2019 Bike Ride - Day 7: Montargis to Briare

A dark morning with rain (as forecast). I get my wet weather gear on and set off. The first stop is at the tourist office to get a stamp for my credencial (pilgrim passport). I also ask about the condition of the route path along the Canal de Briare which I plan to follow. This morning is asked my host and she thought that some of it may have been sealed and also told me that they'd spoiled it by putting fences along it so you couldn't fall in anymore. We used to go swimming when we were kids, she added. True to form, both these pieces of information will prove to be less than accurate (the fences and the path surface, not the part about them swimming as kids). But back to the tourist office. The woman there tells me proudly that their region has sealed the whole length of the path, at least the past that's in their region. I don't know about the other regions, she adds unhelpfully. So far, the entire length (I've ridden about half) has been sealed and is in excellent condition.

Along the canal there have regularly been small platforms, like mini jetties. I had thought that these might be for boats to tie up to for short stops, although there are other obvious areas for that, equipped with bollards and often even picnic facilities. Then I discovered what they were for: fishing. I've seen lots of fishermen along the way. They are always men and almost always come in pairs, although you do see the occasional solitary one. Then I came across a pair sitting on one of this little platforms and it dawned on me that this might be their intended use. They've probably been installed by the French federation of fishermen. There seems to be a federation for just about everything in France; fishing, camping, caravanning, kayaking and so forth. So why is it that fishing is a predominantly male pastime? It's like cycling. You don't ever seen to see female cyclists decked out in their Lycra riding past in their pelotons. Actually I realise that I've made these observations before but there's still no good answer.

Emergency reserves?

The rain isn't very heavy and lasts less than an hour. I get brave enough to take off my wet weather gear and although there's the occasional drizzle it's not as bad as I had thought it would be. At Montbouy I ride into the little village (which has, like so many little villages in France, an impressively large church) and spot a boulangerie. Since I had only a banana for breakfast I convince myself I'm entitled to a morning croissant. Once inside I throw caution to the wind and buy a piece of the freshly made pizza for my lunch. Not very French, I know, even if they call it a 'fougasse' and not pizza. I eat my croissant under a little shelter tacked onto the side of the church; it's raining a little. Something in the wall of the church catches my eye. There's a small niche in the wall, nothing more than a couple of the stones that the wall is made of are missing. But what's caught my eye isn't the niche, it's the tin of mackerel (unopened) and plate which is in the niche. There must be a story there; is it some form of offering? Or maybe a cache left there by someone for later use? Just another one of those little mysteries that will never get solved.

I continue my ride and the rain gets a bit heavier. I stop under the shelter of a large tree and put on my jacket. I get back on the bike to ride off, but something's clearly not right. Sure enough, I have a puncture! My first puncture in 4,000km of riding, so really I can't complain. But I do anyway. It's raining; not the best conditions to be repairing my tyre. And it's the rear tyre, slightly more difficult to work with. Still, it could be worse. I'm near Dammarie-sur-Loing, a little town, so there's a backup if it turns out that I need it. And the next lock is just a short walk ahead, maybe I can find some shelter at one of the buildings there. So I walk the bike to the lock and as luck would have it one of the buildings there does indeed have a little bit of a sheltered spot, just enough for me to set up my bicycle repair workshop and stay relatively dry. I unpack the bike, take the wheel off, find the puncture, repair it and put everything back together again. Could be worse. Except now it's raining heavily so I decide it must be Pizza time. Anyway, I feel I've earned it. By the time I've finished my pizza then rain has eased if a bit and I continue my ride.

I've been riding along the canal for two days and have yet to see an actual boat. They appear to be doing maintenance work on one of the sections of the canal, so perhaps that explains the lack of traffic. I later hear that this is also related to the fact that there's not enough water available to 'run' the canal. Yesterday when I was riding along the Seine there were, of course, quite a lot of boats and a lot of barges. The barges tend to double as houseboats and often have a car parked on them, and often also have homely things like a BBQ and out plants on the decks. The other thing that I find interesting is they all seem to have Lace curtains, I guess perhaps this is the influence of the lady of the house(boat). I even passed what appeared to be an impromptu barge workshop, complete with a very derelict looking barge; it had lace curtains.

Canal riding

So my puncture is repaired and I'm on my way again, following the tow path, enjoying the new bitumen. Until it suddenly ends. There's a big sign saying end of the resurfacing works. Find your own way from here, or words to that effect. So I navigate along some local roads until I spot a bike route sign again, back to a sealed surface on the tow path. I stop at Rogny-les-sept-ecluses which is a little place that seems to exist because of the fact that the famous seven locks (now incorporated into the name of the town) were built here. A little bit of history: the canal de Briare, which I am following, was actually built in the 17th century, in the time of Henri IV. That in itself I find just astounding. The lock keeper's houses all have dates marked on them, mostly around 1888, which is already old enough. But the actual canal and its innovative system of locks, dates from 1642. The canal is a so-called 'summit level canal', meaning that it joins two rivers, but passes over terrain in between which is higher than both the rivers. There's 36 locks and the canal rises 41m and then falls back down 85m. Which explains why although I'm riding along a flat tow path I've also been gaining and then losing altitude. The 7 locks was an interesting system of directly connected locks, to change the level quickly. It turned out that this wasn't very practical once the amount of traffic on the canal increased and the height change was subsequently managed using more widely spaced locks.

Just after the 7 locks, the path abruptly ends again and becomes grass, but at least it's been mowed. I remember reading about this section, something along the lines of that it's an impassable forest unless it's just been mowed. I figure this should be ridable so we'll see how that goes. As it turns out, it doesn't go for long because as soon as I get back on the bike I sense that same 'deflated' feeling again. Sure enough, I have another puncture! This must be a sign that I should stay on the sealed path.

