Author: Crisp

PROLOGue

In July 2020, I spent a week and a half riding through northern Brittany, doing a loop from Rennes. It had never been in my plans. But then the virus crisis hit and all my plans for the year flew out the window: a time to be accepting. be adaptive and above all grateful for what one has and the pleasures that life gives us.

But the slow and potentially brief exit from the months of lockdown offered an opportunity to travel again. And I was desperate to get away for a few days of blessed peace before who knows what? I needed a break.

But where? Too many countries either blocked entry to residents of Belgium or were blocked themselves. There was a serious risk of booking tickets only to have them made impossible as happened to me when I recently tried to visit my parents in the UK, only to be prevented by Mister Grant Shapps deciding to impose a 14-day quarantine

Travelling somewhere by train looked a safer bet and so did France. A friend mentioned that there was a direct train once a day between Brussels and Rennes and the idea took root. After mulling the benefits of southern Brittany – Morbihan – western Brittany and northern Brittany, I opted for the latter, feeling that it would give me a decent route and taste of rugged coastline, and using RideWithGPS, sketched out a loop that would also allow me a few days of rest by the sea.

Slight problem that there was no direct train back but with my veteran touring bike Randy – survivor of rides in 20 countries from USA in the west to Turkey in the East and Estonia in the north to Greece in the south – showing his age and getting a little dicey on the gear changes, I decided that a ride across Paris including the Champs Elysées would be a fitting finale to the touring days of a bike I had bought in Washington, DC.

And so I set off… on a very 2020 adventure.

Below, I have given the names of some of the places I stayed in because these people made a special effort for me – I get no commission or reward but I like to support small businesses doing their best. I tried to include links to their websites, but it didn’t work because I am still a bit crap in that department, but please Google them and if possible, go and stay.

Friday 10 July: Brussels – Rennes by train

The usual paranoia about being ready, my mind not on my job in the morning, trying to tick things off but without enthusiasm. 

As ever, ready with a mere hour to spare. 

Then off through the streets of Brussels, getting used to the balance of the bike and the extra weight. I swear that I am carrying less but it is weighing more. I allow 45 minutes to get there yet even pedalling super cautiously, it only takes me 30 minutes. 

Then into the weirdness of travelling in 2020: the Gare du Midi, everyone in face masks, the station not exactly empty but far from full, even at 4pm on a summer Friday. Masks of all varieties and colours. 

Onto the platform. Luckily the train is already in and I am able to quietly sort out my bike opposite my carriage. First turning the mount for the GPS, then removing the pedals then releasing the brakes then turning upside down and removing the wheels before wrapping the big chainring with half of an old tire and then linking the two wheels on either side of the frame with two bungee cords. Finally spreading the bike bag on the platform floor, lifting the whole bike onto it, wrapping the bag over the bike and then loosely tying the whole lot with a length of bungee. 

Luckily there was a perfect space for the bike at the entrance to the carriage. I buttressed it with the bike bags and got an approving impeccable from the conductor. 

After almost having the carriage to myself out of Brussels, it filled up at Lille. Everyone in masks: children protesting, mothers reprimanding and the gentleman behind me awkwardly easing M&Ms round the side of his mask and into his mouth.

So much for the dinner I packed: I had to wait for my hotel room in Rennes at 10pm. 

Rennes. I feel strangely wiped out but I found time for a brief evening walk 

Saturday 11 July: Rennes – Josselin: 90km

My first night away from Brussels for nearly five months. A strange breakfast, wearing a face mask down to the hotel reception to pick up a bag with my breakfast in and then retreating upstairs. 

Then out into Rennes on a beautiful morning past the dregs of the station area and over to the Marché des Lices at the suggestion of my friend Ellis. Nearly everyone in masks but otherwise getting back to normal: a good open air market around two roofed areas. Fruit and vegetables, honeys, and even at 9am, stalls cooking crepes and Middle Eastern dishes.

I pick up fresh goats cheese, a tomato, bread, a nectarine and a kouign amann, a local pastry.

