Another series of strange beds

For the French part of my bicycle trip (on the Camino de Santiago), I've been staying in places found on Airbnb. It's a bit of an experiment. My only experience with Airbnb so far has been two places in Australia, and both were positive experiences, in each case essentially like a good B&B. As I have written earlier, on this trip I've decided to book my accommodation ahead, something I hadn't done before. Initially I'd planned to stay at hostels, but these are, interestingly, few and far between in France. I don't travel with a tent (although I have a sleeping bag just in case) and hotels are boring, expensive and don't lend themselves to meeting people. "Real" Bed and Breakfasts (Chambres d'Hôtes in France) have become ridiculously expensive and in reality virtually boutique hotels, having lost the sense of staying at someone's house and becoming more and more anonymous. So I'm experimenting with Airbnb hoping to find a more authentic bed and breakfast experience.

My first one in France is run by a gay couple. It's a large house that dates from the fifties perhaps. It's been renovated in a fashion; Fake wooden flooring roughly cut and placed on top of the tiled floor so you can still see the tiling around the edges and around the toilet type of fashion. The couple is super friendly although one is clearly the boss in the house and he thinks a little too much of himself I think. They have invited a couple of friends over for the evening and we have dinner together. It's a very male gathering tonight and we are five boys for dinner (two couples and me). It's all cider and beer in this part of France and the cider is local and very good. The beer is Belgian. Not a bottle of red wine in sight. My room is large with a nice view into the garden, which also contains the swimming pool featured in the description of the place. The description hadn't mentioned the fact that the pool was empty and to all intents and purposes derelict.

I'm surprised to find a waterproof sheet on the mattress which reminds me of the youth hostel's plastic mattresses. It makes for a sweaty night's sleep. Breakfast is French, meaning coffee and yesterday's baguette cut into pieces and toasted. There's a young Labrador which is way too friendly and won't stay away. Later in the evening the guy smokes in the room (it's his house of course but you'd think that nowadays this would not be done when you have guests.)  During our pre-dinner conversion the conversion is inevitably about my bike ride. The youngest, a very sweet slim young lad, pipes up: "mais ça fait mal aux fesses" - 'but that gives you a sore bum'. What he says and the way he says it just crack me up; he's a caraciture. Is it bad of me to think this, I think to myself?

Next night and another Airbnb, this one is very different. Run by a rather alternative couple who have several medium and long term tenants as well as at least one room for people like me who are passing through. Unusually there's no breakfast included but when I come back from dinner there's a brioche in a bag and a cup with some teabags left out for me to have next morning. The woman later explains she realised I'd need something before going on my ride; it's a nice gesture. There's an over-friendly dog but he's reasonably well behaved. When I ask for dinner recommendations they seem surprisingly unprepared; you'd think that if you have guests every night you'd expect them to need to go and eat somewhere. Perhaps they are used to the longer-term guests who cook their own meals. But a bit later I find a photocopied list of restaurants with a couple of hand written notes. Another nice gesture. The room is simple and I have to make my own bed. The bathroom is a conversion of part of the upstairs landing, so is small and a bit rickety (it's a very old house) but everything works and the place has a certain charm. In the dining area the walls at covered in pictures and articles from magazines and papers, some of it fascinating. There's one photograph that catches my eye: a naked couple walking down the street. They are both well built. The woman is walking is front leading the man by his penis, like a dog on a leash. There's a story there. The next morning the couple comes out to say goodbye and wave me of on my journey. They are gentle caring people with an good sense of humour.

Third night, again Airbnb. My room is exactly like it was in the picture on the website, which is to say not particularly welcoming. But the whole house is like that. I feel like I'm in a shared student hovel. In the bathroom there's multiple collections of toiletries everywhere. The owner is Indian and the house looks Indian and is very cluttered and messy. There's a lot of stainless steel cookware and little dishes. In the bathroom there are four such dishes, each with someone's soap in them.

The house is full of furniture that looks a bit like it was taken from charity shops or bought at garage sales, which I'm guessing it probably was. Many of the doors and drawers appear to be left open, it looks a bit like someone's been rummaging around everywhere looking for something they misplaced, and in their frustration just left everything open.

The address the house is in a quiet street in a quiet area but it's otherwise totally without charm or character. It's an area I would never normally have come to, so in that sense it's a good experience because I'm discovering something new. Which is one of the reasons I'm making this trip of course; to expose myself to different things.

In Paris I am lucky to be able to stay with a friend at her apartment. What a difference it makes to be able to spend a night with her and her family, who I have not met properly before. They are gracious and welcoming hosts and it's nice to chat about "old times". In the morning she makes me a picnic lunch for the day's ride which is a lovely gesture.