Canal-side repairs

So there I am with the bike in pieces and my bags arranged on the ground around it when a guy arrives in one of those mini cars you don't need a licence for (a rather odd concept, only in France.) He's friendly and helpful and explains that with the wet weather the rubber gets softer so it's obvious that I would get punctures. "If you want to cut rubber, you wet it first",  he explains. "They use flint for the gravel paths here and it can be really sharp" he continues. I'm not sure whether this information is meant to reassure me, but it doesn't. My second puncture is right next to the first, meaning I either missed it the first time or there something still in the tyre which has re-punctured the tube. Neither should be the case since I was pretty thorough with the first repair. But I check the inside of the tyre again, obviously more carefully this time, and sure enough discover a tiny sliver of flint inside the tyre. I must have missed it the first time. The guy obviously has experience with these paths!

Did I mention wind in an earlier post? That wind was from the NE when I was riding in that direction and so was a headwind. Now I'm riding to the SW, so that same wind would have been a nice tailwind now. But of course it doesn't work that way in real life: yesterday and today there has indeed been wind, and there's quite a lot of it,  but it has turned and it's now from the SW bringing the rain with it and meaning that, yet again, I have a headwind.

I'm getting closer to my destination when I come to a bridge where two guys are working; they're replacing all the timber decking and the bridge is barricaded. I start a mental calculation of how far I am going to have to double back to detour and it's not a nice number. But then I realise they are packing up so I approach the guy and plead my case; can I cross? It's going to cost you, is his cheeky reply. Actually, we were just about to open it, you can be the first to cross, he continues. Just think, if I hadn't had those two punctures is have arrived her while they were still working on the bridge and probably would have had to detour around it. Funny how things work out sometimes.

Briare after the rains

I arrive at Briare, where the famous bridge is that takes the canal over the Loire river. The heavens open with an impressive downpour forcing me, and several others, to shelter with the rubbish bins under an awning until it passes. Then the sun comes out, there's an equally impressive rainbow and the bridge looks stunning, glistening in the bright sunlight.

I'm staying at an old farm complex near a small town. According to my host, who does actually know something about the local amenities, there are three restaurants and two fast food takeaway pizza places. Not bad for a little town, although I suppose it's location on the Loire cycle route might have something to do with this. The first restaurant I know from my research, and it's highly rated. It's also closed tonight. The other two are both open. I ride into town and find both of the open restaurants closed. One has a little sign saying 'closed for renovation' and the other has a single light on inside but otherwise no indication of any activity nor why it isn't open. One of the pizza places is not doing table service tonight, only takeaway. The other looks decidedly dodgy. Given that I had a piece of pizza for lunch, pizza isn't at the top of my things-I-want-to-eat-tonight list. It's not looking good. I ride back to the restaurant that had a light on and notice that there are now some more lights on. There's a woman looking out the door. I ride up and, even though the place doesn't look very appealing, I am happy to discover that it's now actually open. So in I go. The woman, who obviously has seen me coming offers to go round the back and open up her courtyard for me so I can park the bike safely.

It turns out to be an unexpectedly good evening, with my low expectations being significantly exceeded. The woman is the owner, and she's running the show alone tonight. For a while it looks like it's going to be just her and me, but a bit later two other guys arrive, Parisians who are passing through for work. My entire meal, including the wine, is essentially custom designed according to my requests. She opens a bottle of the local wine for me, so I can have a small carafe of it instead of the standard carafe wine (even though this wine is technically only available by the bottle), she makes various changes to the meal based on our discussions and my requests, she prepares some cheese that's not on the menu and so forth. It's like eating at her place, which I suppose I am.   A nice outcome after all.

It is, of course, pitch black during the ride along the bike path to my farm B&B. Again, I am glad to have good lights on the bike. Dinner has taken over 2 1/2 hours although it didn't seem like that long.

Briare - sleeping at the farm

2019 Bike Ride - Day 6: Fontainebleau to Montargis

This morning I decide that maybe I've been eating too many croissants and baguettes and other nice things found in French boulangeries. So I decide that I'll have fruit today and buy an apple and a banana at the local Carrefour City, conveniently close to my apartment. Then on the way back to the apartment I pass a nice looking boulangerie and buy a pain aux raisins for morning tea. I justify this because the raisins are fruit after all.

Some time later I'm sitting on a bollard. That's less unusual than it might sound given that I'm riding along the Seine River and I've stopped at the first set of locks I've come to. And at locks you need something to tie the boats on to when they're waiting for the lock to open, hence the bollard. It's quiet. In fact that's something that you notice when you ride a bike through rural France - the place is so quiet and there's almost nobody around.

This barge is "rooted"

Last night I was looking at various potential bike routes from Fontainebleau heading south when I discovered the Eurovelo 3 route. The Eurovelo routes are a whole network of bike routes throughout Europe, very well organised and covering some impressive distances. The EV3 is a pilgrim route that goes from Norway to Santiago and would be quite a ride if you did the whole thing. I discover that it passes close to Fontainebleau and then follows the river and canals south. Perfect! Bike paths along rivers are generally a nice choice: they are flat, and there's generally lots to see along the way. Easy choice.

The route makes a little detour through a small town (near the lock and the bollard). I'm riding along a narrow street and up ahead is a group (a gaggle?) of teenage schoolgirls. They are all, predictably, looking at their smartphones as they walk to school and are, of course, completely oblivious to their surroundings. I ding my little bell. No response. I ding it some more. Still no response. It's not until I am literally riding amongst them that they suddenly become aware of me. Just as well I'm a bike and not a car coming out of a side street.

