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

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.

Day 7a: Cambrai to Noyon (92km)

That is so frustrating! While riding, you think of an interesting anecdote or story for the blog and compose the perfect bit of prose in your head, planning to write it down at the next stop. And at the next stop the only thing you can remember of your masterpiece is the fact that you'd wanted to write something down.

Everything you need is this way

Yesterday I came across two Dutch bikers on their way to Santiago. After having seen them a couple of times we finally stopped at the same place and had a chat (which is when I discovered that they were on their way to Santiago and confirmed my assumption that they were Dutch). Their bikes were incredibly heavily laden, with double pannier bags at the back as well as the front, as well as another bag on top. One of the bikes also had a random collection of loose clothing tied on the back, flapping in the wind. "You're carrying a lot", I observe. "We have everything we need" one guy explains. "In that bag I have my tent, my sleeping bag and mattress and a chair" he explains. "In that bag is my cooking stuff..." He continues explaining things, but I'm still back at the chair. A chair? You want to ride to Spain carrying your own chair? I think this to myself of course and briefly consider telling them that they might find it a little challenging hauling that load over the mountains in Spain, but I think better off it. I think of the (Dutch, as it happens) saying that says: 'Alles dat je achterlaat is meegenomen' which is a bit of a play on words and means, more or less, 'Whatever you leave behind will make your journey easier'.

After yesterday's rainy ride, I check all the forecasts to see if there is a consensus. The guys I am staying with helpfully bemoan the terrible weather that's coming for the next four days, but the forecasts are generally not too grim. It's cold and damp when I leave, which it will stay the whole day. The whole day I am cold, even though it warms up to a balmy 12 degrees in the afternoon. It is almost summer, after all. It's one of the challenges when you're riding on a cold day: keeping warm without overheating. My wind-blocking yellow riding vest helps a lot and I am constantly opening it when riding uphill (generating plenty of my own heat) and closing it again on the downhill runs when the wind chill is significant.

Watchtower - all that remains of a former settlement

Soon after starting, I pass the Abbeye de Vaucelles. This is located in a bit of a valley and there's mist, and it's cold. The roosters are crowing occasionally, but otherwise there is complete silence. It seems an appropriate ambience for these massive buildings dating from 1132, giving witness to the former glory of the settlement.

Later I pass through Catelet. The route into this village is through a grim street of dilapidated houses with dilapidated cars parked in front, with people who stare at you with mouths slightly agape and follow your progress as you pass with a look of 'I wonder what that was' on their faces. I ride on.

A cement pigeon is a good pigeon

Throughout the day I pass more stone and cement ornaments in front gardens and sitting on fence posts. Pigeons on the fence is a new one. I am writing this while three cement pigeons stare down at me: I am not a fan of pigeons, but I can deal with cement ones. Next I come across dice standing on their corner on each fence post. Lions with their paw not on a ball in the Chinese style (although I've seen those too) but with their paw on a coat of arms. There's swans, gnomes, frogs, cherubs, pelicans, windmills, a tortoise and more. I ride through one village where gnomes seem to have become a theme, with several gardens clearly trying to outdo each other in the number of garden ornaments per square metre.

Although I didn't have to climb any mountains, the route is certainly becoming more vertically challenging than it has been so far. The day has its ups and downs, literally. And as I learnt last year, for every down there's an up, or for every up there will be a down, depending on how you look at these things. You struggle up a long climb with the thought that a nice downhill run is coming; conversely you enjoy a free ride on a nice downhill run knowing that on the other side you'll be struggling up another climb. On one memorable occasion today I briefly exceeded the speed limit entering a town at 62 km/h after coming down an impressively long hill. The long climb out the other side of town was my penalty.

Over dinner last night, apart from politics, the discussion inevitably turned to food. It's like when you're eating out at a restaurant; how often is out that the conversation is about other restaurants you've eaten at and other meals you've had? And as always happens at some point when I'm traveling internationally, I am asked that awkward question: what are the typical dishes in Australia? Maybe I am missing something, but I always have to fall back to generalisations about Australia having taken on board cuisines from all over the world, without having any typical dishes itself. Yes, we do eat Kangaroos (although I think that was more a passing fashion than anything else) and no, we don't eat emus. To highlight this quandary, one of the (French) guys proposes Lamingtons as a typical dish. Fosters beer and Lamingtons; these seem to be the internationally accepted idea of Australian cuisine.

Cute, but soon to be roadkill

Near the end of today's ride I spot movement on the side of the road as I cycle past (slowly, since I am going uphill). It's a hedgehog, which up to now I've only seen in its 'ex-Hedgehog' flattened state. I stop and cautiously go up to it, not wanting to frighten it. Then I discover why there are so many flat hedgehogs around; the hedgehog doesn't run away, it doesn't attack me; it does nothing. It just continues snuffling around in the grass. When I get really close (I am holding my phone camera inches from it for a close up) it simply freezes. Cute, but likely to be short lived if it stays by the roadside.

I reach Noyon, with its impressive cathedral, at 17:45. I head straight for the tourist office in the hope that it might still be open (I want a stamp for my passport, and plan to leave early in the morning, before the office is likely to open). I am pleasantly surprised to find the office open and I get my stamp. I find out that the cathedral is open until 19:00; quite different to the closed churches I have encountered so far. So I head to the cathedral and go inside. I always find it amazing that places like this, hundreds of years old, containing priceless treasures, are simply left open and unattended. I'm glad that at least in some places this is still possible. As I'm leaving, getting my bike ready, a guy walks past and asks me whether I'm on the Camino and would I like a stamp? He's the guardian of the cathedral and he's come to lock up for the night. And so I finally get my first 'real' stamp (from the cathedral as opposed to those given by the tourist office).