My next stop is a 'Room in a large house in the country'  according to the description and the picture looks impressive. I'm arriving before my host comes home, but she's generously offered to leave the key to the house out for me (hidden away, with a series of clues to find it). I love the fact that such trust still exists and feel somehow honoured to be considered worthy of it. The house is just as impressive as it was in the pictures. When my host comes home we have a drink and there's open and easy conversion. Dinner is shared with her and another guest who is staying long term. The house is a renovation work in progress, and I admire the tenacity the couple shows to continue working on it, even though  they both work and the husband works in Versailles, which is a very long commute. There are children's books everywhere, but no children. The garden and surrounding forests are full of the sound of frogs and birds. I am woken next morning by a real cuckoo, not a clock, which is just lovely.

I am cycling along a street in Orléans looking for the address of the place I'm staying at for the night; it turns out to be a group of large older social housing apartments; HLM as this type of accommodation is known in France. Another new experience, I've never been inside one of those. This is going to be interesting. On the way up to the apartment, which is on an upper floor, we meet several other tenants, who clearly know each other and my host chats with them. It's a like a little village and although it's obviously not well off, there's a spirit of community.

My host is an artist and somewhat alternative in her ways and very left in her politics. She's someone who has hitch-hiked around France when she was 17 to attend anti-nuclear protests and self-converted an old work van into a camping car, and then lived in it for several years. She has slept on the beach, buys only 'Bio' food products (but shops at Carrefour, a major supermarket chain) and uses goats milk because it's supposed to have less pollutants in it than cows milk. When she came into a little money, rather than buy a house she bought an empty block of land on the river where she can go camping. But we have art in common (she a lot more than me of course) and we have some interesting discussions about art of the Renaissance and later periods. I learn that the Château de Chantilly has a very impressive collection of mostly Italian art, second only to the Louvre according to my host.

My room is exactly like it is in the picture on the website, which is to say charming and welcoming, which I think I can say about the whole apartment as well as the host. It's a great experience to recalibrate what are at times preconceived ideas.

Blois. Here I am in an older (38 years old, not really so old by French standards) house in suburb, in somewhat down-market area. My host is an 80-year old widow. She has 5 children and 11 grandchildren and a cat. Only the cat still lives at home. Although we converse in French, it turns out she speaks pretty good English, which she learned after the war when she worked at an American military base in France. I ask her how she finds having guests, and she mentions that it was her daughter's idea (just like the host in Orléans in fact) because she needs the money to supplement her pension; since her husband (who was in the military) died, her pension has halved. We talk about her experiences with previous guests, Chinese, Korean, several Australians and an Italian American girl with quite a story who obviously made an impression. I suppose I'll be added to the list for discussion with next next arrival.

She shows me the room (which has a couple of glasses and bottles of water), bathroom, toilet and even has the WiFi code written on a piece of paper. The room looks and feels a bit like it used to be the master bedroom and there's photographs of her husband in uniform. She seems pretty well prepared. But when I ask for restaurant guidance she's can't help much (she clearly doesn't go out to dinner.) However she does take the phone book "goodness, there's a lot of restaurants in Blois" and finds the number of a relatively nearby place which she calls for me to check if they are open. I am touched by her efforts to look after me.

My final night on the journey is yet another place found through Airbnb. And it's another female artist. The house is an old city house, typical of Tours. Except it's absolutely full of artworks in various stages of completion; leaning against the walls, stacked in a corner, and so forth. My room is under the roof space and has a nice feel about it, even if it's a little cramped. Just as well I'm not that tall. This host is very well organised and has a sheet of instructions and a list of restaurant recommendations laminated in the room. There's also little notes stuck in various places, such as in the bathroom; "These toiletries are my own and are not for your use" and so forth. A little too organised perhaps, but I can understand why she might have felt she had to resort to that. The restaurant recommendation turns out to be very good. Breakfast in the morning is carefully prepared with organic foods and fresh breads and coffee. But she has forgotten the milk and my image of perfect organisation is dented. Of course I am being far too critical as she is really doing her best.

So in the end I am happy with my choices: it has turned out to be a very eclectic mix of places and people, and every one of them has given me an experience I wouldn't have had otherwise. I've been out of my comfort zone a few times and that's just what I have been looking for. Why travel if you only want to see and experience what you already know?

Camino de Santiago reprise - the analysis

Here's a quick review of the engineering and financial aspects of my second Camino de Santiago bicycle trip. Just a reminder: this section started in Amsterdam, the Netherlands, and finished in Tours, France. I'll also add the equivalent figures for the first Camino trip, which started in the south of France and apart from that first day was exclusively in Spain.