Some time later, on a smooth gravel section of the path along the Canal du Loing, I hear the scrunch of tyres on gravel coming up behind and then a guy on a bike pulls up alongside. We chat; the usual stuff about where you're from and where are you heading and so on. He's not your normal French bike rider by a long shot. No Lycra to be seen, and an easygoing conversational attitude. Then he says: "I went to Santiago once, in a truck. I hated it." I'm thinking he might have been a truck driver or something (he is wearing work boots and orange work pants). "I hate them but my wife likes camping cars", he explains. His 'truck' is in fact his camping car. "This is my commute" he adds a bit later, now talking about the bike ride. "5 km along here every morning and afternoon, I love it." Sure beats sitting in traffic like other people, I add. "Yes I did that for three years, lost three hours every day and hated every minute. I'm a high school teacher", he adds by way of explanation; not that this really explains anything. "Four hours every day, that's enough", he adds with a grin.

Canal riding

I am serenely riding along the Chemin de halage - the canal tow path - I hear the 'ting' of a bicycle bell. That's odd I think - rather illogically - to myself, I didn't ring my bell. You don't normally hear bicycle bells here so the only one I am used to hearing is my own. I come to my senses and move over to the side of the path and seconds later a rather large woman zooms past on her electric bike, with no visible effort at all. No sign of recognition either, apart from the bell.

I'm staying at a couple's house just outside the centre of Montargis. I navigate to the address and find myself at what at first impression looks like a 'standard' French house of the suburbs, probably about 50 years old. Something is a bit odd, but I can't put my finger on it.

I push the doorbell on the gate and a little while later one of the windows at the front of the house opens and a woman pops her head out. Just open the gate she says, there's a little catch at the top. It's only then that I realise what it is that was odd about this house: there's no front door. In fact, as it turns out, the front door is at the back. Or perhaps more accurately, there is indeed no front door (an architectural oversight?) And the only way in and out of the house is around the back through the kitchen.

I have my own room, and they've gone to some effort to make it homely and there's some nice touches. Their house is shall we say, interesting. It's small and cluttered. The stairs to the second floor are extraordinarily steep. The shower is one of those modular units that's seen better days. They are a little alternative, in a 60's sort of way. In the back yard there's a campervan that's definitely seen better days. It's too polluting so it doesn't pass the roadworthy test anymore, the host explains. Never mind the broken headlights, the rust and the general air of being a wreck. Now it just serves us as a garden store she explains (a little redundantly).

I ask my hosts for restaurant recommendations for dinner tonight. I draw a blank: we don't go out much, I am told. Fair enough, but you'd think if you're going to have guests staying, it might be an idea to have some information for them. At least some idea of what's available in the town to see and maybe where to have a meal. There's an Asian place down the road he volunteers. We've never been there but we hear it's good. I consult the internet and find a place that's not only open on a Monday night, but also has a lot of good reviews and sounds a bit quirky. Even better, I can book it online, which as we'll see turns out to be a good strategy.

I walk into town for dinner. As is often the case, the approach to the city centre isn't a particularly nice area. It was the same when I arrived by bike earlier; the route led me though an area of HLM (social housing) and groups of idle men hanging around the local shops and halal butchery. Now, as I enter the town centre, I am greeted by Whitney Houston, or at least her voice. I will always love you, she sings. Maybe it's the Montargis theme song? Clearly this is one of those towns you find all over France that has a public address system wired throughout the town and they like playing music, presumably because it's more pleasant than announcements. Maybe they feel that they need to get value for their investment in the system. But silence would be better.

Montargis

I'm walking the streets of the city centre, checking out the shops. Lots of them are empty, for rent, for sale, sold. There's Sushi Love, Kebab chez Unit (halal), la Maison de la  Praline, the ubiquitous Tabac, la Chocoteque, Valege lingerie, Réparation Express (smartphones toutes marques), the French Coffee Shop (sic), La Coiffure a petits prix, Asia Délices (Traiteur Chinois), Système D e-cigarettes, Don Quixote bar à tapas, le Griffon (chasse, tir, armurerie, Glock self-action pistols), le Tonic (spécialités Turques) and finally Le Gambetta (Sushi). So we're back to sushi again. Really, this place has it all!

Although they have clearly made some effort to make the place pretty, Montargis is not an attractive town. They bill themselves as the 'Venice of the Gâtinais' and there is some attempt to capitalise on the several canals through the town, together with their bridges. There's a way to go however. The pole with an empty dispenser of dog poo bags, together with a sign encouraging people to pick up after their dogs, placed in a small cleared area absolutely covered in dog shit is sort of emblematic of the problem facing this town.

The restaurant I've chosen is almost empty when I arrive and at first I think that perhaps I wasted my time booking. But within a half hour of my arrival, the place is packed and throughout the next hour or so the waiter is continually turning hopeful arrivals away. There's several larger groups who have all obviously booked. This is a popular place. I did well having booked after all. The decoration is eclectic and interesting. I particularly like the box graters used as lampshades in a couple of the hanging lamps. There's a Johnny Hallyday LP on the table as a placemat. It's from 1960 and one of the tracks is 'Itsy bitsy petit bikini'. Classic. Next to my table there's a little niche with amongst other things an old recipe book 'the real cuisine of the family' - 1000 recipes, all generous, healthy, economical and simple. Wonderful.

