Day 8a: Noyon to Dammartin-en-Goëlle (82km)

Another long ride in quite varied weather.

I'm starting with the weather because it plays a quite significant role when you're riding a bike; you're out in it the whole day long, which in itself can be draining. Today was cold and damp, so it felt colder than it was. On top of that it rained on and off the whole day, with long periods of drizzle as well. Rain is bad enough, but when you have to constantly keep dressing and undressing - and as soon as you put your waterproof clothes on it stops raining - it can get frustrating. On one memorable occasion I had just put on my waterproof pants and jacket only to find the path becoming a steep climb for two kilometres. And halfway up the rain stopped, but of course once you're in your rhythm going up a hill you don't stop. So I cycled up in my own personal sauna. 'Breathable' materials can only do so much breathing.

Forêt de Compiègne

I've stopped just outside Pimprez, a little town in the middle of nowhere, south of Pont l'Evêque. Pont l'Evêque is one of those many towns in France that's named after food (Calvados, Roquefort, Brie, and so on). In this case it's a particular square-shaped smelly cheese. Seeing on the map that I'd be riding through such a town I had high expectations. I should know better; you should only have low expectations, then you might be pleasantly surprised. The town was a complete fizzer, not a cheese in sight. In fact, in the morning on a Saturday, there wasn't much of anything in sight, so I rode on.

But back to Pimprez: I am, as they say in aviation parlance, 'uncertain of my position' (it's bad form to be 'lost' when you're a pilot so the worst case is if you're uncertain of your position). I've just cycled through the village and come to an intersection with nothing around. To the left is a road, to the right, in the direction I want to go, the road has been barricaded. And straight ahead, still with a temporary barrier, is a brand new road that according to my map does not exist. So I resort to the GPS only to find that, for the first time (maybe due to the heavy cloud cover) I am not getting a signal. Talk about timing! Just as I am about to decide whether to back track or take the left road, along comes a guy on an old Peugeot racing bike. Vintage 1970 perhaps; steel frame, gear levers low on the frame, drop handlebars wrapped in tape. He's a talkative nice guy and we briefly chat and then he says "The way you're going is long, I can show you a way that's shorter", pointing straight ahead to the new road. Although taking a shortcut is bad form, he's insistent and a nice guy, so we set off together. It's an interesting change riding together with someone else. No sooner have we started on the new road than he says: "I've never ridden this road, we can discover it together". I have visions of us both becoming uncertain of our position and going in circles but we persist.

One of many, many war cemetries, lovingly maintained

The road, which is not even properly surfaced yet, goes over a brand new bridge. We stop at the top and have a commanding view of the surrounding countryside. "Over there" he starts, pointing to one side on the valley, "that's where the Germans were. And over there" pointing to the same valley, but perhaps a kilometre or two further along, "that's where the French were."  He's talking about the war (in this part of France there was only one that counts, the one from 1914-1918). He's reliving in a sense a famous battle which was fought here. "For 30 months the two sides didn't move, there was no advance. The Germans had concrete bunkers, the French had wooden ones. It was a massacre." I think of how Bill Bryson wrote that when his father used to take the family to see the sites of old battles, he was always disappointed that he could never see anything but farms and houses; nothing to indicate that a battle actually took place. All I can see is farms, houses and some factories. It's impossible to imagine thousands of troops entrenched in those fields. "Did you have family in the battle?" I ask, knowing the answer - you only have to look at the war memorials in every town. "All the French fought in that war" he says simply. I am fascinated by the sudden reappearance of the war, having spent the previous day riding through the battlefields and past war cemeteries.

"I like your light" he says a bit later, pointing to my bright flashing tail light. "Here you have to be prudent for the others." I think that's a very good way of describing defensive driving (or cycling).

"I've been on the Chemin de Compostelle" he suddenly says, using the French name for the Camino. He's obviously noticed my Scallop shell and figures that's where I am heading. "When?" I ask. "I've walked it twice" he answers, and we have a lengthy discussion about the Way, walking versus riding, how the Spanish part is so much better than the French part, and how the Way, especially when you're walking, is as much about the mind as it is about the body. I'm fascinated (again) by the turns our conversions are taking and how I just happened to meet this guy. Synchronicity or serendipity?

Near our destination Michel (we have since introduced ourselves) pulls over. "I'll go back now" he says. He's ridden all this way past his intended destination (to get his morning bread) just to show me the way.

Perspectives

This morning Facebook pops up a picture on my time line: exactly one year ago you posted this picture, it tells me. I've never had it do that before. It's the first picture I took of myself when riding to practice for the Camino last year! Is this a coincidence or is Facebook smarter than I thought?

I am sheltering from the rain under an awning in front of an inviting shop, a traiteur:  An old woman passes by and observes: "You don't have very good weather for camping." I don't have any choice, I explain. "Just as well" she says philosophically, as she leaves.

Lunch in the forest

If the French are good at one thing, it's forests. The French know a thing or two about creating a good forest and I am lucky to be able to ride through several of them, including the magnificent Forêt de Compiègne. The French kings might not have been particularly good for their people, but they knew something about creating magnificent forests (usually for their own benefit so they had somewhere to go hunting of course). Luckily during the revolutions, they didn't tear down the forests (unlike many churches and other fine buildings, which they did tear down, unfortunately). In one forest I hear a cuckoo. Unlike last year in Spain, where I heard a real cuckoo for the first time, I am not fooled into thinking that there must be a house nearby with a very loud cuckoo clock. This is the real thing - so real it sounds just like a clock.

Entering Ile de France - approaching Paris

It was glorious riding today, apart from the fact that it was cold and that it rained, and that there were some long hills of course. But that all fades into the distance as you remember the riding through magnificent forests, along beautiful paths, along canals and through the bucolic countryside. Until I get to Isle de France, the region around Paris, and things suddenly turned decidedly drab.