The usual late start, wanting to be on the road at 10 but leaving closer to 11. Off along towpaths along the river, beautiful but dusty. Long before the 20k turnoff, it loses its charm, especially on a first day where you are trying to get used to the weight of the bags on the bike.

I am happy to be back on main roads even if it does mean a few steep hills as I ride over the ridge to the next valley. I am taking it easy, settling into my rhythm. Very few towns and none of them memorable. 

After a solid 50 k, I take a late lunch in Guer. My goats cheese and tomato sandwich is fabulous. A break from the beautiful but hot weather. 

Then back onto the converted railway lines and towpaths. Fine but monotonous. Today is about distance. I cross a motorway, traffic blocked as far as I can see in both directions. Some things are back to normal. 

Then Josselin and a final short but brutal climb to my hotel, just missing out on a 17k average for the day: not bad going considering. 

My hotel, the 14 St Michel is a delight: a converted town house on a back street with a quiet garden. My room at the top is very tastefully but minimally decorated, with a nice mix of simple modern furniture and classical lines. My only problem are the sloping roof beams which I am convinced I will whack my head on in the middle of the night.

I feel totally zapped though. The town is pretty but there are few restaurants. I opt for a cheap and cheerful place that offers a set menu for €21 and a quart of vinegary but palatable red wine for €3. The food is fine and it is plentiful. As I get up to pay, I stagger. The waiter looks at me as though I am drunk. Not drunk but wiped after lugging a heavily laden bike for 90k…

Fewer people wearing face masks. Funny how the brain gets used to it all. We second guess what used to be normal. 

Sunday 12 July: Josselin – Pontivy – Caurel: 71kM

A fitful sleep. Still starting to relax. A lovely breakfast to perk me up: fresh croissants, gorgeous bread, salted butter and jam, homemade yogurt, all served with coffee and fruit juice.

A French couple, civil servants from Paris, rather blasé about the whole experience. Our hosts less so but still rather bemused by it all. The husband teaches cookery: rather hard to do online because you need to smell. Apparently I am the only foreigner they have seen, their usual Spanish traffic dried up. 

I head out on another gorgeous morning, along the towpath again. 

In truth a very similar day to the previous one: mostly towpath or railway line for the first 25 k followed by up and down on roads the next 25 k and then back on towpath again. Pleasant but the friction of the dusty track and its unevenness mean that I have to keep focused. Loads of cyclists, many with heavy panniers. 

A lunch break in Pontivy, pretty enough but not worth lingering. I eat my kouign-amann: joyful, sinful indulgence, a treacle tart on steroids. 

Then back along the bike track until I reach the Mûr de Bretagne: a dam built in the 1930s. A brutal, long steep hill, holding steady at 12-14%. I would find it hard enough on an unladen bike but it is a torture heavily laden. But I keep going and make it.

Then back along railway track to Caurel and the cheery sound of an English voice welcoming me to Valfrescos. And not just any voice: a good Devonian accent from South Molton.

Another beautiful evening and a fine welcome from Val and Chris: beer and crisps, a walnut and pear salad, roast chicken with gravy, cheese plate and then lemon meringue tart, all washed down with a half litre of red wine (and a larger amount of water).  It is simple. It is made from the heart. It is true that the chicken is a little dry but the gravy is superb and the roasties are excellent.

There are two parties of French guests, all enjoying the food and the wonderful warmth and bonhomie of Val and Chris, speaking French with English accents.

It is an escape from everything after the past few months. OK so I end up a little drunk but why not? It is a little dose of what we used to unappreciatively call ‘normal’. How we pine for it now. It is worth celebrating.

Poignant. No one mentions The Thing in the entire time yet it makes me feel the loss, the what could have been if Johnson and his mob had not had their way. Everything swept away by the other thing, not that you feel it here. 

Monday 13 July: Caurel – Carhaix – Morlaix 98km 

A better sleep followed by a good breakfast. I ask Chris how the lockdown was. He sheepishly admits that they had a great time, able to spend some time together, eat, drink, relax, repair and repaint rooms. 