I step out of the restaurant to find everything is wet - rain! Well, at least it isn't raining right now or my walk home will be very wet. But I've left my washing, which was virtually dry before I left, still hanging on the line. It wasn't supposed to rain until tomorrow. Perhaps the fact that it's rained now might mean no rain tomorrow for my ride, I think wishfully. I arrive back to find my washing is no longer in the line, the host has taken it in for me. She greets me in her light blue fluffy dressing gown as I let myself into the house (I have a key). I get the impression they have been waiting up for me. She asks whether I found a place to eat, and when I tell her the name of the restaurant she says: "A yes, we had an anniversary dinner there once. One of the guests told us about it. It was nice." And I'm thinking; isn't it strange that this didn't come up when I asked her for a restaurant recommendation before I left?

Coffee and dessert

2019 Bike ride - Day 5: Saclas to Fontainebleau

Breakfast of coffee in a bowl, French style (despite there being lots of everything in the house, I can't find any cups) and yoghurt and bananas, all bought at the Arabe du coin last night. Enough to keep me riding for a while.

Just out of Roinvilliers, I almost get run over by a group of ten or so bike riders who come from the right at high speed. They are, of course, all males, and are, of course, all dressed in their colourful Lycra suits. They turn right, into the road ahead of me but one of them misses the turn and goes straight on. When the others realise what's happened they quickly shout to each other not to go back or wait, but to go faster and leave him behind. Team spirit and all that. The sole rider turns around and as he comes up beside me, by way of greeting, he says: The bastards left me behind! And he pushes on up the hill in pursuit of his mates.

Just after Prunay-Sur-Essonne I stop by the river at a nice spot near a bridge (probably in the grounds of the nearby château). A beautiful white swan swims up to me and I share my croissant with it.

Rain coming

All day long the rain threatens. The weather forecast has been for rain, and lots of it. It's nice riding with a bit of cloud cover, both because it makes the sky more interesting and also because it means I don't have to worry so much about getting sunburnt. And it's not nearly as hot as it was yesterday. I get a few spots of rain but nothing serious, although I do notice that in some areas the road is quite wet, so there have definitely been showers which luckily I have missed. The ride is pleasant and progress is quick. I don't know whether it's because I am getting fitter (probably not) or maybe it's me trying to stay ahead of the rain or perhaps it's just the road and countryside.

At one stage the route takes me on to a small path which becomes a pretty tough track. I hear gunfire not too far away and remember that Sunday is hunting day. You see occasional groups of cars parked in the middle of nowhere and every now and then you see groups of hunters with their rifles walking through the fields. I just hope that they don't mistake me for something they're hunting.

Riding through the Forêt de Fontainebleau

I'm approaching the Forêt de Fontainebleau, part of the reason I came this way; to be able to ride though the forest. Now the rain is more than a few spots and I wonder whether I'm going to make it all the way without significant rain; it's looking questionable. I briefly stop in a bus shelter, which takes me back to my first ride along the Camino de Santiago when I hid from an absolute torrential downpour in a bus shelter near the Spanish coast. But for now the rain holds off and I continue into the forest, which is just gorgeous riding. There's an enormous number of paths through these forests, ranging from paved roads to little tracks. I've chosen a paved path which traverses a large part of the forest. It's lovely riding. A bit of road and then a little detour to an intersection of nine paths radiating out in a star pattern into the forest. Then, rather unexpectedly my chosen path becomes a rough little track, just as some more rain falls. It's not until I enter the city that the rain starts in earnest. I have only a couple of kilometres to go but it's enough for me to get wet. I arrive at the place which will be my apartment for the night, carry my bike down some narrow stairs into the cellar (were there is only just enough room for the bike) and then climb three flights of stairs up to the apartment, carrying my bags. The apartment is lovely and right in the centre of the city. It's been a good day's ride.

I'm in the restaurant I've selected for dinner. Being a Sunday, many restaurants are closed, so my choice is a bit limited. Tonight I'm going Italian and although I've been seated upstairs (often the area where the overflow and leftovers are seated) the food is good as is the (Italian) wine. When I am shown my place, the upstairs room is almost empty and I prepare for a lonely meal. But after about 10 minutes the room is almost full and throughout the evening each time a table is vacated it's almost immediately filled again. It's a popular place. The staff is all Italian, which I take as a good sign of authenticity. There is plenty to keep me occupied, apart from the food. There's the table of a family of four. All are wearing matching black plastic glasses; I guess the poor eyesight genes were strong in that family.  The parents are talking to each other and kids are talking to each other. Not much interaction otherwise. I entertain myself during the (good!) meal by imagining the stories behind all the groups. Everyone's got a smartphone and it's impressive how many people are using theirs during dinner; sometimes everyone at the table is on their phone and not interacting with each other. The table of four black glasses has no phones; they are at least taking with each other.

At the table on my left, the (teenage) daughter has just got up in a huff and left in the middle of the meal. And I thought their conversation was going so well (no smartphones were involved). On my right and older couple both have their phones at hand, checking them often. The table on my left is occupied again, coincidentally by another family of three. Again, parents with a child, but this time it's a boy and he's quite a bit younger. He reads the menu to his parents. I suppose he won't get up and leave in a huff like his predecessor.

I walk back to the apartment, noticing how few people are in the other restaurants that are open.

Sunset over Fontainebleau

2019 Bike Ride - Day 4: Chartres to Saclas

So I decide to head back into the old town of Chartres this morning and have a look around, rather than setting off early which I had planned to do. I also want to get a stamp for my credencial, since the one I got at the cathedral gift shop yesterday was not actually the correct one, and on top of that it was badly stamped. The tourist office doesn't open until 10:00 so I have a couple of hours to kill, although of course there's plenty to see. When I finally get to the tourist office, there's already a queue of people waiting for it to open. Finally it's my turn, only to be told that the pilgrim stamps are given at the Café Serpente opposite the south door of the cathedral, and not at the tourist office. Only in France. Of course this should be obvious: in one of the main pilgrim destinations in France, it's at a local café where you have to go for the stamp that proves that you, as a pilgrim, have passed through the town. And had I known, I could have come here earlier and been on my way hours ago. Very French.