Approaching Noyon: bends and Cathedral

The place I am staying at tonight has no breakfast and I have another long ride tomorrow. Then again, it is not possible to go riding with only a French breakfast as sustenance in any case. Coffee and yesterday's baguette toasted and served with jam is not a sound basis for a day's riding. I will have to improvise.

Sleeping in a different bed each night

Last time I went on the Camino, in Spain, I did not book anything ahead. Actually, that's not entirely true; I booked two nights in a hostel in Santiago, the day before I expected to arrive there, figuring if there was one place it was going to busy, it was there. And I wanted a place in the centre of town so I could just walk into town. But apart from that, each night was a different adventure, not knowing where I'd stop, nor where I'd sleep for the night. I had no idea how long I would (and could) ride each day, nor did I want to be restricted to a schedule. Since I was on a well-established walking route, I knew that there would be somewhere around every 5km, as long as I wasn't fussy about the type of accommodation. Generally this worked out fine although there were a couple of near misses, notably on my very first day when I had to ride an extra 16km at the end of an already long and tiring day, before finally finding a bed for the night (and it was a pretty dodgy one at that).

This time around, after initially planning to take each day as it came, I decided in the end to plan where I'd spend each night ahead of time. That was a risk, since it would restrict my freedom and also force me to ride a certain distance each day. But I was riding in a holiday season and accommodation options were not as plentiful as they were in Spain, so I booked ahead, although of course each place was still an unknown.

In the Netherlands and some of Belgium I used the very impressive Vrienden op de Fiets (friends on bikes). This is a network of 'bed & breakfast' places, but in the original sense of term: you are essentially invited into the home of people, you get to use the spare bedroom and maybe also the rest of the house. They are generally not commercial establishments (although some are) and your experience can vary widely. Only the price is fixed: €19 for bed and breakfast, which is great value.

Dutch breakfast - ready for the day's riding

My first night is in a beautifully restored old village house. Clearly no expense has been spared on the restoration, and it has been nicely extended as well. It's recently done and everything is neat and tidy, furnished with care and attention.  My room is one of two in the upstairs area, and I have a bathroom almost all to myself. The son is also spending a night and had access to it as well ,(although he used the main bathroom). Breakfast is impressive in both the quantity and the variety, but is unmistakably Dutch. After breakfast the host of the house asks me to add a comment to the visitor's book. When I open it, I discover that it's empty. I am their very first guest. They take some pictures of me with the hostess and my bike to mark the occasion. It's a great start to my accommodation journey.

The second night I stay in an older somewhat rundown house lived in by an older woman. She's a lovely, if slightly unusual, lady. It's an old house, stuck in the sixties or probably earlier. Any renovations or alterations were done fifty years ago and nothing's changed since. There's stuff and old junk piled all over the place, except the living room which is fairly tidy and seems to have made it into the seventies at least. The old fridge in the kitchen is obviously struggling (it may well be from the seventies too) because it's not very cold in there. Still, I am offered to help myself to a beer which is cold enough today. She gives me her keys (which turn out later to be not a spare set, but her keys). The toilet has the cistern lid removed with a written note left on the seat with instructions on how to flush. There's a fluffy cat cover on the toilet seat. Above the hand basin there's a shelf on which there is a jumbo sized can of air freshener and a large can of WD40; not something you'd normally expect to find in a toilet. Then I realise it's probably to fix the problematic cistern. The toilet and bathroom are in an extension out the back of the original house, together with a laundry area. It's not a particularly welcoming area, but at least it's functional. The matching fluffy bathmat set only adds to the overall impression.

The woman is extremely generous with her time and when I ask whether she knows where I can get a stamp for my pilgrim passport she makes it her mission to find out, which she does after an impressive bit of research on her part.

My third night is spent in what is essentially a farm house, but which is now surrounded by only a small field , with a pony and goat to help with lawn mowing. An old wooden circus mobile home is set up in the garden as guest accommodation. But I get the recently-converted upstairs unit in the main building, which includes a little kitchen and sitting area as well as a bedroom and bathroom. It's all very well equipped. I'm offered a drink (a beer, why not) on arrival. The couple running the place are very friendly and chatty and I learn that the house actually belonged to the woman's grandparents, and that her parents lived in a house we can just see a few hundred metres away. The guy says his father in law used to tell him to trim the trees otherwise he couldn't see what they were up to.

The Dutch biking couple who arrive after me get the caravan, which means they have to go into the house to use the bathroom (the host is building a little mini caravan to use as a bathroom for the main caravan). I have the little studio apartment all to myself, which is just fine by me.

From my three-night experience, I have to say I am very impressed with the Vrienden op de Fiets organisation.

My next night is actually the first one I booked; the Youth Hostel in Tournai. I thought to stay in more youth hostels, but they are rather few and far between in this part of Europe (they seem to be much more common in Germany, for example) and don't suit my route at all. It's a nicely restored old building in the old city, with lovely old wooden staircases. It's similar in quality to the massive council hostel in Burgos, but with small four-bed rooms. The snoring is the same though.