The End of Bart

If you want to read this story from the beginning start with the entry for July 23rd/24th

I awoke bright and early to find myself the object of attention for about fifteen Charleroi bullocks. Fortunately there was about five metres and a fence between us, otherwise they would probably have licked me awake. It was as well that I was the one sleeping outside; Bart is afraid of all non-feline quadrupeds and would have jumped out of his skin if he had been the one laying in the grass all night. His aversion is both amusing and sad. He likes animals, especially dogs, but is frightened of about 70% of all dogs that he meets and anything that barks will have him running for cover i.e. behind me or any other large object.

Although a little cold at times I had slept a good five hours and Bart had been comforted by my night noises – at a suitable distance – they meant that I wasn’t dead according to the esteemed young man, I just think that he is a coward. He produced tea and sandwiches to go with my blood pressure pills – the best breakfast so far. All packed and ready for the off by 7.30 – this is what I had planned as a normal morning start for such a cycling trip. Planned? Aspired to, possibly, but detailed planning is not a concept I am familiar with on holiday. Just before we set off, Bart told me that he thought that he had been here (i.e. there) before. This was rather a surprise that he could possibly have kipped in a specific barn in the middle of nowhere in Normandy before. He assured me that it was typical of a CP camping trip. CP (more commonly known in the older generation as “Joe”) is Bart’s father. He is a typical Yorkshireman – wants value for money but is extremely generous.

It was cloudy (this was to become a regular event) but I knew that we had gone south out of Buchy so we continued in the same direction. This was fine; the most notable event of the first half hour was the number of deserted caravans in fields, perhaps we had chosen too hastily the night before. It, being Sunday, there was no-one about and we kept going in a direction, the only slight problem was which direction. We would consult each other at most junctions to guess which way was south or east or, at least, not north or west. There are not so many road junctions in France, several kilometres between each. In fact this became increasingly obvious; France is a big country. The USA & China are a lot bigger with some States/Provinces bigger than France with twenty or thirty miles/kilometres between road junctions but for us little Englanders it is big. The population of France is about 20% bigger than the population of England (not the UK) but is close to four times the area of England. There is no town every ten or fifteen kilometres, just lot of villages with nothing in them except a few houses - hamlets really.

So you amble along, noticing that there are signs saying children crossing outside individual farmhouses and villages with speed bump warnings but no speed bumps – clever or what? Drivers slow down expecting the speed bumps but the village has saved the cost and inconvenience of actually building them.

We get on to a scenic route with a special notice for cyclists. If you are not familiar with France they have water towers, lots of them. These are perfectly rational ways of collecting water with a tall tower at the top of the hill to provide water pressure. The top of the tower is spread out in a large circle to collect water from several times the area of the tower. This collection area is only 20 or 30 square metres but the towers are fifteen metres tall so there is enough water for the village below at all seasons. Note that they are at the top of a hill so when you see one on the other side of the valley you are not necessarily keen on passing it. Well I am not, I like gentle ups and downs, Bart thinks that steep climbs are fun. There lies a slight difference. His job involves lots of cycling and he thinks little of doing a hundred mile cycle ride in a day. My job involves sitting around answering phones and talking shite. I have never cycled ten miles two days in a row before in my life. And this is the third day of God knows how many kilometres.

Did I digress? Yes, we cross the valley and, yes, the scenic cycle route is up the hill to the water tower and, yes, I got off and walked for the second time. Do you think that I had any compunction in abandoning the aforementioned not-scenic and cycling routes? At 8.30 in the morning?

One of the things that had become more apparent as we went along was that the flat runs were at the top of the hills. I do not know, but I began to assume, that this was like the English drove roads. Until drainage was introduced in the valleys (in England) largely by the monasteries in later Medieval times all the lowlands were boggy and no good for moving animals about, so most roads were on the hilltops e.g along the West side of the Yorkshire Moors or The Ridgeway in the Chilterns. If you are out walking on the Downs, The Cotswolds or, even, The Lakes and wonder why you are on a bridle path on top of a hill, now you know why.