A protracted discussion on which route to take to Morlaix, them trying to show me an alternative route avoiding the grind of the railway paths. 

Before I leave, one of the French guests, a man who must be in his early seventies, asks to look at my bike. I oblige and ask him whether he cycles much. “Not much these days, but when I was younger, I cycled up Mont Ventoux…”

Then off again for my longest ride of the trip. Now here is the thing about bike touring: the illusion of planning. You are sat at home, playing around with RideWithGPS, trying to make your journey fit and you think “Well, 98km, that should work and the hills don’t look too bad” and what you ignore is what is commonly known as reality. That by the time you are about to set off on the 98 km, you already have 160km under your belt. In blazing hot weather. Carrying three heavy bags. Along muddy railway lines. So you wake up, cursing yourself and realising that you have your longest day ahead of you and you already feel tapped.

But it is a beautiful morning and I am still feeling the unwinding from the months of tension. As I cycle along the river, I pass the French family, pleasantly surprised to see me so far along the route.

But the grind sets in: another day, alternating between the dirt of the towpaths and the longer roads. Another day of distance over beauty, waiting for the payoff when I get to the coast. 

The river and paths are fine enough but lose their variety. I am happy to have a long stretch on relatively smooth quiet B roads most of the way to Carhaix. 

Carhaix is an unprepossessing town so I decide to continue on, taking the route that Val and Chris have suggested. It turns out to be a perfect road… for drivers, regular up and down hills, easy curves, smooth tarmac. I imagine myself roaring along it. 

But on a bike in 30C heat, it is a boring torture, long slogs up a hill, quick descents, trying to get the most, and the continuous swoosh of cars passing me, and no view to speak of. After slogging away for 5-10km I decide that I have had enough and navigate towards my original route along pretty country lanes. Val and Chris: fine people but don’t listen to a word they say on bike routes…

Then over a steep hill and… back onto the converted railway track. A long, long if mostly gentle slog up a ridge, made worse by the earth and grit. At one point, an entire family swoop down on their bikes, even the children fully laden.

Finally over and I follow a couple down the other side most of the way to Morlaix. 

A dramatic entry into Morlaix, feeding under a massive viaduct now used for trains. The sound of seagulls, always special to me. 

Out to dinner to an achingly cool place on the waterfront though I sit indoors to avoid the smoke. A delicious two course dinner of seaweed tartare with brown bread and then a hefty tarte of potatoes, bacon and cheese, all washed down with a carafe of water and a few glasses of red wine. For purely medicinal purposes.

Tuesday 14 July: Morlaix – Perros-Guirec: 72 kM

It is a surprisingly hot night and there is no air con in the hotel, so I leave the window open and am disturbed by mosquitoes. I wake at 6 and cannot find the little bugger. From then on, I am in that awful No Man’s Land between sleep and awake.

So I finally get up. I look out the window: rain. Not heavy but rain. I take a slow breakfast in a sanitised dining area with everyone in masks. At least the bread and jam are good.

Sensing a break in the rain, I head out and immediately up a steep hill, never a good start and no magical reward when I reach the top: just a boring exit from the town.

And there is on-off drizzle all morning.  A little bit of drizzle can be quite pleasant, cooling you off, but the grey skies take an eternity to clear.

After a steep descent to Plestin-les-Grèves, the coast or at least an estuary: a bay of deep green algae that hits me in the nose before I see it. This might sound odd, but I love it: the saltiness of the air that reminds me of my childhood, growing up by an estuary. Mud banks merging with sand merging with salt marshes.

The interlude is brief because after my GPS attempts to shove me up a steep mud path, I am then forced up another steep hill back onto the headland before descending to wind and rain swept bay at Roscoat. Families desperately out on the beach, trying to get a bit of holiday.