Arrival in Tours, destination of Camino part 2

These numbers might be helpful if you're planning a similar bicycle trip. Keep in mind that the financial figures reflect my particular choices in food and accommodation (!) and reflect the prices at the time of the trips (2014 and 2015 respectively).

Financial summary:

	Camino part 2	Camino part 1
Food	320 (29/day)	430 (21/day)
Accommodation	317 (29/day)	308 (10.50/day)
Travel	31	247
Other	21	87
Total Cost	689	1,072
Daily Average	58	33

(all figures in Euros, daily averages exclude special days)

As you can see, my second Camino trip (which is, confusingly perhaps, the first part of the Camino journey) cost me almost twice (per day) compared to the first trip. Not really a surprise, since Spain is considerably cheaper than either the Netherlands, Belgium or France. Also, in Spain I stayed almost exclusively in hostels, while in my second trip I stayed in various types of B&Bs. The main reason the first trip total was higher was the fact that it was a week longer, and there's also the train and air fares to get to and from Spain (from France). The daily averages are adjusted to reflect that I stayed a couple of times with friends on the second trip and do not include the French section of the trip (preparation time, really) for the first trip. The totals however reflect all the expenses I made.

The Engineering review

	Camino part 2	Camino part 1
Total number of days	14	18 (including one rest day)
Total distance ridden	1,110 km	1,031 km
Total time on the bike	75.8 hours	66.8 hours
Average speed for the trip	14.7 km/h	15.4 km/h
Average hours ridden	5.4 hours/day	3.9 hours/day
Average distance ridden	79.3 km/day	60.6 km/day
Longest distance ridden in one day	105.7 km	84.5 km (on the first day!)
Shortest distance ridden in one day	49.7 km	34 km (second-last day)
Most hours ridden in one day	7.1 hours	6.2 hours (on the first day!)
Least hours ridden in one day	3.5 hours	2.1 hours (second-last day)
Highest average speed	15.0 km/h	19.1 km/h
Lowest average speed	13.5 km/h	12.4 km/h

In general in the second trip I spent more time per day riding, and rode longer distances. If I was to give any advice based on these numbers, I'd say it would be much better to take a bit more time and slow down (something I also noted on the first trip). My second trip had some total time constraints which meant I couldn't really extend my trip, much as I would have liked to. Interestingly, the average speeds for the two trips are very similar, and in fact the second trip is lower than the first. This is a bit counter-intuitive, since the second trip involved much more flat terrain (and no mountain crossings at all). Maybe I was fitter or more enthusiastic the first time around!

Day 14a: Postscript

This way to the Way

It is only a 33 km trip from Tours (the end point of this stage of the Chemin de Compostelle) to our little village house, which is really my final destination. But I decided that rather than go the direct route, I'd follow a series a small country roads and paths, much like I'd done on the rest of the trip. I justified this to myself by the fact that the direct route is a main through road with fairly heavy traffic, but I knew that somehow I was also deliberately stretching out the final part of my journey. And in any case, the sun was shining and it was a glorious day for a ride. Why not make the most of it?

For most of the ride the prevailing winds have been from the south to south west, meaning I've had headwinds petty much every day. How ironic then, that the day I turn northwards to head home, the winds also change and are now from the north, meaning that even for the final day's ride, I still have headwinds. As the Irish guy I briefly chatted with earlier had said, when we were mutually complaining about the relentless winds: "Going uphill is hard, but at least you know there will be a downhill, there's no respite from headwinds."

Much nicer than the main roads

For some reason today I remembered something that François (from Québec, not Canada) had said, or more likely, quoted: "When you're young, you think with your heart; when you're older you think with your head." (*) It's a pity that for many people it indeed seems that it has to be one or the other; if more people could use both their heart and their head we'd all be better off.

So my heart wanted me to keep riding, but my head made me ride via some shops to buy some groceries so I'd be able to make dinner tonight. No more eating out every night; back to normal life, at least for a while. Of course now I've ridden the first and the last sections of the Camino, the middle part is waiting to be ridden...

Almost home: blue skies and the fields are flowering to celebrate

(*) I tried to trace the origin of this saying with the help of the Interweb. It seems that variations on this saying have been attributed to quite a few people over the years. The earliest appears to be French, from 1875, and attributed to Anselme Polycarpe Batbie : 'Celui qui n'est pas républicain à vingt ans fait douter de la générosité de son âme ; mais celui qui après trente ans, persévère, fait douter de la rectitude de son esprit.' This translates more or less to: "He who is not a republican [liberal] at twenty makes you doubt the generosity of his heart; but he who, after thirty, persists, makes you doubt the soundness of his mind."