Chartres - Self Portrait

Chartres is putting on a light show tonight. Perhaps if I'd known, I might have planned my trip differently and stayed another night. Perhaps not, since light shows are hardly the reason for my journey. Last night I'd already seen some of the installations set up, each one with a security guard. This morning the guards are all still there. For some reason, the security guards are all black. Whether this is by design or just coincidence is probably a politically incorrect train of thought. But there it is; they're all black.

I'm sitting on the grass on the Place de l'Eglise at Allainville having my lunch picnic. There's a stop sign on the road that passes the square. A pretty pointless one it must be said, since there's actually no side road, just the square. But all the cars passing are dutifully stopping, most impressive. Allainville is not a big town, in fact it's hardly a little village. But of course it has a church and so it has a Place de l'Église. It seems that in this part of France whoever invented the names of the towns must have had the idea that the name of each town should include the word 'town', perhaps just to emphasise the fact that it is indeed the name of a town. So we have Morainville, Roinville,  Francourville, Houville-la-Blanche, and so it goes on.

Chartres - Trompe l'Oeil

The ride is longer than I'd planned, partly because it's rather hot today and I'm riding fully exposed through open fields for most of the day. And little roads, which I try to take to avoid the traffic and make life more interesting, tend not to follow the most direct route. I'm tired by the end of it. Near the end of the day's ride I pass by an airfield and am entertained by a couple of planes doing circuits over my head. The road I'm following meanders around enough for both planes to complete three circuits in the time I've ridden under their approach path.

Marthe, my host for the night, is a sprightly 90 years old. She's lost her husband 5 months ago but seems to be the sort of person who just gets on with life and although she mentions the loss it's more by way of explanation that she been a bit busy with arranging things "paperwork and so on" and hasn't really had time to keep the guest house on order. She doesn't normally take guests, but the owner of the B&B I had tried to book suggested I give her a call. His place was fully booked, but he said that his neighbour (using the term rather loosely as it turns out) might be able to help out, as a favour. And so she did; making a small house next to hers, essentially a two-story "granny flat", available to me for the night. Wonderful.

Chartres - Cathedral reflection

When I arrive we spend a while chatting and I admire her garden, which is obviously a labour of love and stretches up the hillside above her house. It reminds me a bit of Wendy Whitley's secret garden in Sydney: lots of little paths zig zag up the slope, unexpected little bits and pieces all over the place, and the whole thing at once ramshackle and planned. She takes me on a tour of the garden and we climb up the meandering pathway. I'm amazed at how she manages this since the path is steep, full of slippery bits, and the strong stones are all at odd angles.

The guest house is very lived in, being used by her granddaughters as well as herself (her artist studio is upstairs). It's full of all sorts of clutter and collections of things acquired over the decades. Shelves of books, paintings covering the walls, lots of large mirrors - she must have a thing for mirrors. I see myself walking throughout the house, climbing the stairs, getting into and out of the bed. There's multiples of lots of things, like people have brought something with them when they last visited forgetting that there was already one there; toasters, coffee makers, cleaning products, saucepans and so forth.

After doing my chores, with the help of a rather recalcitrant washing machine, I head back into the village and the restaurant.

I had asked Marthe whether the restaurant in the village is any good (a rhetorical question, really, since there's only one so that's where I'm likely to have dinner, good or not.) I know there's a restaurant since I've both seen it in my research about this town, and I've ridden past it on the way to her house. Yet she says that as far as she knows, and she's lived here 35 years, there's no restaurant. Just the "Arabe du coin" which is a colloquial expression for the local corner store, which in this case proves accurate, since the shop is indeed on a corner, and the owners are Arabic.

Before I go to the restaurant I visit the Arabe du coin, to buy a couple of things for breakfast. At the restaurant I ask the owner how long they've been open; they've been there for 1 1/2 years having taken over from the previous owners. Marthe probably doesn't go out much, and I can imagine she's not someone to spend time in the local restaurant.

The restaurant is not a busy place; there's only one table occupied when I arrive. A younger couple and what might be the mother, or mother in law (probably both).  And under the table is the dog. Only in France. It's a big dog, but it's well behaved it must be said and I only realise it's there when I see that what I at first thought was a large handbag or something, had paws. Still, I am sitting in the outside courtyard and they, complete with dog, are sitting inside, which seems a bit counter intuitive. Smokers are made to sit outside in France, but dogs still get to be inside. Both the woman and the man are on their phones. The mother and the dog just look bored.

Another young couple arrives, he's a smoker so they sit outside. Then an older foursome arrives, they have a dog so they sit inside. Theirs is a small dog and luckily neither dog seems interested in the other. Probably good restaurant training.

I appreciate my bike's good headlights during the ride back to my little house. It's pitch black and there's no street lights for much of the way.