I was happy passing water towers with minor ups and downs for a while when we came to a junction with the “D1”. Bart recognised this as a road out of Dieppe that lead straight to Paris so we followed it for a few kilometres. (It was only later that I realised that the “D” stood for Departement i.e. State, Province or even County, depending on your country, and that D1 in one Departement could mean something different in another part of the country – it did explain the repletion of low “D” numbers in my travels).

This changed when we hit the Rouen-Beauvais road. As Bart knew that Beauvais was north of Paris we headed that way. Why? Because Bart had established that the first of two young women that he intended to visit in Paris was, at the time, in Massachusetts. Bart lived near Paris for a year in 2005 and decided that he wanted to visit these two young ladies as part of the trip, or, to put it another way, they were the reason for his trip . He just hadn’t bothered telling them. So when he found out that the first one was missing he decided to do a day more with me. I don’t like Paris so we were going round the North side to avoid it.
However, we did not want to go to Beauvais so, having stopped for a cup of coffee and established that it was 26 km to Beauvais we left the biggish D road that we were on seeking a more southerly route but staying well north of Paris. We could have got to Beauvais in an hour and a half maximum on the main road but it was too busy. So we got to Beauvais in three and a half hours.

This was because it was Sunday. Most of France is closed on a Sunday so we had decided that a town that sounded a reasonable size would have somewhere to get lunch. We deduce size by the distance away that a place is marked on the road signs – if it is 20 kms, it must be important. We had seen signs for Auneuil for more than twenty kilometres so it should be fine, right? Wrong. The only place open was a PMU. PMU’s are a bit like Spoons with betting and French beer and NO food. In fact not much like Spoons at all except the clientele. We stopped for a beer and they told us the nearest place for food was Beauvais! We flew into Beauvais at maximum speed conscious that most restaurants and cafes stop serving food at 2. This is utterly barmy. We were west of the Greenwich Meridian and it is summertime, Western European Time, so we were at GMT + 2, in other words lunchtime is officially over before noon sun time!

Although most of Spain is further West than most of France they are somewhat more sensible. Lunch does not start until 1.30 p.m. and goes on for two hours so it finishes around 1 to 1.30 sun time, so at least some of the heat of the day is avoided. Not so in France.

I do wander off the subject don’t I? We arrive in Beauvais just after two so what can we get to eat? Takeaway pizza, just what we came to France for. We had cycled for nearly six hours and we (well Bart) was starving so takeaway Pizza it is. I don’t seem to get hungry on this trip – just thirsty - but I did eat all my pizza and we were both glad of a rest.

We agreed on our target town for that night’s ditch but, with no sun, again, could not get our directions correct after going over loads of road junctions in escaping this horrible place. We sorted it out by spotting a sign on a motorway (we were not on it) that said Calais so that must be north! This caused us to reverse our direction as we had been heading west. The road to the town that we wanted was “No Cyclists” so we were forced ever further south towards a town called Mouy. Those twenty or so kilometres took forever as we were both tiring. Bart is a bit taller than me, 20 kilos lighter and 30 years younger so it is no surprise that he is faster uphill but I can keep up with him on the flat and, as most of you know, I may have never encumbered myself with sporting ability but I am long on stamina, determination and immunity to pain so I could do the 120 kms or whatever we had done that day as well as Bart.

In Mouy there was a PMU open, with some friendly people in it, with a kebab house next door and that was it. No hotel (closed a few years ago) but there was one about three kms outside town. So, after a couple of beers, we went to investigate. It was, of course, closed – no longer a hotel, just a restaurant and, being Sunday, it was a closed restaurant. So back into town for a few more beers and a kebab! I, of course, could only have a salad. If you plan on visiting France make sure that your holiday does not include a Sunday unless you are camping, staying in flash hotels, sitting on beaches – avoiding anything that involves you with what you expect from French culture.

On the way out of town at dusk, ditch hunting, there was a supermarket called “Ed”s (there is a chain) offering 100% discount. We did contemplate kipping behind it if only for the photo opportunity in the morning but decided against. Next was the local football stadium. Bart ”I have never slept in a football stadium”. Ed “Clearly you have not been to watch many football matches”.