Day 13a: Blois to Tours (74km)

In the morning the sun is shining again although I don't initially see much of it because my host has closed the shutters of my room. Opening the windows so I can open the shutters I discover how cold it is out there. Last night we agreed that breakfast would be at 8:30, or rather when she asked me what time I would like breakfast and I suggested 08:00, she agreed it would be at 08:30; I wasn't going to get an 80 year-old up earlier than she wanted to get up, just to make me breakfast, so 08:30 it was. I am up well before then and later hear her pottering around in the kitchen getting things ready. When I turn up in the dining room at the appointed time, the table is laid with a simple but complete (at least the French idea of complete) breakfast. The cat is waiting there for me as well and we have breakfast together (the cat and me).

Château de Blois

At the tourist office I go in for my Camino stamp and the woman apologises that her stamp isn't very nice, but suggests that I go up to the castle where they have a very nice stamp, just for pilgrims. The girl at the castle knows exactly what I need and volunteers that her mother finished the Camino last year. It seems the further south you go, the better known the Camino is.

A nice spot for a morning break

I'm now riding in relatively familiar territory, along the Loire river. Soon I begin passing the troglodyte houses built into the side of the soft limestone cliffs. I still find it amazing how people have created whole houses into the cliff, with chimneys sticking out through the ground above, and what to all intents and purposes looks just like a normal house façade, with windows and doors, built into the cliff face.

Nearing Amboise I make another detour to go into the town itself (the route bypasses Amboise by staying on the north side of the Loire) and suddenly I am in tourist-ville. I'm following an organised tour group of Chinese and they make absolutely no allowance for me; so there's no way for me to pass on the shared cycleway. Then I begin seeing more bikes, many of them obviously Dutch, almost certainly following the Loire valley cycle route, La Loire à Vélo

Lussault - coffee pot fence

The little, somewhat hidden town of Lussault is obviously a bit alternative. There are quite a few rather unorthodox houses; some old and ramshackle, but some brand new and quite different and interesting. There's also some troglodyte houses and one place that's found a novel way of displaying their vast collection of enamel tea and coffee pots by incorporating them all along the top of and in places embedded into, the stone wall along the road. There's also a beautiful brand new section of cycleway, complete with a mini vineyard with rose bushes at the end of the rows of vines.

Seen today on the cycleways: a very large German couple, both with Lycra bums that seemed to completely swallow their saddles (I know they were German because they kindly stopped when I was making some minor running repairs and asked if everything was OK); a pair of somewhat alternative looking girls riding with a lot of luggage - literally luggage: one of them had an old suitcase strapped to the rack on the bike instead of pannier bags; a guy riding an amazingly heavily laden bike, carrying almost everything you could imagine. Perhaps not quite the kitchen sink, but he was carrying not just a spare tyre, but an entire spare wheel! An older French couple, both looking slim and fit, riding matching (racing) bikes and dressed in identical Lycra riding suits; a guy in a singlet (remember that it is a cold day) riding a rather rickety old bike with a large basket on the handlebars containing a dog; a tall guy with a ZZ-Top beard riding a Dutch-looking bike; a young (probably Dutch) couple riding a very unusual tandem - she was sitting in a reclining position right at the front and he was behind, with the handlebars and controls, sitting in a normal position and therefore looking over the top of his partner. I'd seen something very similar in Santiago last year, but that (Dutch) couple had children and was also towing a trailer. And in the streets of Tours, late at night, a guy riding a bike (look Ma, no hands) playing an accordion.

1,000 km so far...

I pass another milestone today: 1,000km. This is longer than I had initially expected the trip to be, but I've taken a few detours and ridden on more little wiggly back roads than I thought I might. Looking back through my notes, this part of the Camino has turned out longer than the Camino Frances I rode last year.

In the early afternoon I ride into Tours, the final destination of this section of the Camino. For the first time on the trip I see Compostela markings on the route. I know the way here,  so don't need my map. I ride to the cathedral and there I am pleased to find that there is a person who can give me my final stamp. She is shut away behind a sliding glass panel in a little cabin inside the cathedral and she makes it obvious that I'm interrupting her reading. She seems to cheer up a little when I speak French, but she makes no effort whatsoever to help me celebrate the occasion of my having just competed the first major section of the Way to Santiago. To her I'm just an interruption.

