Day eight: The final day of pilgrimage

It was the last day today, and I gave myself rather a lot to do. My ferry was booked for 11pm from Caen and at the back of my mind was the stag-do to Amsterdam I had to leave for at lunchtime the next day.

The plan was to go through Pontorson to Mont St Michel and then 12km back to Pontorson to catch a 5pm train to Caen. This would be about 70km.

The stakes were raised when I popped in the Combourg tourist office to say, “This looks like a very nice town, but which is the road out of here?”

Not taking offence, the man behind the desk pointed me in the right direction, but said I might have trouble as the Tour-de-France was going through Pontorson and Mont St Michel today (I can't seem to shake this blasted cycle race). If I could get there by lunchtime, I might be able to see it.

Well drastic times call for drastic measures. The croissant and pain au chocolat would be postponed this morning, until I had made some ground.

…

I ended up stopping for the croissant and pain au chocolat after about 20km in an unnamed town. Routine is routine after all.

Bumping into the Tour-de-France

In the end I covered the 40km to Pontorson by 12:30. I eat the kilometres up these days.

On arriving I encountered crowds of people lining the streets with not much else happening. I locked the bike to a lamp post and took my position.

For the next hour I stood there waiting while sponsorship cars and motorbikes drove past, many giving out freebies or selling Tour de France tat. I think they call it the caravan. I met a nice English man with some good chat about second homes in France and it all had a carnival like atmosphere to it.

Then out of nowhere about eight cyclists came roaring past.

I’m not familiar with the Tour de France but I imagined it was like a marathon and now these would be the first of a steady flow of cyclists.

But apparently it doesn’t work like that. Five minutes later a wave of what seemed like hundreds of cyclists were hurtling towards us. And as quick as they arrived, they were gone. I believe they call it the peloton.

It was brilliant and had my heart racing in the excitement of it all. But it’s a funny old world where people wait for hours for a 10 second glimpse of some cyclists they don’t recognise. The crowds cleared within seconds and within minutes it was as if nothing had happened.

Mont St Michel

From Pontorson it was a 12km ride along an estuary to Mont St Michel – a small island built on in the 8^th century and connected to the mainland by a causeway.

You may have even heard of it, as it was by far the most touristy place I have visited. And well worth the trip. I paid 9 euro to get into the cathedral/church, which seemed good value until I realised that if I was 25 years or younger it would have been free. I could feel a quarter life crisis coming on.

I left with about an hour and a half to get the 12km back to the station, and despite a little scare when a downpour had me hiding under a tree, I got there in plenty of time. It was just a case of waiting for the train, getting to Caen and boarding a ferry home…. Or so I thought.

Start as you mean to go on

I arrived in Caen in the pouring rain, but I wasn’t going to let that dampen my mood. It was 8pm and I had three hours to find the ferry terminal, buy a large dinner and relax ahead of departure.

I cycled out of the station expecting to hit the port, or at least a sign to it, pretty much immediately. However after about 10 minutes of aimless cycling I hadn’t seen anything and the rain was getting heavier.

I decided to consult the guide book. It told me: “Ferries to Portsmouth leave from Ouistreham, 20km northeast of Caen.” Shit.

Why would Brittany Ferries say that the ferry goes from Caen, when it in fact doesn’t? It’s a lie and situations like this could be avoided if they were at least honest about it.

The other problem was that I had no idea where Ouistreham was or how to get there. For outside of the city, then I had a map. But the map wasn’t detailed enough to tell me where I was in Caen and how I could get on the right road, or even the right side of the estuary.

I headed back to the station, where not much was open. The French guard I spoke to puffed out his cheeks and shook his head before writing 20km on a piece of paper and pointing me in what seemed like a random direction.

I was going to miss the ferry. I was going to miss the stag-do. I could’ve cried. The excuses were already running through my head.

Finding the road to carry-on

I cycled back out into Caen in the rain. and came across a map on the side of the road. I took a picture to refer to later, but headed in what I thought was the right direction.

After about 3km I hit the first sign to the port and after 5km, the slip road to a motorway that would lead me straight there. After five minutes of considering if I could brave the motorway and find something that runs next to it, I decided to turn back and try my luck using the map to find my way using B-roads.