Roinville - Yellow on Yellow

2019 Bike Ride - Day 3: Châteaudun to Chartres

It's even colder this morning; 8 degrees. I decide to wear long pants for the beginning of the ride. In the sun it's ok but in the shade I can definitely feel that's it's 8 degrees. The plan is to head out via the local  Intermarché, a large hypermarket on the outskirts of town to buy a lead for my phone battery. It doesn't open until 9:00 and when I get there at around 8:50 there's already a group of people waiting outside to get in. Interesting idea, queuing early to be at the shop when it opens. There's a McDonald's at the complex, so I throw caution to the winds and decide to go there for a coffee while I wait. I know this McDonald's since we've stopped here a couple of times in our drives to Versailles. The McDonald's is also closed; it opens at 09:00 as well. By the time I'm back at the supermarket I'm just in time to see the shutters open and the waiting crowd stream in. It's as if they are waiting for the Boxing Day sales! I buy some things for lunch while I'm here and then decide anyway to get that coffee from McDonald's. I go inside to the counter where there's a young woman stacking a machine with something. Order over there she says, nodding towards the automatic ordering machines that have largely replaced real people. Not even a hello or other greeting, I am clearly disturbing her first thing in the morning. I leave without my coffee, consoling myself that it would have been awful anyway.

Self Portrait

Later I approach a small village, Donnemain-Saint-Mamès, which my map claims has a café. By now I know better than to believe this - every village so far has only had boarded up shops - but to my surprise the Café de la Place is open. I go and have a coffee. I'm the only customer and the coffee is pretty bad; at least it meets my expectations. I sit on the square outside the local church and have my breakfast.

Bonneville is on my route. I know this town, but only from driving past it; the large buildings of some agricultural installation with rainbow colours were a landmark on our commute to Versailles. But we never actually made the effort to visit the town itself, so now I get to discover what it's like, and it's actually quite a nice place, with several old buildings including the old abbey which is now a psychiatric hospital.

There I am in Bonneville, I've just come out of the boulangerie where I've bought my morning tea when I see out of the corner of my eye something run across the road just as a car is passing. Clunk clunk as the wheels run over what turns out to be a cat. The cat is now literally in its death throes, lying in the middle of the road with its back legs kicking spasmodically. A few people have noticed and are looking. I think it's going to die says one, rather unnecessarily. I really don't know what I can do, and any thought of sitting at the café and having a coffee have disappeared. So I ride on, preoccupied with the cat and its death. I find a nice spot by the river where I can sit, forget about the cat, and eat my croissant aux amandes.

Lunch

There is some lovely riding along the Loir just out of Bonneville, the kind of ride that brings a smile to your face. The smile doesn't last however as I am soon back riding into the winds through exposed fields. And it will be like that for the next couple of hours or so. I stop during this part to have lunch: a picnic on the ground with a baguette, camembert and terrine de campagne. And a Côtes du Rhône to go with it all. This is France after all and I should get into the mood!

Close to Chartres I pass a large open area covered in fine gravel. There must be fifty or more people there, all engaged in games of boules. A very French way to spend your Friday afternoon. The path leaves the road and passes through a very pleasant park where there are lots of people out walking. I guess not many people work on Friday afternoon in Chartres.

The last part of the ride into Chartres takes me back again to an earlier ride; it reminds me of the approach to Burgos in Spain. The route follows a winding path through a forested park, along a stream. Very pleasant! Suddenly, up ahead, the famous cathedral pops out above the trees. I'm almost there.

Self Portrait with gnomes

I ride up to the cathedral (actually I walk the bike up a really steep part, I'm not up to riding that part anymore) and spend some time admiring the building and taking a photo of the bike next to the Chemin de Compostelle plaque. Memories of previous visits here come flooding back, including our first visit where we parked our campervan (with the kids on board) right in front of the cathedral for the night. You can't do that anymore! I head to the Auberge de Jeunesse and check in. It's a large but somewhat tired place, purpose built as a hostel with lots of good facilities which are now pretty run down. I almost have a heart attack when I get in the shower to discover only a single tap. A cold shower! Not even in Tamanrasset in the middle of the Sahara desert did I appreciate having a cold shower. And on top of that this shower has one of this press taps which gives you 5 seconds of water before turning itself off again. I press and press and press convinced that it's not possible that the shower could be cold. Sure enough, after what seems like a quarter of an hour (I am, of course, standing there naked and the windows are open - it is not pleasant) some lukewarm water finally appears.

Inside Chartres Cathedral

After doing my chores I head back into the old city to visit the cathedral. My timing is good since there's a service underway. The priest is African and I can't help bring taken back to my time in Africa. His accent is very African and I wonder how it must feel for some of the older people attending the service, who may well remember the African colonial times. Now the tables are turned, and it's an African preaching to them rather than the other way around. And in one of France's most famous cathedrals.

The restaurant I've selected for dinner turns out to look really appealing, until I spot the little note on the door: yes yes, we really are fully booked tonight. So I end up at my second choice, which is one of the restaurants right next to the cathedral. This type of place is normally worth avoiding, being tourist traps. But this one is recommended and I give it a go.

I'm sitting outside despite the cold. There are heaters. I try not to dwell on the environmental impact of having heaters outside. To my right is a table of Americans; two older couples. Not a word of French, not even a merci for the waiter. I ask them what wine they've chosen (they have a carafe, there are three different reds by carafe on the menu). I don't know, it's my wife who chose says the guy (his wife has just gone to the toilet). The other woman in the group helpfully tells me: it's the cheapest one.

The waitress takes orders without taking notes. She takes the orders for the table of four next to me, who complicate things, changing their minds, ordering multiple wines and she takes it all in her stride. She even stops by my table to ask if everything is going well, presumably having memorised the entire order. I am impressed. It reminds me how in French restaurants there are generally less waiters than, for example, in Australia. Yet they manage very well - they definitely have this well sorted and it's something that they could do better in Australia. 