It turns into one of those days: up and down hills all day, and not modest ones. Pretty much each one has a bit of 8-12%: fine to start but by the afternoon, I am killed, the combined effects of pushing it the previous days.  In my head, Bernaud Hinault doesn’t so much as laugh at me as completely ignore me.

But there are occasional snatches of coast that redeem it but they are far too short and in the rain and wind, no point in trying to grab lunch.

After passing Lannion and yet another brutal hill, I spent most of the afternoon on the coastal road, not as idyllic as expected, clogged with traffic and hardly any views of the water. There are days like this where you are out of puff and just have to grind it out, one hill after another. 

Mercifully when I finally make it to Perros-Guirec in the still grey skies with my average speed for the day a pitiful 15.3kph – not that I notice or care about such things – my hotel – Les Hydrangéas – is a dream, beautifully minimalist and looking out to the sea. White sheets, wood floors, a walk-in shower: calm, calm, calm. It is really a vindication of my touring philosophy: no matter how bad a day you have on the bike, if you can settle into a decent hotel at the end, it can make it all worthwhile.

I have made the mistake of not reserving on Quatorze Juillet but manage to eat at the bar of a trendy and small place half way down the hill. The barman is lugubrious and does that trying to be clever trick of letting the mask slip off his nose, but I figure that I have to eat. The food is decent: a few tapas to start, including a revelatory – if too small – slice of bread covered in aubergine paste and topped with an oily fat fresh anchovy, followed by a passable steak with decent sauce. And a few glasses of wine for purely medicinal purposes.

Wednesday 15 July: Perros-Guirec

A well-timed day off. I feel exhausted. My legs ache. 

I head down to breakfast, served in another beautifully designed and simple room. Everyone wearing face masks until they sit down. The procedure is that you have to point at what you want and the hotel staff brings it to your table.

Still, when it all arrives, it is fantastic. More gloriously fresh bread with salted butter and a variety of local pastries. Local yogurts and jams. Apple juice. Decent coffee. A splendid range of local cheeses.

After a leisurely breakfast, I have business to attend to. I walk up the road through the town with a bag packed full of washing. This is the first time that I have tried using a launderette and the process is very automated but also rather confusing. Luckily a local man kindly explains and helps me. So I find myself on a grey morning in July sitting in a launderette in Brittany with a bunch of senior citizens, all of us wearing face masks. Very 2020. 

Still, my decision to try using a launderette saves me a lot of time and bother washing everything in the hotel room sink.

Then to sightseeing. I take a wander down to the Plage de Trestraou and sit outside at one of the pavement restaurants having lunch. The food might not be distinguished, but the cider goes down nicely and energises me.

An overcast day but it clears gloriously in the afternoon as I take the coastal path to Ploumanach: pink granite boulders everywhere: in the sea, on the headland.  A lot of groups of people piling along the coastpath.

After a good lie down back at my hotel, I trek right down to the port and have a rather forgettable fish supper. Still, the walk back along the coast is a nice one, appreciating the lateness of the western summer sunset. 

Thursday 16 July: Perros-Guirec – Saint Quay Portrieux: 78km

Back on the road, grateful for the rest. Overcast until another glorious late afternoon. More brutal hills including an absolute monster in Tredarzec that has an oncoming driver lifting his hands from the wheel to applaud as I cross him near the top. At points it hits 18-19%: hard enough on an ordinary bike but I feel superhuman getting up it laden with three heavy bags.

The drivers rather than the hills are one of the great things about riding in France. Nowhere else will you be treated with such patience and encouragement. People either ride, have ridden or admire those who ride. In my entire trip, I do not recall one incident of rudeness but plenty of words of encouragement and this has been true on other rides in Provence and the Cote d’Azur.

And there are some yummy bits of coast, far more rewarding than the ride to Perros-Guirec and without the traffic. This is my first time in Brittany apart from a brief stopover in Fougeres in 1983, the first time I ever went abroad and the moment that I fell inextricably in love with France. But it feels like home. The Celtic fringe, I suppose but it is a kind of coast that I grew up with in North Devon: stiff cliffs, rocky beaches, seaweed of all kinds and colours. I could be in Wales, Ireland or Cornwall. Or beautiful North Devon.