I spent much of the next hour lost. But then in a stroke of luck and with the help of a few strangers, I found a road that was on my map – the D60. I was saved. I still had about 20km to go in the rain and fading light, but at least I had a route and a purpose.

I cycled through fields and towns for the next hour as fast as my little legs would take me. I even conquered hills that a week ago would’ve had me pushing my bike on foot.

At just after 10pm and with over 30 extra km on the speedometer, I rolled into the ferry terminal and straight on to the ferry. I was exhausted, but so happy.

Well earned rewards

On the ferry I went straight to the canteen and bought a post-modern burger (hashbrowns instead of buns) with chips, a coke and even a chocolate mousse. For dessert I had a pint and some salacious gossip about the News of the World in the Guardian.

This was my reward. My reward for conquering France.

Day seven: Dinan and the Rance Canal

After making little progress yesterday, I was up early to try and fit two days cycling in to a single day.

I cycled into the walled city of St Malo – Intra Muras – to take my token picture of the local cathedral/church and have my token croissant, pain au chocolat and orange juice breakfast.

It was then a ten minute ferry ride to over the bay to Dinard where the cycling would begin.

The cycle path

As opposed to the rolling hills of Normandy, today’s ride started with 30km straight along a cycle path into Dinan. I was looking forward to the cycle path as I thought it would be easy and pleasant on the eye. However, after about 5km of finding it not so easy I decided the bike must be the problem and soon had it upside down again to tinker with it.

I arrived into Dinan around lunchtime and popped into the tourist office to see what all of the fuss was about. My attention was caught by the people in the tourist office speaking about the Tour de France visiting the next day – that would definitely explain the ‘Bienvieu Tour de France’ signs I had seen on the way into town.

I couldn’t change my trip so resigned myself to the fact that I must be the uncoolest cyclist ever – riding out of a town just as the world’s most prestigious cycling race rode in.

Dinan is a beautiful, quaint town built upon the top of a hill that overlooks the area. It has narrow cobbled streets which are always a winner, however feels quite touristy verging on tacky in places.

Still it’s a great place and according to the guide book, is Brittany’s best preserved medieval town.

The other thing that caught my eye in Dinan was the amount of food on show. It was a bit overwhelming. I decided to have a walk round to clear my head before deciding on a lunch option.

Sadly by the time I was ready to make a decision, all of the food places were closed for their 2pm break. Annoying. I had to settle for a Panini and a massive ice cream as consolation.

The Rance Canal

The afternoon cycle consisted of a 30km ride along the Rance Canal. This was easier cycling although started with a bit of a scare when the start of the cycling path was cordoned off. Even when I climbed over the ‘don’t go down there barrier’ I was completely cut off 2km down the way. I think it was something to do with fallen branches. Luckily I was able to go back about 5km and join a path on the other side of the canal.

The cycling was much easier along the canal and I flew like the wind along the flat cycle path, with only forest, water and the odd village to take in along the way.

Knowing when to come off the canal path proved to be the tricky part. At the junction I thought it might be I approached a man in a yellow van. His name was Edgar. I have his phone number in this very book.

Edgar was from Rennes, and wanted to tell me about all of the wonderful rides and places I could visit in France, showing me on his range of Michelin maps.

His enthusiasm didn’t even dampen as the rain started to fall and I started to shake in the cold. He also told me I needed to ride a bit further down the canal to pick up a B-road to get to my destination. This turned out to be a lie, and meant another 4km round trip.

With night closing in, my legs aching like buggery I was lost again and set off along a main road. As cars thundered past me at 90kmh I had a feeling of dejavu – this wasn’t a place I wanted to be.

After another 3km down the main road I turned off and managed to find my way to the B-road I was looking for. I then had about 12km, through Dinge, to Combourg where I planned to stay the night.

Before even pitching my tent, I biked into town. Kebab and chips followed along with another massive ice-cream – this cycling builds quite an appetite.I cycled into Combourg at exactly 8pm, just as the campsite office was closing and with 120km on the speedometer. Luckily they were willing to take one more booking.

Day six: A tapestry and a train ride

The plan was to rise early, suss out Bayeux and its needlework and then head to St Malo for a leisurely ride to Dinan.

It started in line with the plan. I got my daily breakfast of a pain au chocolat, a croissant and an orange juice.

