’ve sworn I’d switched it on whilst waiting to disembark. The screen was blank so I switched it on again and it booted up to a unusual screen and then locked. You could get no response from anything. I powered it back down and up again but still it was the same. I took the memory card out (a micro sd card) and switched it on but still no good. I then dropped the damned memory card in the grass verge and had to find it again. Things were fast turning bad. I then googled about resetting the Garmin and without thinking, I did a hardware reset which, whilst restoring its full functionality, I had inadvertently wiped all of my routes for passage across France! All that work in the planning stage now gone. I had them backed up at home obviously on a hard drive but that was no good me on a hard shoulder in Dunkerque. Then I had a bit of a thought – On my webpage, I’d posted google map links to the routes each day. If I could retrieve the link for that day I could use the phone. However, I couldn’t hold the phone and refer to the map all day whilst cycling one-handed for 70+ miles. So, I just plugged in the headphones and listened to the Google instructions guiding me step by step. The software Google uses obviously reads the street names phonetically as written as some of the pronunciations of the French roads were hilariously bad. Anyway, it worked and got me to the destination.

This was my first visit to the Eastern side of the country and I was eager to see it as from what I had read and seen online, it looked very different to other areas I had been. The route was also going to take me into Belgium for a few miles also which again was new for me. The parts of Dunkerque I saw were very industrial. I have to say that the place was an array of different smells as I passed through its outskirts. Food processing, I’ve found out is a bit of thing there and also chemical industries and oil refining. I’m sure there are some nice parts to be seen in France’s third-largest port but my route afforded me nothing remarkable.

Soon enough, Google had guided me south/south-east and the next town I stumbled upon was Bergues. This was once a big trading port as the English Channel covering the lands to its north had not yet subsided or yet to be reclaimed. Its a pretty place and worth a further visit I think. The architecture is typically flemish with the belfry dominating the town. This place was the setting for the french box-office smash ‘Bienvenue chez la Ch’tis’ or ‘Welcome to the Sticks’. Bergues has had its share of bad luck as like most towns in this part of France, it was  ‘in the thick of it’ with respect to both world wars – On June 2nd 1940, 80% was destroyed by bombardment – You’d not think so looking at the place. In England, it seemed to be the common assumption that anything blitzed in the early forties would be replaced with concrete. Not here! The town looks to have been restored to its former state. The previously mentioned belfry whilst being the city’s most celebrated attraction was  actually started in the 13th century, rebuilt after the French invasion in 1383, again in the 16th century, again during the 19th century, wrecked by fire in 1940 and destroyed by dynamiting in 1944, it was again rebuilt in 1961. Tenacious folk these Frenchies.

Onward then and across the border into Belgium along beautifully lain cyclepaths keeping traffic well away from you. These belgians seem to have got it right when looking after us two-wheeled travellers and all through the villages, provision for the cyclist was made and well signed.

Ypres was a place I’d been looking forward to seeing due to its history – namely the First World War. The city took several hits during 1914 to 1918……..

The first battle that occurred here between the Allied and German troops started on 19th October 1914 and lasted a little under a month when the allies managed to capture the town from the occupying Germans. It was here also that the first use of chlorine gas was used on 22nd April at the town’s second major battle which again lasted around a month. Both Canadian and British troops were on the receiving end of these chlorine attacks as well as Senagalese and Algerian infantrymen (French-africans).

The third (and probably, the most famous) was also known as the Battle of Passchendaele. This bloody conflict raged from the end of July until November 6th 1917 and saw the first use of mustard gas. This became known as Yperite by the allied troops. named after the city. During this battle the allies captured the famous Passchendaele ridge to the east but at an astronomical loss of life. During these 5 months of fighting, over half a million perished for the sake of a few miles of ground. Incredible to think about as it was only 100 years ago.

In 1927, the Menin Gate was unveiled. A beautiful gateway that stands on the Eastern road out of the town. Troops would have marched through this spot en-route to battle  – many of which never to return. Within the gate are the names of every allied soldier that never returned home yet has no known grave. To stand there and see such a list of names is somewhat sobering and really brings home the scale of this conflict. Every evening at 8pm, the road is closed to traffic and a bugler from the local fire service plays the Last Post. This tradition has been religiously practiced since 1928 with the exception of the Second World War where the occupying Nazis forbade it. However, it was resumed immediately on 6th September 1944 – the day the City was liberated by the Allies.

Leaving Ypres, I headed for Lille on the N336 and soon arrived at Bedford House Cemetery. I wanted to visit this once I’d realised it was on my intended route. This is just one of the numerous war grave cemeteries dotted around this area of Belgium and France. Out in the middle of nowhere beside the road was this immaculately kept burial ground. Here, arranged in neat rows, were the headstones of those that fell during conflict. Many stones carried no name – just ‘A Soldier of the Great War’ inscribed on each headstone.

There was an almost eerie air of peacefulness about the place. All that was heard was the wind in the nearby trees. All of the lawns were beautifully manicured, each headstone immaculately clean with fresh floral tributes planted at each grave. An atmosphere of peace, and order. An almost serene calm. A striking and stark contrast to the loss of life, bloodshed and bloody mayhem that occurred here a century previously. Again, a very sobering and moving experience. Such an incredible loss of life. This cemetery alone, held over 5000 innocent souls. The majority of which were even yet to reach their prime.