I feel the same strange contradictory feelings of just having accomplished something significant while at the same time having a sense of anti-climax that I felt arriving at the final destination in Santiago last year.

So tomorrow I will keep on riding.

Tours Cathedral

Day 12a: Orléans to Blois (82km)

It's cold this morning; 5 degrees according to the weather report. The sun is out (that will change during the day) but when I start riding in the shade I can feel that it's actually quite cold. I ride in the general direction I need to go, following my (cold) nose. I spot a morning  market and go there to buy an emergency banana and an apple. Riding all day requires food (there will be visits to the boulangerie later as well.) I find the people at the market impressively friendly; the guy selling fruit isn't put out by the fact that I want just one banana and one apple and even offers me a sample of his (very good) melon although he must realise that I am unlikely to be buying a melon for my bike ride. He wishes me a bonne route just the same. An old lady next to me, when she hears I am on the Chemin de Compostelle: "It's beautiful in Spain, you'll love it. I'm from Spain but I haven't been back in 34 years."

Another cross on the way

Later, after having left Orléans, I have stopped to take a picture when I hear the crunch of bike tyres on gravel behind me. It's François, from Quebec (note the introduction, he's from Quebec, not from Canada - he's a separatist he explains). He seems very relieved to have found another rider and wants to ride together. I am a little conflicted, since on the one hand I quite enjoy the freedom of riding alone, being able to do as I please. But on the other hand he is so obviously in need of some company and I can't help but feel somehow sorry for him. So we ride together to Beaugency. 

Riding with someone means lots of conversion and the subjects vary widely, although there's a theme of left versus right, bemoaning the world's focus on the economy rather than education and health and so on. He's young and idealistic and interestingly is well aware of it. So I challenge some of the points he's raising and we have a good debate. It's interesting, but the downside of riding together is also soon apparent because I miss a planned detour to visit a particular town and he is slowed down each time I stop for a photograph. He wants to make it to Tours today, an ambitious 120 km. Given that we are riding together and therefore he didn't leave early, and I am only planning to go halfway to Tours, I think his plan is wildly optimistic.  "How fast are we riding?" he asks at one stage. He has no trip computer and says not to want one (so he's not constrained by knowing his speed or distance) but he does want to know how far we've ridden. He's on his way to Cahors to study pilgrims for his anthropology thesis. He's walked the Camino last year (yet another person I meet who has been on the Camino) and also ridden his bike across America with a friend. Despite all this he seems surprisingly inexperienced.

Coffee and sunshine

We stop at Beaugency for a coffee but he goes to the bakery to buy some bread and doesn't order a coffee "I have to watch my pennies". I'm not sure the owners of the café are impressed that he brings his own food and orders nothing but to their credit they don't say anything. We part ways and I am left with my own thoughts until an Irish guy on a bike turns up. He's part of a group of guys who have come from Ireland and rented bikes to ride along the Loire river. He's lost the others, but seems quite happy to be riding alone: "I'll find them eventually" he says.

The planned route follows the Loire for much of the way and it's very pleasant riding. The weather however is highly variable with alternating sun and rain showers. At one point I hear a 'clack' on my helmet, followed shortly afterwards by more of the same sounds: there's a hail shower! Soon afterwards the cooling towers of the local nuclear power plant loom in the distance and it's an impressive sight against the black sky, with the bright white clouds of steam pouring out. I stop for a picture just as an older Japanese guy walks past purposefully, carrying a shopping bag. We exchange bonjours as he passes. Then he stops, and comes back. "Is that a nuclear power plant?" he asks in broken French. It's obvious the recent accident in Japan is on his mind. We switch to English (which is only marginally better than his French) and have a nuclear power safety discussion. The things you talk about while cycling along the Loire. Then it transpires that he is - wait for it - walking to Santiago on the Camino. With a shopping bag? I think this to myself, but he senses the question and explains he's decided for this section to set up "base camp" as he calls it, in Orléans and walk sections because he's worried about finding accommodation. He's planned 80 days for the whole walk, and somehow, surprising though it may seem, I suspect he's going to make it (although perhaps not in 80 days).

Loire cycleway and power station

Although my route doesn't go there, I realise that the Château de Chambord is not that far away. It's not every day you can say: 'I was riding my bike and thought I'd pop over to the Château de Chambord since it was close' so of course I take the opportunity and visit the famous castle with its double-helix staircase supposedly designed by Leonardo da Vinci. It is still as impressive as when I first saw it.