I then had a quick reccy of the cathedral and paid 7 euro to have a look at the world famous Bayeux Tapestry.

The tapestry is cool, but to be honest the needlework didn’t overly impress me - I would pick a J.Scotcher tea cosy over it any day. But what is interesting is the story of William the Conqueror, a story I seem to have forgotten since year nine.

It basically goes like this: William was the Duke of Normandy and relative of the Royal family. A chap called Harold is sent to see William, but lands in the wrong part of Normandy and is taken prisoner by some unsavoury folk. William negotiates his release and later the two men go into battle against the Duke of Brittany which they win.

In the excitement of victory William convinces Harold to swear his allegiance to him as the successor to the throne.

Some time passes, and the king dies. William, expecting to take the throne is a little surprised when Harold is knighted as king. Unimpressed that Harold’s oath of allegiance has seemingly been forgotten, William and his army sail to England to claim the throne. The Battle of Hastings ensures and Harold is killed. William becomes King.

Leaving Bayeux

With the tapestry ticked off I set off to the train station for what I assumed would be a straight forward trip to St Malo. I was wrong.

Turns out it’s trickier than one might think to get a train between two relatively large French towns. The quickest route required a two hour wait in Bayeux followed by an hour’s train ride, followed by another two hours in a small village called Folligny, before completing the final leg of an hour ride to St Malo. That meant hitting St Malo at 7pm and not much time for cycling.

With no other choice, I bought the ticket.

30 minutes outside of Bayeux and the weather changed remarkably. Everyday so far the sun has shined with all its might. However as soon as the border was crossed into Brittany, it was lashing down.

Making friends

The same was true when I got off in Folligny. I found myself in an empty train station, without even a ticket office, in the pouring rain. The actual village of Folligny was 2km down the road. Starving hungry I braved the rain to find a small bakery where I procured myself a cold pizza slice with far too many onions. I then headed back to the empty station to dry off.

About 30 minutes passed of reading and writing when a large inebriated fellah entered the waiting room.

He wasn’t menacing as such, but seemed to want to follow me around and took an unhealthy interest in touching my bike.

As he seemed to become more irritated I took to hiding round the corner and when he found me, I decided a quick 5km explore of the area in the rain was the most appealing option.

When I returned, another period of hiding/following ensued which kept me busy until the train came. I think he was more of a clown than a criminal.

Just as I was getting on the train, a lady appeared looking for ‘a gentleman wearing a hat’. I couldn’t make out if she was a relative coming to retrieve him or just someone he had upset earlier in the day. Either way, I boarded the train glad the games were over (I actually saw him get checked off a different carriage of the train at the first stop – I wonder where he is now?).

Rediscovering St Malo

Things started to improve once in St Malo. I had been through the ferry port before, but had no recollection of how beautiful a place it is. The city is built along a coastline stretch of jagged peninsulas.

On the edge of one such peninsula was my campsite, with beautiful views over the sea littered with boats and across to the old city of St Malo.

I had initially planned to cycle straight off from St Malo, but it was a blessing in disguise that I haven’t been able to.

I got some dinner from a local takeaway and ate it sitting on top of the war memorial at the edge of the campsite watching the sun go down over St Malo. Quite wonderful. And the rain seems to be subsiding, so fingers crossed for tomorrow.

Day five: A powerful history lesson

I started the day with my bike upside down and a tool in my hand. I began with a very minor problem with my gears and in the process of 30 minutes had made it significantly worse. Still it felt good to have oil all over my hands. It made me feel like the real deal.

Today I cycled round the D-Day beaches, something I know I have studied in depth but ashamedly remember very little about.

I started at Bayeux Cathedral (where my bike spent some more time upside down) and rode out to the coast through small towns, each with their own World War II memorial listing the people from the village that were killed.

I stopped first at Omaha beach for a 2,50 euro coke (at least some people benefited from the war). Omaha was the code name used for one of several beaches the allied forces landed upon on D-Day – the definitive moment that tilted the war in the allies favour.

Looking out over the coast, it was hard to believe a war was once fought there. It’s now a haven for water sports. But the sheer scale of the coastline makes you think what a super human effort it must have been to land there, and the amount of people that it would’ve involved.