Even inland, it feels more interesting. Hydrangeas everywhere. Estuaries. Small ports.

And up in the hills, some quietly beautiful villages. One of the surprises is the variety of church spires.

After passing Paimpol at around lunchtime, I head back inland along country lanes. La route des falaises: the cliff route. The sun finally comes out and makes me feel even better.

And along my route, I continue to pass loads of bike tourists or at least bikers with laden panniers. I don’t think that I have ever seen so many, even on the Rhine or Danube.

My sole let down is arriving in Bréhec. I had planned to have lunch at the beach, but when I arrive mid-afternoon, it is crowded with people and what is worse, there is an absolutely awful smell: somewhere between sewerage and faeces. It is repulsive yet people are gaily swimming and playing. I move on as fast as I can.

If Bréhec offers a let down, St Quay Portrieux is much nicer than I expected, helped by arriving in a nice place on a quiet back street – au gré des vents – run by a charming and helpful host who immediately starts heating the jacuzzi for me. On a mild sunny afternoon, it is an unexpected joy to relax for a bit in the back garden, with various kinds of frothing water around me. This is one of the things about bike touring: when you get an experience like this, you think: well I earnt it…

I go for a nice walk along the headland and then down to the beach and out for dinner: kidneys followed by what they call strawberry tiramisu. It doesn’t entirely work, but is very pleasant nonetheless.

Friday 17 July: St Quay Portrieux – Les Sables d’Or: 65kM

One of those days where I did not really get going: a steady up and down along the cliffs with few views to speak of, mostly following the Eurovelo EV4, sometimes pleasant backcountry roads but often monotonous highways. A day for making the bridge between hotels rather than enjoying myself. 

On top of that a mostly grey, murky day.  If the video above looks unimpressive, believe me it was more exciting than the real thing.

After being screened from the main road for several boring kilometres, I finally have to join it: a horrible stretch along the side of the motorway – with no barrier and mopeds screaming into my space – over the bridge into St Brieuc. I had expected a glorious view: I was too focused on staying alive to see. 

Finally I am back along country roads, though with the menace of odd sections of rutted track. At one point going down a hill, I hear a clunk and realise too late that it was my GoPro breaking off. I backtrack and am able to just about fix the camera on with a remaining bolt. Spot the change in the camera angle in the footage. It could have been worse.

A dip down to Caroual before being turfed off the road and up a mud and gravel track that suddenly goes all hairpin bends on me, rearing upwards at 12%. My poor old bike, Randy, starts lurching off the ground and I scarcely manage to bring him down again, up the hill and then a savage turn, narrowly avoiding some hikers. And then when I get to Erquy, I skirt across the top before hitting a loose gravel track, including one almost suicidal descent to a marsh that is full on strade bianche.

Finally across the top of the marsh and into Les Sables d’Or/ Les Pins. a holiday resort that never took off. I am through the main street before I know it and then lurching back uphill along mansion-lined avenues before finding my hosts on a back street.

A B&B: how did I end up booking that for two nights? And with shared bathroom and toilets? My heart sinks but there is nothing to be done.

Slightly redeemed by getting into the sea for a swim with the sun finally coming out, alternating currents of warm and cold water, but still good to be in. Armed with only a pair of Speedos and a travel towel that barely covers my midriff, like any self-respecting Brit, I resort to a vaguely Mr Bean-like approach to changing. With extra wet sand getting in the way. Towards an audience of precisely no one.

Then a long walk to the main street for dinner. People walking into a restaurant with masks on their face to ask for a table and then sitting down and removing them. Sat too close to a family whose father spends the first part of the meal talking non-stop in a vain attempt to impress his kids but then runs out of steam and interest when the kids continue.

This constant second guessing. Can I sit here? How close can these people get?

This mix of weirdness and normality: face masks and ice cream. Innocence and paranoia. 