Château de Chambord

I finally make it to my destination, Blois. As I am approaching the bridge over the Loire I spot a familiar looking bike and rider waiting there at the lights. It's François! This is just just like on the Camino in Spain: you keep coming across the same people. Except that François was supposed to be going to Tours, which is another 60 km away. He's exhausted and a bit demoralised. It's going to be a cold night and his bravado of camping is failing him. He proposes that he share the place I have booked for the night, but I explain that it's only a single room and he can't expect the owner to accept that a second person just shows up unannounced.  I offer to search for places to stay for him but after a little looking he decides to move on to the next town and we say our goodbyes again. I do not see him again.

Later, as I am having dinner in an unexpectedly expensive restaurant (the only one within walking distance of my bed and breakfast) I think again of François and our various discussions. And I have to admit that I'm glad that I no longer have to travel without the safety net of being able to afford unplanned higher expenses if I have to. And I pour myself another glass of rather good red wine.

Blois in the distance - almost there

Day 11a: Champigny to Orléans (89km)

I check the weather forecast the night before the next day's ride: sunny in the morning then increasing clouds leading to rain in the late afternoon. I hope I can reach Orléans before late afternoon. Then I notice the wind forecast: strong winds from the south to south west, gusting to 65 km/h. My direction of travel for the whole day? South to south west! It's going to be an interesting day!

Windblown field and tractor

Riding through vast open expanses of barley, wheat, sugar beet and rapeseed (I think in the interests of some form of political correctness one is supposed to call it Canola nowadays, although I believe there is a technical difference) I have zero protection from the icy cold wind (it's only 8 degrees this morning). If I had an airspeed indicator it would be showing impressive numbers, but my ground speed is pathetically show and I spend long intervals in the single digits.

The shadows of the clouds are racing across the fields - there is a lot of wind up there (and down here).

In Méreville I'm cycling slowly through the village streets. I pass an older man in camouflage clothing who is carrying a dog and some baguettes (there's probably a reason for this combination, but I do not ask). He sees me and remarks "lots of wind today - good luck!"

A former public washing house (lavoir)

I'm entering a small town and it has one of those radar speed indicators to let you know if you're entering the 50 km/h zone at the right speed. As cars rush past me I can see the indicator ahead angrily flashing the maximum 59 in red as they all ignore the speed limit (this is France, after all). Then it's my turn and the indicator happily comes up green indicating 12 km/h as I battle the headwind. It gives up when my speed falls into single digits.

I sense that the French weather is saying to me: "So you thought it was windy in Holland? That wasn't windy - this is windy!" And it's true, the wind today is worse. At one point, when my route takes me towards the east, I have the novel experience of having to lean my bike sideways into the wind just to keep going straight ahead. It's a bit like making a wing-down crosswind landing in a light plane. Several times during the day I wonder whether I will last the distance; this feels like an 80 km hill climb. But of course I keep going and I am rewarded with almost 10 km of lovely riding through the enormous Forêt Domaniale d'Orléans, where I am at least partially sheltered from the wind. At 50,000 ha this is the largest forest in France. I am reminded of my comments in yesterday's blog entry; the French really do know something about making forests.

You find crosses everywhere - many with shells along the Way

I pass a dirt track signposted 'Chemin Agricole.' I see a couple of front end loaders scooping loads from huge piles of what at first looks like soil into trailers hitched to farm tractors. Then I wonder; is that really soil? As I ride past, it hits me, almost literally. Chicken shit. Those are huge piles of chicken shit,  tonnes and tonnes of it. How many chickens did it takes to create that much chicken shit? It takes some time for my sense of smell to return to normal. I wonder what those tractor drivers will smell like when they get home.

Hunting for biodiversity

On the roadside I spot a sign with a picture of a pheasant as well as a mock road sign with a silhouette of a pheasant and chicks. 'Slow down!' It says, 'Hunters are working for biodiversity here.'

It's slow riding, so I have time to think about what this sign is trying to tell me. My first thought is that using biodiversity to justify recreational hunting is a bit like the American gun lobby justifying assault rifles as necessary for hunting deer. Then I think, perhaps since I am an introduced species, the sign is warning me that I may get shot. Or is it telling me that I should slow down to avoid running over pheasants? Then I think, why aren't those hunters killing the feral pigeons that are in plague proportions? Will killing all the pheasants really improve the biodiversity?

You get a lot of time to think when you're cycling into the wind at 9 km/h.

In the end, I make it to Orléans, visit the tourist office and then the former town hall to get my stamp, and make it to my B&B literally minutes before the heavens open and the forecast rain arrives. "You were lucky" says my host. "It's all down to my perfect planning." I think to myself.