A peaceful tribute

On the top of a hill overlooking Omaha beach is the American World War II cemetery. This place is breathtaking. Overlooking the sea are 10,000 virtually identical graves set out in symmetrical lines. It is so peaceful and despite the amount of people there, it is silent apart from the noise of the breeze and the crashing waves in the distance.

The cemetery is accompanied by a visitor centre where personal accounts are used to tell the D-Day story. I spent over two hours there – it was powerful stuff.

The cemetery is obviously a popular destination for Americans too. I could only recall seeing a handful of Americans on my trip so far, but there were literally hundreds at the cemetery that day. It was typically patriotic too, with Barack Obama’s portrait hung over the reception and JFK airport level security as you entered.

Superhuman effort

From the cemetery I stopped off in a little town for some classic French banquette with ham and cheese before climbing up to the seaside town of Arromanches.

Arromanches was the place the allied forces built a mobile port to support the D-Day landings, the remains of which is still visible from the shore. The allies needed to do this as the Germany destroyed the other ports knowing that this would drain the allied forces of supplies.

To combat this, huge numbers of people worked through atrocious weather to build huge metal causeways out to docking stations in the middle of the channel. These docking stations were loaded with supplies by boats coming from the British side of the sea. These supplies were then picked up by trucks driving from the French beaches up and down the causeways.

It was an unbelievable story and the museum on the shore told it really well. After visiting the museum, I had a walk along the beach and up to the sea.

A more serene cemetery

From Arromanches, there was one more poignant stop. Ten km away in the middle of nowhere, with literally miles of fields in every direction, was the first cemetery created following D-Day.

It was for British and Commonwealth troops and unlike the majesty and size of the American cemetery, is small and understated but no less beautiful or peaceful.

It was then 10 km back to Bayeux for another McDonalds. Although not my most exciting post, this was probably my favourite day so far. And I covered over 80km.

Day four: The route of food and drink

An important lesson for anyone is that some of the least suspicious people are sometimes the most business savvy.

I awoke in my farmer’s field of a campsite this morning and set about paying the bill.

In the main farmhouse, I found an old lady who must have been approaching 80, with possibly the worst chesty cough I have ever encountered. On totalling up the components of my bill, it came to 3,50 euros.

With the thought that she needed some cough medicine (and overlooking the exceptionally large farmhouse) I insisted she take 5 euros.

My next question was: “so please can I have the key to the shower room?”

“Two euros,” which she took without a second’s thought for my generosity of not 30 seconds earlier. And the shower was cold.

Route de Cider

I started the day with two croissants and an orange juice, which has become customary already, and sat in the centre of Cambremer planning my day’s route.

After a quick wander round the local market, I set off along the Route de Cider – winding hills of apple orchards and the odd cidre farm. I stopped off at one farm where I was treated to a twenty minute video on cider production in French, a quick tour and a taste of the local brew.

Despite the hog roasting in the corner of the garden, I was the only visitor. With a small bottle of cider in my bag, I set off on my way once more.

I continued along the guide book route (making every thing twice as far as it needs to be), struggling on the hills that the book insisted did not exist. It was a nice ride with lots of lovely views.

But it wouldn’t be keeping within the spirit of my trip if there wasn’t one shocking moment and this journey was no different.

I saw a snake. It slithered across my path, less than a metre in front of my tyre. I don’t know why something needs to come and scare me everyday, but it really isn’t necessary. The thought of it was making me shudder for hours afterwards.

My only other stop before Liseux (bar mid-hill stops) was at a grand châteaux. I took the guided tour in French so subsequently can share very little other than it looked nice.

Liseux – the city that always sleeps

I arrived in Liseux at about 5pm with one priority – a massive burger. But there was absolutely nothing open. Feeling disgruntled, I was going to cast Liseux aside and leave immediately.

But just as I was about to do so I came across possibly the most striking basilica I have ever seen, sitting on the top of (another) hill overlooking the city. It was majestic.

I climbed over pigeons nests to get to the top of the dome and looked out over the surrounding area. You could see for miles.

I finished up by heading to the station to get a train to Caen, but at the last minute decided I would keep going all the way to Bayeux. From there I could cycle around the D-Day beaches as well as see that famous piece of needlework.