The French table of four next to me also consists of two older couples (just like the Americans on my other side). Actually, they are not all that different. At both tables the men are doing all the talking. And at both tables, one guy seems to be the one who's in charge, or rather has decided he's the one to take control. But on the French table that guy seems obsessed with reading the menu out to the others, telling then what they should order, particularly with the wine. Ironically, they end up ordering wine by the carafe.

There's a group of young guys, seven of them, who've just arrived. One of them is Leonardo DiCaprio. At least he looks just like young Leonardo when he was saving Kate Winslet on the Titanic.  Three more guys arrive, so it's now a large table of ten. It turns out that it's Leonardo's birthday, at least he starts getting presents. A bottle of wine, a polo shirt... Lots of cheek kissing goes on - something you're not likely to see in a restaurant in Australia.

I navigate beck to my hostel, which is dark and empty.

Chartres Cathedral by night

2019 Bike Ride - Day 2: Vendôme to Châteaudun

I'm a bit curious to see what they serve the working youth of France for breakfast. Knowing that breakfast in France is normally not the highlight of the day my expectations are fairly low. And they're almost met: awful coffee from an automatic machine, a large basket of pieces of baguette (nice and fresh it must be said) and some trays with apricot jams, honey and butter. There's also another machine dispensing dubious orange juice. The surprise is the row of cereal dispensers, probably reflecting an Americanisation of the breakfast culture for the youth of France. I am shocked to discover that the choice of cereals consists of Coco Pops, chocolate flakes, Sugar Frosties and some other anonymous sugary confection. And they wonder why obesity rates are soaring! No muesli or any other even remotely healthy cereals are on offer. I spot a little sign next to a bell push: hostel guests (i.e. not the regular residents) push here for a viennoiserie (croissant or pain au chocolat). A special treat for the paying guests. The woman offers me a yoghurt as well.

It's cold this morning - 10 degrees - and I can see the trees swaying in the stiff breeze. It looks like another hard ride.

Vendôme near the youth hostel

I start the ride by going back into the town; a little out of my way, but I want to go to the Chapelle St Jacques. I am on the Chemin St Jacques after all. As I ride I am thinking maybe I should put another layer on (I'm already wearing three) because it's actually pretty chilly, particularly with the wind. I've stopped to take a photograph of the graffiti artwork and am passed by a guy on a bike wearing just a t-shirt and shorts. I guess the cold is relative.

As you ride you obviously have time to think about all sorts of things. Today's ride is reminding me of the first day setting off from Amsterdam a few years ago, riding along the dykes through the tulip fields. There's no tulips here on the path along the Loir River, but it's pretty flat and so should be easy going. Except, that is, when there's a strong blustery headwind. It was like that in Holland and it's like that now. You expect the riding to be easy and it's anything but. I'm also taken back to my first ride along the Camino in Spain. There, every little village had a café serving excellent café con léché. You could ride from coffee to coffee, never being more than a few kilometres - or so it seemed - from the next coffee. Here, in two days' riding I have yet to get a coffee. The villages I've gone through are either too small to have any shops or more commonly they used to have some but they're now all boarded up and abandoned. Lots of cafés du commerce and bars du coin, but none of them actually open anymore. And in any case, from my experience, even if they were open, the coffee they serve would be pretty dire. Somehow the French just don't seem to be able to make a decent coffee with milk.

Montigny-le-Gallenon

I'm riding along the Loir and a local rider pulls up alongside. He's the typical French rider: all done up in his Lycra hear, complete with logos. He's on a Gitane racing bike, spare inner tube strapped to the frame. Normally these riders come in pairs or bigger groups but this one is solo and around my age. He slows down and rides alongside for a chat making him definitely not your typical French rider (I am normal ignored by French bike riders, obviously being not one of them). He rides a couple of times a week, 40 - 60 km in the morning; about what I ride in a day I tell him. But you're heavily loaded and have a lot of wind resistance he admits graciously. And then he takes the next side road which leads up the hill; much more challenging than the flat path along the river.

The ride along Loir is getting more pleasant as the wind subsides a bit. I ride into Cloyes-sur-Loir, bringing back a lot of memories of when we used to drive from Chemillé to Versailles, passing near or through this town, even though I am seeing a completely different part of it from the bike. We used to always stop at a rest area near this town. I ride into the town and up to the church, and as if on cue, the bells chime the hour. Amazing!

Riding a bike means you move slow enough to really notice and observe your surroundings. You see things you will never notice as you speed by in a car. You're more a part of the surroundings, something which I particularly appreciate when riding through forests and along rivers. I appreciate it a bit less when it's cold and raining, but that's not the case today. You also get to see people and their houses up close. The old man sitting in the sunshine in the kitchen. The workmen trimming a hedge. The kids playing with the dog in the front yard.

The path heads away from the river and into more exposed terrain and I am back battling headwinds for the final part of the ride.

Gîte d'Etape

I'm staying at the Gîte d'étape, which doesn't open until 16:00. So I have a look around the town and have some more of the baguette and cheese as afternoon tea. The rest of the baguette gets fed to the ducks who probably shouldn't be eating bread but don't complain; except to each other when they're not the first to grab the next bit of bread.

The Gîte is clean and neat and basic although it has everything you need, including as the woman running it is at pains to point out, individually allocated toilets, showers, and washbasins. No sheets but I have my own. Since I'm scrimping on the accommodation (both last night and tonight) I've decided to lash out for dinner, which will probably cost considerably more than my room. I discover a nice looking restaurant which turns out to be the number one rated restaurant according to TripAdvisor. I book a table for the night.