Next up – a campsite. They won’t let us just lie on the ground in our plastic bags but will hire us a caravan for 32€. We accept but don’t sleep in the caravan (sorry – mobile home to those that do not speak the Queen’s English). Inside smells of mould so Bart sleeps in the tent type thing attached to the side on some of the seating stuff from inside the caravan. To look after his delicate hearing I do similarly in the next, similar, unoccupied structure. Neither of us slept brilliantly because, although warm enough, we kept falling between these seat things.
Bart prepares the usual sumptuous breakfast whilst the local cameraman takes interesting pictures. Well actually one rather dull one. This is not a campsite; it is a retirement site for old foggies in summer. Two-thirds of the locations have garden sheds! People have flower gardens. One of our near neighbours even has a garden gate and satellite TV. If you are old farts and cannot stand Paris in the summer why not go somewhere interesting, not a camp site fifty kilometres from Paris. These people are either mad or have the imagination of a Tory party worker – probably both.

Off we go with no great urgency. Bart is happy to do another day with me but does not want to end up with a big ride to Paris to meet target number two the following day.

We see a sign for Chantilly at 25km. By this time I have worked that 25km represents 1 ½ hours decent peddling, if it is not too steep. In other words, a suitable time between breaks. So off we go to Chantilly for a coffee. It is at this point that discrepancies become apparent. At the end of the first day in Brighton I had done a mental inventory and found three things missing (apart from previously mentioned watch and mirror) – audible warning of approach, to wit a tortoise hooter that Bart had given me, a memory stick and Vaseline. Bart said that he had the latter two and there was nothing to do about the first one but buy something which, of course, I still have not done seven days later at the time of writing. In Chantilly it also transpired that Bart did not have Vaseline (which I was definitely beginning to need, and not to grease my bike) and that the memory stick had photos on it for target number two so I could not have it.

A quick look round Chantilly reveals that we can get some money at cash machine number three but nothing else. Silly me, it is Monday – how could I expect any shops to be open. After all they were open on Saturday so how ridiculous of me to expect them to be open on Sunday or Monday. France is clearly in need of a lot of immigrants from the Indian sub-continent.

I have definitely heard of Chantilly but could not remember why. On the way out I found out. I stopped to take a photo of this rather fabulous looking chateau. My esteemed young friend was not impressed, he assured me that two minutes on google would yield much better pictures. He is, of course, correct. We wandered a bit further and came across reason No, 2 why Chantilly is famous – race horses; it is the Newmarket of France. We found this out by having a bit of fun on sand roads. This is not the easiest thing to do on a push bike, actually harder than a motor bike because you have to both provide the power against the mass of friction that is the sand reacting against your back wheel (unlike a motor bike) and keep it smooth so your back end does not come in front of you and have you off, just like a motor bike.

Anyway, on to Senlis. First thing we see is a pizza place and it is 1.30 so can we get fed? We risk it and carry on. Once we get into the town we like it. Medieval, cobbled, narrow, steep streets, big churches – you know the drill.
We stop at a cafe and ask about food. “No mate, no food round here. It is Monday, see. I can recommend a pizza place on the edge of town”. Forty metres straight down the road a light is on for a lovely restaurant. We stop. And make ourselves at home. Good food is ordered. Bart tells the lady, in his excellent French, that we are passing through and our destinations. He refrains from telling her that I am an international tosser. Good food is brought and consumed slowly. Cheap wine is brought and consumed quickly. Olive oil is brought and used to oil the bikes. Bart also cleans all the sand from the chains. A very pleasant lunch.

A fellow, well dressed dinner of about my age, says “Avez vous la machine qui mange la plastique”, Even I understood that and I will try and use it on the rest of the trip, For those whose French version of Foreign is even worse than mine, “mange” means eat.

Perhaps I should add something here for the ignorant. The world has two languages, English and Foreign. English is the rational language understood by most. Foreign is an odd concept and Johny Foreigner keeps trying to change it to confuse us literary types. You get used to one dialect of foreign, in my case Chinese, and you move somewhere else and they speak a different dialect – Spanish. Of course, in France, many of them have never even learnt Hollywood English, let alone the Queen’s so communicating with the blighters can be damned difficult. Shouting loudly usually does.....

Regrets are useless things, unless you harm people, but the mange machine man said in perfect English as he left “Enjoy your trip to Rome”. I rather wished that I had talked to him

On we go. Out on Senlis on a big road with lots of high speed traffic. What is rather odd is the camper vans at every sort of pull-off (and these are on both sides of the road every 200 metres). Bart, being rather more observant then me, notices a woman on her own in the front seat of each one, not a man in sight. These are not petite little things either. The conclusion that we reached was that the little jockeys from Chantilly liked the big women from Senlis and were prepared to pay for their generosity of spirit.

Onwards and off the main road, down some country lanes past a huge chateau. This is something that I had forgotten; Britain has stately homes some, like Chatsworth or Blenheim, bloody huge but France has two-a-penny chateaux . I assume that this goes back to Louis X1Vth or earlier when France was the most important unified kingdom in Europe with a population five times that of the UK.

BUT. Communications were appalling in those days so many local bastards built up huge estates by violence and greed, enforcing their will on the serfs. This was shown in several ways: the use of the church to exercise power, hence all the massive churches in small villages in France; the feudal idea that your local lord would protect you and, if the shit really hit the fan, the king would protect you; the concept that, because your lord was protecting you, he deserves to live in some bloody palace with all the goodies that go with it. In 19th century Britain it would have been called capitalism and you can see all the buildings and follies that those particular greedy gits built; in 20th century America it would have been called protect rackets for which you can look at gambling, prostitution and the rise of the allegedly Sicilian crime families or the rise of the Kennedy and Prescott-Bush families; now it is called banking.

Did I digress by any chance. We wandered around Charles de Gaulle airport for a couple of hours, going in assorted different directions but only gradually working round it.

When we came across this grotty hotel in the middle of a building site masquerading as a town we decided to give up and get pissed. That close to Paris there is a dearth of shacks, abandoned caravans and football stadii so we had to do something. Naturally the hotel was not closed, it was full. However, we were sent off to find another hotel seven or eight kms away and we duly went to the trouble of actually finding it because Bart was excited about staying there. It was an F1 hotel. Sounds good? They are a big chain based upon the KISS (keep it simple stupid) principal. Bart was keen because he had stayed in them before on family tours of France when he was young. The price deal (cheap obviously) is based upon a maximum of two parents and one child per room. The price is the same, including breakfast of coissants, bread, juice and coffee, no matter how many occupants per room and how much a Yorkshireman can cram down. Bart has a younger sister, Sal, so the aforementioned CP plus wife, Edith, and Sal checked in to the F1 hotel, leaving Bart outside. Edith was Scottish so had no problem with this concept. I rather suspect that CP’s French was good enough to ask for a ground floor room so that Bart could climb in the window.

We were not disappointed. 34€ a room including breakfast for both. Breakfast in France is not called “Petit Dejeuner” for nothing. The emphasis is on the “petit” but, no surprise, Bart demolished lots of it.

Anyway we were directed for our last evening meal to this “Belguimn restaurant” which sells lots of muscles and strong beer. We had lots of both. The birthday cakes came round at the end but we did not have the guts to ask for one, this was because Sue, who was fifty on that day, was absent – when will people ever learn.

Bart was fine in the morning, no complaints about the night noises. The boy needs to drink more.

After aforementioned luxury breakfast we went shopping to get my missing bits, including a compass. Yes I had agreed that it would aid navigation in all the clouds. Silly us, the shops don’t open until ten.

I am a good old fashioned socialist who believes that people are not slaves to capitalism but no shops open Sunday and Monday, nothing opening till ten, lunch between ten and two only. These people need a stretch of hard times to wake them up, or the aforementioned influx of Asians.

Anyway we did hang around and get the memory stick but not the compass, Bart gave me
his repair gadget, repair kit and pump and I was on my own.

This is normal. It is, at least, the fourth trip that we have been on together that he has left early.

What a bastard.

See Episode 3