Arriving in Bayeux

Do you ever get those moments when you think someone is up there looking down on you? Well after a few motorway moments that made me question if I was being ignored along with the sighting of a snake, I experienced one of these moments on arriving in Bayeux.

Still starving, I rode towards the campsite on the outskirts of Bayeux when I saw the golden arches. It was like a divine intervention on what would be my home for the night.

You’ve never seen a tent go up so fast. I was out there within minutes. My only regret is that I didn’t have two more cheeseburgers.

Day three: Finding Normandy’s beauty

I set off from Honfleur in far better spirits after a good dinner the night before. As opposed to the nasty looking ports and factories of Le Harve and the even nastier dual carriage ways, I rode out of town along the coast.

Within two minutes I was gliding along a quiet road with a beautiful sandy beach flanking me on one side and rolling countryside on the other. If someone had told me sooner, I would’ve been down there in my Speedos at daybreak!

The ride took me along the coast through some small, beautiful seaside towns such as Villerville, Deauville and Blonville-sur-Mere. As the sun was shining, many of the beaches were really busy, although the towns didn’t seem overtly touristy.

At Villers-sur-Mere I stopped off for a spot of lunch and a quick paddle. From there it was inland and up numerous hills that I can only describe as bastards! According to my guidebook they were ‘moderate’. Steep must refer to cycling up the side of a building then, I will look forward to those.

Before long I had hit Douzle, where I stopped for a Yop and some sweets before heading 10km further to the tiny village of Beuvron-en-Auge.

Beuvron-en-Auge, according to the guide book, is one of France’s 100 most beautiful villages. It is essentially one street and square of cute little houses and shops. It had a late afternoon dusk feel to it too, which added to the atmosphere. Not touristy or tacky in the slightest, it was certainly worth the ride.

Finding a campsite

However no amount of beauty could make up for the fact that Beuvron does not have a campsite. After speaking to a lady in the tourist office and consulting the guidebook, I established that there was a farm on the way into the town of Cambremer that took campers. It was therefore another 15km through the countryside to find this farm.

I knew I must have missed it when I rode into the centre Cambremer. I was told it was 2km before you hit the town. By this time, it was nearing 9pm and virtually nothing was open. Getting a little frustrated, I asked a barman who directed me with finger pointing back in the direction I had come from.

I biked for what seemed like 2km, but still saw nothing. The road was really quiet, with a farm or large house about every 700 metres. I decided my best option was to knock on some doors.

The first farm I tried had a long uphill drive-way passed a field of cows that were not pleased to see me. At the farm house I could hear people talking in a small lodge next to the main house, so started shouting ‘Bonjour, Bonjour’. It was embarrassing. A lady came to the door and said she was on holiday but suggest I knock at the main house.

I knocked on the big white door of the main farmhouse. Within a split second a large Alsatian roared out of the side door barking aggressively. For a split second I thought this was it, I was going to get ripped apart by a dog, and dropped my helmet in paralysing fear. But just as the dog was about to maul me (or so I thought), an old lady opened the main door and calmed down her animal. It was turning into a humiliating few minutes.

Although the lady didn’t speak any English, she seemed to understand ‘le camping’, and pointed me back along the road. One gardener, and two front door knocks later, I found it – a little field with unwieldy grass, housing a single tent and a caravan.

Dinner

The owner of the farmhouse wasn’t there, so I just pitched my tent and headed back into town to find some dinner. I was starving.

I was worried about it getting dark and didn’t want to get stuck in town on my bike though. However there were literally no shops open. I asked an old lady, who again didn’t speak English but seemed to get the gist of me putting my hand to my mouth. She took me round the back of the village’s only restaurant and started knocking on the kitchen window presumably asking if they would feed me. I can imagine she is a generous grandmother.

Within a matter of minutes I had arranged for the restaurant to make me up a takeaway meal, complete with a borrowed plate, knife and fork. After a few minutes I decided that this was ridiculous and it wasn’t getting that dark so took my meal inside.

I was quite a smelly dirty mess, sitting in what was a lovely, small local restaurant. But the other diners didn’t seem to mind and neither did I.

It was then back to the so-called campsite where I joined 4 French people sitting outside a caravan for a couple of glasses of wine and some conversation using my very broken French and there significantly better broken English.