Orléans Cathedral

Day 10a: Paris to Champigny (62km)

If the French now a thing or two about forests, they also know a few things about designing and maintaining glorious parks and gardens, often on a monumental scale. There are an amazing number of beautiful parks and gardens in France, many of them designed by André le Nôtre, a famous landscape architect who is almost single-handedly responsible for most of the famous gardens in France. His most well-known garden is no doubt that of the Château de Versailles, on which many other gardens are modelled.

Monday morning - Park and Chateau all to myself

The morning dawns to a clear blue sky and sunlight streaming through the windows. How nice of Paris to welcome me with a gorgeous sunny day yesterday and then to farewell me with another unseasonably beautiful and (eventually) warm day!

My route out of Paris initially follows a bike path through La Coulée Verte, which is a nicely done green corridor with waking and cycling paths in the suburbs of Paris.  While riding, I notice on my map that the Parc de Sceaux is actually quite near my route. In all the time we lived in France, in fact not that far from this castle and its park, I never visited it (it was always a case of 'we'll go next weekend'). So I decide to take the opportunity that has now presented itself and I make a detour to the park. The gates are open and entry is free (some good things in life really still are free) so in I go for a ride around the park and gardens, which early on Monday morning I have almost to myself. The park is sort of like a mini Versailles, complete with forests, canals, lakes, and long symmetrical rows of trees.  'Mini' hardly seems appropriate in fact since even though it is undoubtedly smaller than the gardens of the Château of Versailles, the place is still vast. The park and gardens are also the work of André Le Nôtre, so the resemblance is no coincidence. The place is truly stunning and it's a joy to be able to freely roam around it on my bike.

Reflections in the Park de Sceaux

Back to reality outside, I return to the bike path which initially still follows La Coulée Verte but soon becomes slow going through suburban streets with constant reference to the map to check where I am. My average speed plummets, but today is a 'rest' day with relatively few kilometres to ride, so I can take my time.

Stop for the daily bread

Around lunch time I pass through a small village with an attractive boulangerie. It looks good and there's a stream of people going in and coming out with armfuls of baguettes and other nice smelling breads. I normally don't have a lunch break as such when I'm riding, but today I have a special treat: the friend I stayed with last night has taken the trouble to pack me a picnic lunch. So I buy a half baguette (yes, in France you can buy half a baguette, perfect for single diners) and I ride on, looking for a nice place to stop. I'm in luck because just after the village my route takes me along a section of a major walking track (a Grand Randonnée) and it follows the foreshore of a small lake; much nicer than following roads. So I have my picnic by the lake, kept company by large numbers of ducks and other water birds, which entertain me and themselves by alternately looking for food and chasing each other around the lake.

My bed for the night

The afternoon is surprisingly slow going, with both headwinds and hills (not a combination that endears itself to me) but since the day is relatively short I still arrive at a reasonable hour. The owner of the house I'm staying in has given me instructions on where to find the key and to make myself at home. I think it's great that such a level of trust still exists. I ride in to the property, and find the key exactly where it should be and let myself in to a wonderful house in the countryside. There's a beer in the fridge for me and all is right in the world (at least my little bit of it for now). 

Day 9a: Dammartin to Paris (66km)

The sunlight is streaming through the window when I wake up this morning; the sky is blue and cloudless and it looks promising for a nice day's ride. It's cold, around 8 degrees, but I know (from my ride to dinner last night) that the first thing I get to do today is ride straight up a long hill, so that will warm me up.

Morning sky and planes

My route takes me right under the approach path to Paris' main airport, Charles de Gaulle (CDG). Both runways are in use and there's a constant stream of landing aircraft passing overhead. It's Sunday morning and it's a busy time for arrivals into Paris; there's a plane arriving around every minute. The sky overhead is criss-crossed with contrails. I stop briefly to watch the planes passing low overhead; the magic of 300 tonnes of aluminium being able to float in the air never ceases to impress me, even though as a (private) pilot I understand the aerodynamics behind it. I still find it amazing.

The cyclists are out in force this morning. I guess Sunday is a big cycling day. There are some lone riders, but mostly it's small groups and the occasional large peloton of identically brightly Lycra-clad riders. All the riders are stylishly dressed in brightly coloured Lycra suits; it seems more like the Sunday morning fashion parade, which perhaps for some it is. I notice that the younger riders seen to favour black (with matching bikes) while the older riders tend to go more for the bright colours, although that's a generalisation of course. Clearly the French extend their sense of fashion to cycling apparel and it's a big deal. It strikes me that virtually all the riders are male - the girls are jogging and the boys are riding.