Time was pushing on now and it had been a long day so I wheeled onward to Lille against a semi cross/headwind. Lille was reached during rush hour and it seems they are very good at traffic lights in this city. Again, excellent cyclist provision was made throughout my route through the city with only an abundance of red traffic lights to hinder any swift progress. Like London, Lille also has its own members of the cycling fraternity that are either colour-blind or are hell-bent on running red lights on a regular basis. I would love to have spent more time here but I was getting tired and needing to get off this bike. I cycled along Boulevard de la Liberté passing some wonderful buildings at the Place de la République. I’ll definitely be back for a further look!

The remaining few miles to Cysoing, my bed for the night were pretty uneventful with the exception of misunderstanding a couple of directions and which resulted in ending up in a farmer’s field face-to-face with some puzzled-looking livestock.

All in all a bit of a mixed bag. Hopefully I can get the GPS problem resolved tonight ready for tomorrow’s ride down to the town of Guise.

Many thanks to all of those who have donated and shown messages of support etc.

Bonne nuit.

 

Day 1…….bit of a shock to the old legs. Kent wasn’t as forgiving as first thought. The day started with a bit of a logistical nightmare as I needed to get myself, bike and luggage down two flights of stairs at 530 in the morning in the dark. I couldn’t find any light switches and soon the early morning darkness was filled with profanities as I tripped here, banged my knee there, dropped my wallet etc etc etc.

Marble Arch is very impressive by day but when lit up during the darker hours, I think it looks even better. At 545 there were still people milling about around the monument. After a quick selfie (actually numerous attempts at a selfie until I got one where I didn’t look a complete burk) I wheeled off down through Hyde Park. Still dark but busy with early morning commuters.

Buck house was first and following a quick pic, my Garmin satnav decided to stop working – it’s amazing how much we’ve come to rely on technology. It’s also amazing how a few swear words actually improve a situation such as this and after a few minutes I was back on track heading for the Vauxhall bridge following one of London’s cycling superhighways (sounds impressive – they’ve just added a few kerbs here and there to segregate the cyclists from motor vehicles. A good idea as there is, in England a certain section of society that won’t think twice about passing a cyclist with inches to spare in a 2 ton lump of metal. However, I also experienced yesterday that the London cycling fraternity also has a similar thing going on. Now the risk from cars has diminished only to be replaced by complete arses on bikes who will cut you up as soon as look at you! Ok rant over!

This ride out of central London was a first for me and the provision of cycle-friendly lanes is excellent and far better than expected. Soon enough I had crossed into Kent following either the A20 or M20. Traffic going into London on this road is immense and it always begs the question, where does everybody park when they get there?

After crossing the River Medway, there was a steady climb on a recognised cycle route that was nothing but a poorly put-down bridle way. The surface was very loose, large stones and almost impossible to pedal on. I ended up pushing the bike most of the way until I reached to top at Bluebell Hill village. I’d also run out of water so I spied an old chap in his front garden who was just saying goodbye to a visitor. I politely asked if he would mind refilling my water bottles and his reply left me speechless. “I’m on a water meter! That’ll cost me!” I said ok and put my bottles back on my bike. The visitor obviously said something to him like ‘Don’t be so bloody mean!’ And as I was about to pedal off he had a change of heart and barked at me to give me the bottles. I replied with a curt “I don’t want your charity! I’ll try your neighbour”. The neighbour was a very sweet lady who filled the bottles in an instant and I mentioned my encounter with the chap next door and what he had said. Her reply was equally as shocking….in a classic Kentish accent, “eees a vile bostard that one! We doan even ave meters ere. Bladdy water bald won’t fittem!” She went on to give me other examples of his behaviour and personality before I took my leave and carried on. Why are people this way? Are they born like it or does it take practice? If it’s the latter then this chap has had buckets of practice or us just a natural!

Any cyclists considering a jaunt through Kent, read the following paragraph and take heed. I plotted the majority of the route on Google mapping and keen to get away from traffic I plumped for the signed cycle route known locally as the Pilgrims Way. Well all I can say is that these pilgrims must have had some pretty sturdy cycling hardware with thick chunky tyres and good suspension. For the touring cyclist, it’s not to be recommended. In parts, the surface is potholed – actually it’s more like landmine scars, filled with loose stones and almost impossible to navigate on a loaded touring bike. You take your life in your hands on the downhill bits and your bike in your hands whilst pushing the bloody thing on the uphill bits. Eventually I gave up and resorted to the A20 which, was surprisingly quiet. Lunch was taken in the pretty village of Charing at the Mulberry tea rooms. I got talking to the owner and ended up leaving with two huge complementary slabs of cake – coffee & walnut and lemon drizzle. Result!

One of the Pilgrims. Knackered from biking thru Kent. He’s been here for years and can’t face going any further. His bike has long since been stolen!

The remainder of the day passed without incident. 77 tough miles on legs that aren’t in optimum condition. I’m hoping it was the toughest day of the ride. Looking forward to the flatlands of northern France on the morrow.

Many thanks to everyone that has donated and for the messages of support.

Bye for now.