A good day, even with the elements of the unexpected. Today France was beautiful, and I went to bed far more excited about the week ahead than I did the night before.

Day two: Crossing a very dangerous threshold

So things have not gone completely to plan today either. I started in the right vein; awoke on the floor in a dark corner of the ferry. Found my bike. Even managed to ride it off the ferry on the right hand side of the road.

But true to form, I have spent most of the day lost and managed to turn a 25km ride that was meant to be done by lunchtime, into a 50km ride that covered every terrain imaginable and was barely finished by tea.

That’s not to say I have not had fun in parts. It’s just that today I’ve been through some experiences I would rather not repeat. Allow me to explain…

Buying supplies

The day had to start with rectifying yesterday’s mistakes, which meant finding a bike shop and buying a helmet to put my parents’ minds at rest. I had plenty of time to do this as I was in Le Harve by 7:30am and the shops didn’t open until 10am. After an hour of riding around aimlessly I asked a fellow cyclist for directions to a cycling shop.

A couple of croissants, a coffee and two cycling shops later I was the proud owner of quite an uncool skater boy helmet and a speedometer. It’s pretty vital to know how much ground you are covering if you’re to be taken seriously in this business I find.

I then procured a map, which I would later find out only covered the first two kilometers of the ride, before setting off.

Putting the pedals in to action

The plan was to cycle to Honfleur - what is meant to be a pretty little town, a mere 25km away. The book suggested the route wasn’t very pretty and I might want to consider taking a bus and starting properly from Honfleur on what would be a much more picturesque ride. But you can’t very come to France with a bike and start off by getting on a bus. And besides, 25km would take no time at all.

After asking a couple of locals I was told it was about 15km down the river and then over a huge landmark called the Normandie Bridge. Straight and right, it couldn’t be simpler.

Finding my way

I thought things were getting a little strange when after about 10km I seemed to find myself on very busy roads. Some you may even have called a dual carriageway. No body mentioned this.

Keeping well within the hard shoulder and sometimes on the grass verge, I persevered until I hit the biggest flyover/bridge I have ever encountered in my life. At the entrance there was a ‘no cycling’ sign along with a ‘motorway’ sign, meaning it wasn’t something I should be crossing. The Normandie Bridge certainly wasn’t what I expected. With just motorway in both directions, I was completely stuck.

This is what it looked like

The only alternative, or so I thought, was the grass field that ran underneath the flyover. But soon, there was no one in sight and I hit the dead end of a canal and a railway track.

Frustrated and flustered, I phoned home to get a friend to do some internet research and failing that, organise a rescue helicopter out of there.

What she phoned back and said was, “The Normandie Bridge is exceptionally busy, but cyclists can cross it and there is a cycle lane. However if you’ve missed the turning, it’s 8km back where you have come from.

Crossing the bridge

I mean it didn’t look like what I call safe, but I decided that the French were probably crazy and that this was the Normandie Bridge that I was allowed to cross on my push bike. This was the only option.

As I rode back through my field and towards the main road I found an access road that led to the side of the road leading up the bridge. After a good five minutes of psyching myself up, I climbed over the metallic fence and started to cycle.

The truth becomes clear

It became apparent within the first 30 seconds, in which pure fear engulfed my body, that this was not the Normandie Bridge. I don’t know if it was the huge lorries beeping their horns as they stormed past me at 90mph or the fast diminishing hard shoulder or even the fact I was climbing a huge hill with no chance of stopping or turning back, but something was definitely telling me that I should not be there.

Sweat was pouring off my brow and my legs were shaking as I tried to cycle in a straight line as fast as I could and get over the flyover as soon as possible.

Once on the top of the hill, the reality became clear. I could see the real Normandie Bridge in the distance. I was on the motorway approaching it and, in a completely accidental but quite moronic way, was risking my life to get to it.

I say this with no hint of sarcasm – I was shaking when I eventually left the motorway for the estuary road I had missed 8km earlier. It was the longest 7 minutes of my life. I would sooner do another skydive than do that again.

After a sit down, and some calm reflection about the state of play, I crossed the Normandie Bridge on foot and wheeling my bike. Maybe this cycling idea wasn’t the best after all.

An hour later, I arrived in Honfleur. I never thought the moment would come.