I'm the first to arrive - I've booked for 19:30, a half hour after they open. The guy assures me they will be full tonight. The menu looks promising but the service is a bit too obsequious for my liking. I get the impression they have been trained to perform in a certain way and they plan to stick to the script.

After about a half hour, there's a table of five women, and a bit later another table of two women. I realise that I'm the only male customer so far. A half hour later, the more people arrive and I no longer have to feel that my riding boots and gear would be out of place in such a pretentious establishment. Two older guys come in, both wearing rather grotty sneakers and generally looking like they didn't bother changing before coming to the restaurant. They are accompanied by a young woman who's most definitely got dressed for the occasion. Quite a contrast.

I've ordered the magret de canard, a dish which is very French, but which I wouldn't normally order since duck is not something I am a big fan of. But I throw caution to the wind, tempted by the description of it being slow cooked 6 hours. When it arrives, the waiter follows the script, and explains: this is the mashed potato, this is pureed carrot, and this is a tomato that's been roasted... While I'm eating the duck, which is impressively good, I think of the ducks I was feeding just a few hours earlier. I wonder if my slow-cooked duck ate bread?

The table set for nine arrives and now I am feeling overdressed. They are all in their very early twenties and there's no pretence there. Hoodies, exposed underpants, t-shirts and ripped jeans. The girls, on the other hand, are very nicely dressed for the evening, making quite a contrast with their male companions. I can't help thinking that when I was their age, there was no way I would ever have gone to a restaurant like this. Probably both because I would have had a completely different sort of place I would have gone to and also because I wouldn't have been able to afford it anyway.

During the meal, I realise that I am the only one in the place drinking wine. This comes as a bit of a shock given that I'm in France. Most tables have ordered an aperitif, but by they look of them, mostly non-alcoholic. And every table has a bottle, or bottles, of water, bubbly or not. The group of hoodies and torn jeans has a couple of beers. But that's it. I guess the drink driving laws have had an effect.

Finally, the remaining table arrives, a group of six. And so the restaurant is indeed full, as advertised. My dessert arrives, complete with an explanation by the waiter of its various components. And the table of six, a more conservative group than the rest, orders a bottle of wine, so I am not alone. Maybe they have a designated driver. All I have to do is negotiate the 200 steps down from the castle level to the river where my Gîte is.

And then, before I've left, the table of six (the ones who'd ordered wine) suddenly gets up and leaves, before they've eaten anything. Did they order? I ask the waiter and he explains that one of the group had recently had a stomach operation and couldn't eat onions. Since all the meals contain onions... So they all left. Just a little bit odd, to say the least.

I manage all 200 steps and am back at my Gîte for a well-earned sleep.

After dinner steps - Châteaudun

2019 Bike Ride - Day 1: Chemillé to Vendôme

Wind. Lots of it and all day long. A constant wind from the north- northeast, with blustery gusts, according to the weather report, of 50 km/hr. And of course my route today was to the northeast, so I had a headwind throughout the entire day's ride. So it was a slow and tiring ride for my first day, and I was glad to arrive at my destination, Vendôme.

Last year I wrote that it was uncanny how so often just at the time I rode into a town, the church bells chimed the hour. Well here I am, not even an hour into the first day of this year's ride and just as I ride into Les Hermites, the first town I am riding through, the church bells strike midday. Definitely uncanny.

Open fields all around

Here's looking at you...

I'm riding through wide open spaces with wheat and corn fields on either side stretching to the horizon. It's all been harvested and ploughed, ready for the next season. I'm very exposed and as I mentioned the winds are relentless. A small car, a Fiat Panda, passes me. As it passes I can't help noticing that on the passenger seat is a bale of hay. Not the sort of thing you'd be expecting, but perhaps in this region you shouldn't be surprised by this sort of thing.

In Vendôme I'm staying in the Auberge de Jeunesse, the youth hostel. It's a little out of town and in a decidedly seedy neighborhood. Not the sort of area you'd normally be coming to as a tourist. There's abandoned buildings with broken windows and signs saying "danger, asbestos". There's graffiti everywhere, which I have to admit is rather well done and adds a bit of welcome colour to the otherwise drab ambience.

The hostel is actually more than what I would consider a normal youth hostel. True to its name, it's full of young people. But these people are living here on a longer term basis. The place caters for young people who are on work experience assignments and are in vocational training. They are overwhelmingly male and from obviously not privileged backgrounds. I've decided to have dinner here (I am too tired to venture back into town tonight) and it's an interesting experience. The canteen opens at 19:00 and closes again 45 minutes later. When I arrive at 19:15 the place is already mostly full, with many large groups eating together. There's a couple of older people, but I'd say the average age is probably closer to 17 or 18. By 19:30 the place is almost empty again. Clearly people are not here for a leisurely dinner, just to get fed.

I'm sitting at a table by myself and halfway through my meal (three courses plus wine, this might be a canteen but we are in France after all) another older guy, who I've spotted at the cashier with a tray loaded with pieces of bread, joins me. He's from Brittany and is here working with the young people. He's got a strong accent and speaks rapidly and in odd sentences and I can only catch a small fraction of what he's saying; he speaks so quickly, moving around constantly as he talks. He keeps repeating himself and asks me at least three times where I'm from and whether I'm riding a bike. He volunteers that there was a guy here last week with a backpack and a stick and he was walking on the Chemin de Compostelle. He says it like it was a completely new concept to him, which is a little odd given that France is a country where long distance walking "Randonner' is actually a pretty common thing and is quite popular and well established. And this type of hostel is exactly the sort of place you would find walkers.

Tomorrow I'll have breakfast in the same canteen; I suppose it will be a rushed affair as well.

Vendôme - at the Loir with a bit of colour