My food takes an eternity to arrive and when it does so, my pizza is the wrong one. I am famished… But still the correct pizza is fine and who am I to care anyway?

Saturday 18 July: Les Sables d’Or

After a surprisingly good night’s sleep, another day off.

Despite my misgivings about the B&B – Les Mimosas – I come to appreciate it, especially the warmth and slight craziness of the owners and their even madder dog, Praline. A good breakfast. Need I mention the bread? OK, but also a decent crepe, homemade jam and a kiwi. My elderly hosts are both dressed in white jumpers with narrow horizontal blue stripes: nautique as it is known. When I point this out. they giggle and admit that they have not noticed.

At the table with me, a Swiss couple also bike touring. When I comment on the steepness of the hills, they look at me as if I am congenitally stupid – which I am – and say “ah well, in Switzerland, we have some hills too…”

I head out for a walk to Erquy along the coastline. Splendid scenery and walk along the beach in super weather. I don’t even care when my feet get soaked walking across the swamp.

And out on the beach, walking over to the Ilot St Michel with the tide out, the dried seaweed crunching under my feet, clambering over rocks with the enthusiasm of my inner eight-year old yet the energy and muscular spasms of my current forty-eight year old. The clump, clump, clump of my feet on slightly damp sand.

It is a gorgeous morning to be alive after all this: to once again be on a rocky shore with not a care in the world.

After much clambering, I rejoin civilisation and descent yet another brutal hill before sitting outside for oysters and fish and chips with white wine on the seafront at Erquy. 

The walk back becomes progressively more painful, lurking along country lanes in deadening heat, my feet becoming more tired and blistered and again, managing to get soaked crossing the swamp.

But redeemed by another swim in the sea in glorious weather. Seize these moments while you can.

My host offers me a ride into town to a place at the edge of the town. I order boulettes de morue. How much better that sounds than ‘cod balls’… But the taste is the same. Still the burger that follows is delightfully juicy. And even if the wine is a little vinegary, it is still medicinal.

Sunday 19 July: Les Sables d’Or – Dinan: 62KM

Another good night’s sleep followed by another good breakfast. A new pair of bike tourists. These are from Belgium: my sort of compatriots. The guy is a sound engineer for Belgian TV. “I’ll see you at a European Council” he says before heading off.

Back on the road and a much better day, starting with a ride out along the Cap Fréhel, passing the Belgians, swapping casual words and then… leaving them in my dusty wake… And not looking back.

Riding along the cape even on another grey morning turns out to be quite delightful: the sea to my left and a great mix of purple heather and yellow gorse to my right. It is so good that i ignore the rantings of my GPS and go off route and right out to the lighthouse.

There are LOADS of cyclists: Sunday racers and long-distance tourers. Before long, my Belgian friends catch up with me. They tell me that they had been in this area by car the previous year and had dreamed of riding it. I can see why: this turns out to be the most glorious ride of my tour.

Then slowly inland, slowly saying goodbye to the beach but still with odd bursts to the sea. At one point I pass ponies on the beach. As with other days, the sea mist burns off and I end in sunshine. On days like this, the riding feels easy: quiet roads, steady climbing, pretty villages. My speed is back up where it should be: a satisfying 16.7 kph. Hardly rocketing along, but a solid pace.

Out of nowhere, the country road makes a sharp descent and I am in the port of Dinan, surrounded by tourists. A final ascent up and under a viaduct before turning and drawing level and then after passing the castle, reaching the Rue de Jerzual, a seemingly medieval street, lurching downhill on savage cobbles and crowed with tourists. Reluctantly I get off the bike and wheel it half way down the hill to my hotel, a little sanctuary and surprisingly good value – Le Rempart du Jerzual.

I have business to attend to so I head through the crowds and Sunday strollers to an empty laundrette and clean my togs for the second and last time before a gentle evening stroll to find a restaurant.

