clairedavieswriter

Given the obscure places I’ve been through, it might have been helpful to provide maps before, but better late than never. I only thought to do it today because I realised I had fetched up in the dead centre of the country.

As I set out today, I had that feeling you get when reaching the last chapter of a good book: you want to know how it ends, but you don’t want it to be over.

So perhaps it was right that I saved my longest ride for the last full day on the bike. It was long because I once again added miles in order to avoid main roads, but it was also lovely because, well, just look at it.

We spent the first 50k on signposted cycle paths, starting with our old friend the EV6:

Which involved a lot of canalside riding, but at least the wind was mostly abeam today:

There were plenty of craft on the water, including this huge Dutch barge, flying the Welsh dragon. Which was a weird coincidence, because as I reached that bridge, I’d been singing We’ll Keep a Welcome in the Hillsides. Spooky.

Spookier still, and to demonstrate my eclectic playlist, a few hours later, just as I’d started singing along to Les Misérables ‘One More Day’, I kid you not, this sign appeared:

But my favourite musical moment came when belting out a tune from The Sound of Music (I told you it was eclectic) as we crested a rise on the way into a village: “High on a hill was a lonely goat, yodelay, yodelay, yodel-ay-he-hoo”. Fortunately, we didn’t come across any of the locals. Bernard just rolled his eyes.

Now, we all know that a cyclist’s primary needs are coffee and food. By 12.30, I was losing hope of finding the former, and ruing my decision not to buy some of the latter in the Decize Intermarché when I had the chance. So this was a welcome sign.

Somewhat surprisingly, it was a Basque establishment. Their coffee was so good I had two. They also made me a foot-long sandwich stuffed with half-inch thick slabs of Brie and a homemade tomato salsa. Which goes to prove that good things come to those who wait.

Soon afterwards, we parted company with the EV6, which heads north to join the Loire à Vélo route. This, together with the popularity of the 800km Tour de Bourgogne, is why I’ve seen more cycle tourists over the last couple of days than in the entire trip put together.

Team Bernard turned south, but not before we’d negotiated the 370m-long Pont Canal at Guétin, which takes the Canal Latéral of the Loire over the river Allier (the 20ft deep lock taking the canal down on the other side was almost as impressive). The barriers guarding the walkway made it a less nerve wracking experience than the one yesterday.

After that, there was just a short spur of canal to follow until it reached the Allier, and the ingenious circular lock at Les Lorrains. Built in 1838, it allowed barges laden with 50 tons of sand to transit from the river via the right-hand lock gate, into the canal, straight ahead. It only fell into disuse early in the 20th century, due to falling river levels, and changes in the sand trade.

Lunchtime found us in positively Cotswoldian surroundings,

In the picture-postcard village of Aprémont sur Allier..

Whose unpretentious little church is a stopover on one of the pilgrimage routes to Santiago de Compostela..

And whose inhabitants boast a strong topiary game:

Judging by the car park and the throngs on the riverside, it was clearly a popular destination, but there was no serious attempt to cash in on the tourism: just one restaurant (not on the riverside), an antiques place and a small, discreet shop. I couldn’t help but think it would have been different in the UK. We joined the locals picnicking on the waterfront – I enjoyed the first half of my massive sandwich.

The rest of the day, until a mile out of Bourges town centre, was spent riding on virtually deserted D roads, through apparently deserted villages (although they weren’t, because there were cars parked outside the houses) and between vast arable fields.

Did I mention the empty roads?

And the endless fields?

And the endless fields beside the empty roads?

Amid all this evidence of peaceful modern day agricultural endeavour, I was brought up short by a reminder of a more turbulent past.

It turned out that I was literally pedalling along the line that divided Occupied from Vichy France. Whereas today I can cycle wherever I want, between 1940 and 1943 I would not have been able to cross this road in either direction without a ‘laissez-passer’ from the occupying forces.

I’ve been thinking a lot on this trip about borders and freedoms. I’ve found myself noticing and dwelling on the memorials, in virtually every village and town, to deportees and executed resistance fighters – in other words, civilians, not soldiers. Any other time, I would have viewed them essentially as tragic historical artefacts, because the idea that another country could just walk in and take over simply couldn’t happen now. Recent events have made me think again.

Just across the road from the demarcation line sign was a French military live firing zone. Irony? Or prudence…

From Aprémont, despite passing several villages, I rode for nearly 3 hours without seeing a shop, bar or even another human, apart from a few car drivers. So with 18k still to go, my guardian angel du jour was the lady with a shock of blonde curls who I accosted in her front garden and asked to refill my empty water bottles. Without missing a beat she said, ‘Of course, shall I put wine in them?’ Madame, I salute you.

My accommodation this evening could not look much more French (the owner is an artist, hence the quirky lampposts):

And Bernard will seldom enjoy a grander outdoor billet.

Tomorrow we have time for a spot of tourism in Bourges before our afternoon train. It was impossible to connect up trains and ferries, so we’ll be spending tomorrow night in Tours and half of Monday on a train to Caen. Then we’ll just have 15k to pedal to the ferry. I’ll save my final reflections till then.

I’ll leave you with some philosophical questions to ponder, via an unexpected canalside medium: