A well deserved rest - or not.

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


Bart had gone so I was on my own. I had spent the previous few hours thinking “Why am I doing this? Is my ego so fragile that I have to prove to myself how tough I am? Why don’t I just go and hang around in Paris for a few days and get the train back to England?” etc.

Anyway time to buck myself up and get on with things. Easier said than done when, not more than ten minutes after we split up I get off the bike, climb over the barrier and walk back three hundred metres and climb (or is it fall) down a bank to get away from this horrible huge road that I had got on to.

The problem was the usual one, the absence of the navigational aid. The drizzle had stopped but the sun was not keen to impress. The solution was simple, keep Paris on my right hand side. Every time I hit a junction I would make sure that the Paris turning was too the right so I must be heading south. Piece of cake this navigation lark. In fact the sun came out about one and was dead in front of me. Time to look for a beer stop – one conveniently happened after I had been going the desired 1 ½ hours. Lunch was actually drawing to a close and I had only done about 25kms so no lunch. Next was a useful road that has count-down markers on it indicating that it ends in 25kms; just the job. Actually a lovely ride, open country mixed in with bits of woodland, fairly flat (sorry Bart), the odd village, a fairly tale house and not much traffic. At the end of the 25kms there is a nice town and...
Nothing. It is 3 p.m. it is hot and everything is closed – even the PMU. How can this country work?

A suitable bar does occur 5kms up the road and I stop for a rest and make a plan. The sun is now out so I can navigate by it and head for Fontainbleu. This plan comes about because I have the F1 Hotels handbook of all their hotels in France. When I look up the location of the Fontainbleu hotel it is ten kms from the town but, never the less the plan is formed and off I go. I made a bit of a pig’s ear of getting round Mellun, which necessitated an extra beer stop but riding up the side of the Seine for a few kms was great and I found a hotel OK. This is a tourist town so getting fed and watered was easy, quite pleasant in fact. The only real surprise was that some of the good-looking young women about town were English!

Up, packed and breakfasted (poorly but complete with Blood Pressure pills) in time for the opening of the Chateau at 9. Walking round the previous evening I had noticed it and decided that it was worth a delayed start for a bit of a look. Good decision. It is utterly spectacular. I walked in the gate and counted the windows in the wing to my right. The ground and first floors had forty-five windows in a row. These are not some little side window type things but full blown metre and a half wide windows and two plus metres high. Forty five in a row. Of course the second and third floors only had forty two. And in the forth floor (i.e. attic) there were only a couple of dozen. But those would be the servant’s quarters and obviously they don’t need light.
When I got to what I thought was the original part there was an arch through to another, much older, courtyard and then another, and another. The bit that I had been so impressed by was merely the last add-on! There was a sign saying that they planted 45,000 annual plants. When I got into the gardens, I did not believe them, it must be more.

I was only there an hour and did not actually go in any of the buildings and escaped without paying! Chatsworth and Blenheim are little outhouses in comparison to this place but I had distance to cover and I don’t like the inside of stately homes anyway so I was on the road by 10.15.

Usual problem, different solution. The early morning sun had disappeared but the nice guy in the hotel printed a map and a route for to Auxerre, 125kms distant. He gave me the choice of the Motorways, the D roads or walking routes. I opted for the middle choice but did wonder if I should have taken the walking route. France does not have a big system of public footpaths so it was probably the shortest road route. Anyway, the choice works well, rather big roads to begin with but I am flying along. As Bart had predicted, I would start feeling strong one day and today was obviously the day.
A standard coffee stop was followed after 40 km by turning down some smaller roads as I began to think about lunch. Does this village will have a cafe? No. The next one? Don’t be silly. 2 o’clock was rapidly approaching and then passed just before I rode into a rather nice little town. A bar there had all day sandwiches and all day beer. Just as well that I fuelled up and rested because there was nowhere else for fifty kms. As I left the town at 3 p.m. by the clock, not the sun, and I was beginning to gain some proper ground south I started to fry during those 50 km. Still it was a nice ride, France really does have varied countryside and, although the predominant crops are wheat, maize and cows so far there are “forested” areas – woods really and, of course some nice gardens, old houses, big churches and the odd chateau. After quite a slog I arrived in a little town after 5 so shops and bars had opened again.

There was a hotel and I was tempted, having done 100km already that day. I decided to do the last 25 into Auxerre. My new found fitness had expired and I wouldn’t have bothered if I had known the length of the hill out of the village.

Another good decision though, Auxerre is a nice place with quite a historic centre. It was good to see something where French people were enjoying themselves in a way that I expect. There was a free band playing in the town square. Naturally I had mistimed it and only heard the last song, which was sung in English by a lady who was taller than any other of the (male) band members; in fact her hair disappeared into the rafters above the stage. But what was typically French was lots of people in small groups sitting around chatting and (many) smoking but not drinking much alcohol.

Mine host is a little surprised when I say (in my immaculate Foreign) that I am heading for Chalon-sur-Soane that day. I offer Beaune, he agrees that is a bit nearer. On my trusty F1 map Dijon is just a spit from Auxerre and Beaune is west of Chalon and a bit nearer. 10 km out of town, up a hill, of course – there is always a hill first thing in the morning – there is a sign saying Chalon 159, it also says Dijon 142 so perhaps my trusty map is not so trusty. Anyway, I don’t like this road, and turn of right i.e. west of the road. This being my navigation technique of the day – stay west of this main road and I should end up near Beaune. I am flying and have done 30 km from Auxerre when I stop for the first coffee stop. I leave the road that I am on and after another hour round some real country roads that are good fun, come back to the road that I had left – Auxerre 38 km. My initial reaction was “Oh shit!” but it doesn’t matter; I am on holiday and what matters is seeing some nice country, getting the exercise and having a bit of an adventure. I had kept coming back to a railway line which I assumed was Auxerre – Beaune so it seemed to be OK. The village was pleasant, next to a canal – a town actually with a small market going on. I can happily say that there was absolutely nothing worth buying in the market, no wonder they were all packing up before twelve. I had kept seeing signs for Vazelay and, as it was now 15km away it seemed like a good spot for lunch. A long 15 km because of the hills but it is an old hilltop, walled town – a real tourist spot actually. It is the start of the pilgrim route to Santiago-de-Compostella, 1730kms away, or so I was informed by a gentleman in immaculate Foreign when I stopped under a tree for a light shower later in the day. It is one of the benefits of being English that Johny Foreigner can explain himself in his own lingo and we understand. Actually, in the town, I was a bit cold so had lunch and ran. A few kms out of town is a sign “Auxerre -48” This is getting irritating. Up another valley heading south and I do mean up, not fast but steadily. After about 8 km of this I pass another chateau in the middle of nowhere with a flower bedecked cemetery in the village nearby – a conundrum (is that tautology – can a conundrum not be odd) – old chateau but modern cemetery. Shortly after this I get the bad news. I am not entering the Soane valley but climbing a (small) pass to get into the Loire valley!

Now this may come as a surprise to you. You know that the Loire is France’s largest river and you know the wines from the area West-South-West of Paris, you know, or have heard of, some of the famous chateaux e.g. Chambord and you know that Le Mans (home of the famous race) is round there somewhere. What most of you don’t know is that the Loire rises in the Massif Central, in the middle of France. I did actually know the theory but it was not a lot of comfort to me at that particular moment.
I am a man, do I carry on? Of course, but only because there is little practical choice. I was not cheered by the shower but I was cheered by the aforementioned man who took the time to explain the link between Vazelay and Santiago. Why? He had no need to stop and talk to me. He was not put off by my being a stupid foreigner who did not speak good Foreign, Most importantly of all, he was cheerful. As Guido says, if you are not prepared to smile at people, you are not worth knowing.

I have started to notice the odd squirrel or two. I have only seen four or five on the trip but they are all red. Don’t they have grey squirrels in France? Weren’t the French supposed to be allies of the upstarts in the 1780’s so Cornwallis had to surrender at Yorktown? So why no grey squirrels? Not very good allies if they did not import each other’s vermin.

Another thing is the road kill; there is quite a lot of it and 70% is hedgehogs. Hedgehogs are not the world’s dumbest creatures so why hedgehogs? Not one dog or cat have I seen. Of course, I would be unhappy to see cats but a few dogs would not come amiss – shut the horrors up. Who is it that goes round training dogs to bark at all cyclists? A clear case for capital punishment – the trainer, not the dumber animals.
I am arrogant enough not to be frightened of any animal (OK, some humans like Martin Johnson down a dark alley) but a barking dog can take you by surprise and have you jumping out of your skin If this happens whilst one of the one percent of French drivers who drives like an Englishman is passing you it can make life very exciting.
Oh well, back to the story. Upwards, upwards I go. It is only an eight kilometre climb but I have already had a long day. I roll into a rather pleasant little town and realise that a) I am knackered, b) I am only about 75 kms from Auxerre but have certainly done at least my standard 100 kms and c) I am going to have to do a lot more tomorrow.

Locating the tourist office is easy (France is incredibly well provided with tourist offices and they are well signposted in every town) and I obtained a map, in fact the same map that I had seen on the way into the Province.

New day, usual problem. I did 40kms quickly along the Yonne valley (this is a tributary of the Loire and where I was, I had not sunk so low as to hit the Loire itself) but my trustee map had shown me the way and up I climbed for 8 kms. Steadily (but slowly, I know) and reached a village only having had two water stops (yes water stops, not beer stops). It wasn’t the edge of the province but it was a lot earlier than I expected. The sting in the tail, after 3 kms of steady drop, was another climb for a km or so but then I had definitely escaped the clutches of this foul province.
Now, it might seem greedy but what you want after a long climb is an even longer descent. Not some horrendous steep jobby when you have to use your brakes (remember that I am an old coward) means that the reward for all your hard work is very short lived. No prizes for guessing what I got.

An hour for a well deserved lunch meant that, when I had finished, I had left 5 ½ hours ago, done sixty-seven kilometres and was not half way to Chalon-sur-Soane. I actually thought (hoped?) I was half way but an hour and a half’s pedalling after lunch in the true heat of the day to be reassured that there was 60kms to go put paid to that idea.

Two tiny beers (these buffoons think a quarter of a litre is a beer) and on my way. Was he wrong? Yes, it was probably only 55kms with no real problem except a newly tarmaced road where I got stones thrown at me by all the passing cars and a 4km climb 20kms out – nothing really.

The country was changing, the wheat was being harvested in July, a month earlier than England. Winter wheat maybe. Maize (or corn to those what speak a funny version of English) was becoming more common with quite a lot of sunflower fields. Nobody seems to have told the sunflowers to hold their heads up to the sun – perhaps it has been a dry summer. There were not many of the big water spraying machines though, maybe there had been a ban. Saw a couple of hares, startled by my silent approach, and started to see some birds of prey (including a couple with white undersides to their wings).

I had been determined to make Chalon, because after eight days and 800 kms I wanted somewhere decent for a rest day. I seemed to have some vague idea it was a pretty nice place and I wasn’t disappointed. However, having done about 145kms that day I was knackered and checked into the first hotel I saw, a Best Western. At 85 euros a night (without breakfast) it is the most expensive hotel that I have ever paid for myself but I didn’t care, it had a bath!