I fancy having oysters one last time, though the madame d’ tries to warn me off, saying that they are bad at this time of year: being laiteuses or milky. I should have listened to her: they are vile, though I am later told that they are quite harmless. My final steak is not quite as good as the restaurant promises either, but the crème brûlée perfumed with orange is quite fantastic.

As I meander home, the crowds have gone and I have the town to myself.

Monday 20 July: Dinan – Rennes: 67kM

After another fabulous French breakfast, I move to head off. “But don’t you want to take a walk around the town first?” asks my hostess “No hurry to leave”.

And she is quite right: it is a quiet, beautifully sunny Monday morning with none of the crowds. I can wander the hills and city walls almost all to myself, taking in the beauty of the town.

But I have a solid distance to cover, so I pack up and head out, but not before having to commiserate with the hostess and her colleague about the awfulness and senselessness of Brexit, a further reminder of the kinship between Bretons and their Cornish, Devonian and Welsh cousins across the sea.

Then I walk poor Randy down the steep cobbles of the Rue de Jerzual like a tradesman steering a carthorse carrying a delicate load, constantly pulling on the reins, sorry brakes, until mercifully I reach the river that I had so athletically ridden up from the day before.

On paper, my ride is the least exciting ride but it is a delight, apart from the final feed into Rennes. The sun comes out but the temperature stays reasonable. I start for a few kilometres along the Rance river, before a gentle climb towards Calorguen. Even when I hit a patch of converted railway line, the surface is not too bad and for many kilometres, I can alternate between the two. There is a steady up and down of 3-5% hills, all very manageable and a relief after the coastal monsters. It only starts to get boring after Montfort-sur-Meu, with a return to the diet of farmland.

Then in the closing ten kilometres, I hit the urban agglomeration of Rennes, a grim succession of busy roads and then when I do turn off, car showrooms, kitchen warehouses and the usual edge of the city tat. Finally through an underpass, over a bridge and I rejoin the towpaths that I used to leave the city nine days earlier.

To end a trip is always a disappointment even if one is pleased with one’s achievement: over 600 kilometres and more than that, brutes of hills tackled. And most satisfying of all, having studiously ignored my speed all day, I end with a final day average of 18 kph, not too shabby for an old man heavily laden with luggage.

Back to the hotel that I started in. Initially they give me a horrible old room. I start to unpack and half way through note that there is a wet towel in the bathroom: an uncleaned room. I storm downstairs, where they are appropriately apologetic and even better, give me a much bigger and better room with balcony, all the better to rearrange my stuff before the travel back.

A final odd meal out in Rennes, though with many places closed for the summer or because it is Monday night. I opt for a place that looks good but where the seared tuna rather underwhelms and even with two courses, I am still hungry at the end. Still, the wine is good. For purely medicinal purposes.

TUESDAY 21 JULY: A DETOUR THROUGH THE CENTRE OF PARIS

After a morning mooching around Rennes with my bike and not finding anywhere very satisfactory to sit, I catch the train to Paris. I have booked a space for my bike, but when I get on the train during the very brief stop, there is nowhere to stick it: the bike spaces are all filled with luggage, piled higgledy-piggledy. I am forced to wedge my bike uneasily in the train door area, so uneasily that it rests against automatic doors to the seating area. There is nothing to do but endure an hour and a half of the automatic doors trying to close against the resistance of my bike bags. They do so every 20-30 seconds for an hour and a half….

Mercifully, the only stop is Paris Montparnasse, so I don’t have to worry about getting it out of anyone’s way, and the conductors are appropriately sympathetic, clucking about the way that people have used up the bike space.

And then out into the madness of Paris. This should be a moment to celebrate: the end of my good holiday and my final tour with my trusted bike Randy: a lap of honour along the great Paris landmarks and of course the Champs Elysees.

But it takes me ten minutes to even work out where I am on the map and how to get going. And then there is the craziness of Parisian driving. And Parisian bikepaths, perilously narrow and regularly blocked by vans and pedestrians. I’d say Gauloise-smoking pedestrians smelling of garlic and onions, but I’d be lying.

Still there is the occasional glimpse of the Eiffel Tower when I am able to glance away from the potholes, cobbles, pedestrians, cars and other threats to my survival.

By the end, it is with some relief that I reach the Gare du Nord, still in one piece and swearing to never ride across Paris again. At the station, I have to wait a while for the platform to be announced. I meet another bike tourist: a retired Dutchman who has been riding in Provence, much more heavily laden with tents and stuff than me. “I miscalculated the sun” he says, showing me a scrawny arm mostly brown but with a savage pink gash and masses of dead skin where it has been peeling.

Finally the train is ready and I do a surprisingly quick and efficient job of releasing the brake levers, turning the bike upside down, removing both wheels, tying them together either side of the frame with bungee cords, and then lifting the whole lot into a bike bag, before wrapping it all up in a length of bungee cord. My job is not that professional, especially the last bit of wrapping, but it is done speedily and with the platform swarming with passengers heading to their respective seats (and while ventilating through my face mask). “It is good enough” I figure “I can sort it out in Brussels” and then heave it and my bags onto the train, where again there is enough space.

Job done, and just the hour and a half to Brussels. So I sit. And sit. And the train does not leave. And then we are told that there are technical problems: ten minutes delay. Which goes on. And then after three quarters of an hour, the cleaner bustles through and tells me that we are not going anywhere in this train. And so the message comes through the tannoy that we have to abandon the train and move from Platform 8 right round to a new train on Platform 9.

My heart sinks. I have to wait for all the other passengers to get off and then start the laborious job of lifting my poorly wrapped bicycle together with three very heavy panniers. A Dutch couple insist on helping, carrying two of my bags. It takes me a while to recognise that they were sitting across the aisle from me in the compartment. At such moments, you have to trust to the goodness of people, much as the Dutch cyclist trusted me with his bike and bags while he went off to get some food.

Even with their kind help, my arms are still straining with the bike and bags, especially as I have foolishly left a bottle in one of the holders and it now comes out and drags along the floor at the bottom of the bag. Somehow I make it and somehow the train leaves, an hour late.

Brussels is quieter and easier and I am able to haul everything off before the train leaves for Amsterdam, and quietly reassemble on the platform before a gentle ride back home in the failing light. And then have my first food and drink in over fifteen hours. This is 2020.

All in all, just under 630 km, just over 6000 m climbed. Paris survived. The hills of Bernaud Hinault climbed, not that the great man would even care.

Epilogue

As I finish writing this up, it is just over three weeks since I came back and the hopeful sun of July has been replaced with the hot clouds of August: infections are on the rise across Europe and here in Belgium, authorities are resorting to ever more desperate measures to control the rise without resorting to the turmoil of a second lockdown. This could well turn out to have been my only break all year.

Looking back, the odd thing is that whilst the cycling was good but not fantastic, and I would not go to Brittany for the food, though it was fine, I have very fond memories of the trip.

Perhaps it was the release after months of stress. A chance to rest the brain. To take stock of the stresses but also the achievements. A chance to switch off and switch our focus to the road ahead: the smooth whmmm of tarmac or the frustrating schlickety-schlack of loose gravel towpath.

Perhaps it was the smell of sea air, the sight of seaweed and the sound of seagulls taking me back forty years to my childhood.

Perhaps it was the decency and welcome of those I met, both hosts and tourists, and the hard work in hard times. Hoteliers, waiters, chefs. There were a lot of relieved smiles, though God knows, we all knew the risks.

All of that, but as well the magic of simply being out on a bike exploring new terrain, seeing new villages and towns. The magic of being out in the sun, the clouds and the rain. But also the magic of somehow conquering long distances and steep hills on this creaky body: the meditation of long climbs, the adrenalin rush of descents, and the sheer sense of being alive in a time of immense suffering. A time when anything could be taken from us.

So let us live while we may, seizing the chances however and whenever they come, and humbly grateful for these precious moments.