Waiting at a road crossing, I see an old Mercedes approaching, driving quite slowly considering the speed limit in this area. It's a late 1960's model. The couple inside are dressed in their Sunday best; they're going for their Sunday drive I imagine. They look like they may have owned the car since new and they have aged together with the car. I imagine them taking this same Sunday morning drive every week for decades.

Not likely to win the tidy town award

Along the roadside near the villages I pass there is now often a large pile of rubbish, wrecked car parts and so on, indicating that I am getting closer to the less salubrious outskirts of a large city. Paris is getting closer!

The route joins the cycling path along the canal de l'Ourcq. It's teeming with Sunday morning Lycra cyclists. Many are Mamils (Middle-Aged Men In Lycra). As I've already noted, cycling tends to be an overwhelmingly male sport and there's a lot of middle-aged and older riders. Then I realise that I am, in a sense at least, one of them. It's a thought that is a bit sobering, so I put it aside and ride on. I'm not quite ready to consider myself as a Mamil just yet.

Later on the cycle path runs alongside a jogging track. On the bikes are the men and jogging on the path are the women, often in pairs, ponytails swinging in unison above Lycra bums of the sort some people want banned but personally I don't have any problem with at all. At times I find myself riding behind pairs of swinging ponytails and Lycra bums and sometimes it takes me quite a while to ring my bell to alert them to my presence so I can pass.

Approaching Paris - a lovely ride along the Canal de l 'Ourcq

Later the joggers and riders are all on the same track. I ride behind one and clock him at over 18 km/h, not a bad effort! A bit further on, there's a steep climb and he easily overtakes me. I am taken back to a comment a walker made to me on the Camino last year: "When I'm going downhill I'd rather be on a bike but uphill I am glad I'm walking; when you see the faces of those cyclists struggling up the hill, they look so angry."

Metro wagons - I'm really in Paris!

Suddenly I see a metro passing on the tracks beside the path and I realise with a bit of a shock that I am almost in Paris! I've been here many times but I've never cycled into the city and it's a strange feeling. Soon everything is unmistakably Parisian, even though I never do get to see a sign to tell me I've actually entered the city, which is a little disappointing because it's a lost photo opportunity; how often do you get to ride into Paris, having come from Holland?

I'm in Paris now, weaving in and out of traffic like a local. I'm glad it's a Sunday and the traffic is light although the downside is that the pedestrian traffic is heavy making for show progress at times. There's also quite a few people out on the Velib free bikes and they can be very unpredictable. I've stopped to take a picture of a graffiti image on a building. Behind me are three women, from the sound of their thick accents, all tourists. "What do you think the meaning of it is?" asks one. "I don't know. Normally I can understand these things. I'm very intelligent you know. I'm hyper intelligent, but I don't understand that one." The intelligent one turns out to be Argentinian, the other two are Americans. Only in Paris, I think to myself.

Self Portrait in Paris

I'm getting overwhelmed with the many things to see. As I ride along there are so many things to observe and write down: The tramp sleeping in the doorway of a school. Another tramp sitting on a bench, head bowed down, while next to him three Korean tourists are taking pictures of their brightly-coloured shoes on the cobbled street. The woman in a fur-trimmed coat (it's a warm sunny day) and high heels riding a petrol powered scooter (not a motorbike, but one of those platforms on little wheels you stand on).

The trusty steed at Notre Dame

I've stopped at Notre Dame to take a photograph. At the same time I'm eavesdropping on the explanation a tour guide with an American accent is giving his group. He's explaining French history and what caused the revolution and he's doing a pretty good job of making a good story out of it. Then two French guys I happen to be next to start a conversation with me about the Chemin de Compostelle. Obviously they have noticed my scallop shell. "My wife and I did the journey last year" one says. 'It was hard, we did too many kilometres each day. My wife made me do it, we did 148km on the first day. It was crazy." Everywhere you go you come across people who have either made (some of) the journey, out at least know about it.

I am riding to the tourist office (there are several branches in Paris, but only one is open on a Sunday) when a young woman on a bicycle passes and notices my mirror: "Ah c'est géniale!" she exclaims as she rides past me.

The route I am following through Paris becomes a sort of trip down memory lane. First it goes past rue des Ecoles where we first lived when we moved to Paris in 2003. Then I ride past the apartment on Boulevard Brune where we lived when we came to stay in Paris for the first time as a family in 1991. Then suddenly I am riding past the site of the Schlumberger offices where I first worked in the early 1980's. And finally, the friend's place I am staying at tonight is close to the offices in the southern outskirts of the Paris where I worked for 7 years. Lots of reminiscing today.

I lived near here and never realised the significance of the street name