clairedavieswriter

Today I experienced two of those ‘I can’t believe I cycled here’ moments. First when I realised I was in Normandy (albeit quite a way from Trouville)

And then when I reached the Seine. Bilbao seems simultaneously a very long time ago, and only yesterday.

Mind you, after 103k in the saddle, even this morning seems like a long time ago, but I won’t forget it in a hurry. As I wheeled Bernard into the cathedral square in search of breakfast:

I found a large crowd, waving massive flags and singing what sounded like Gregorian chants. I couldn’t get too close, what with the heavy police presence, and the nervous looking squaddies carrying assault weapons. But I could make out lots of people with rucksacks, a big group in hi-viz jackets, a squadron of lanky sea scouts sporting white berets with blue pompoms, and a man wearing a floor-length black robe with a shiny crucifix just visible through his black straggly beard. Think Rasputin, but in Goretex walking sandals.
The atmosphere felt like a weird mixture between a jamboree and a wake.
While buying breakfast, I asked Madame la Boulangère what was going on. What followed was unexpected.
“Ce sont des catholiques,” she said, which wasn’t really news, but the look she gave me suggested she had views on the matter, so I pressed for more. It turned out that they were pilgrims, bound for Paris, in celebration of Pentecost. A queue was building behind me, but there was no stopping Madame now.
“Ils sont des ultras,” she said, adding unnecessarily and with considerable contempt: “Des ultra catholiques.”
I grabbed my pain au chocolat and fled across the street to the market, where my fumblings with change were met with far greater tolerance.

After that excitement, some music was in order, and never let it be said that my playlist isn’t on point. The tune that powered me through the vast cereal fields of central France yesterday was Wide Open Spaces, by the Dixie Chicks. Leaving the cathedral city of Chartres on the weekend of Pentecost, Madonna seemed appropriate, although I concede that Like a Virgin might not have been the pilgrims’ first choice.
Guillaume found us some wonderful smooth, well sign-posted, traffic-free paths, like this one that took us out of Chartres:

And this one between Marcilly-sur-Eure and Beuil:

Which looked like this:

And this:

But the majority of the day was again spent among huge fields of barley, wheat, peas and rape:

Which allowed plenty of time to appreciate the local flora:

But offered scant opportunity for comfort breaks. From midday onwards, none of the villages I passed through had toilets, and when I finally saw a likely spot, I decided it wasn’t worth risking a bullet in the head.

Have I mentioned how good French roads are to ride on? This is why: the road to the left of the sign, which looked in better condition than any I know in Hampshire, was nonetheless about to be resurfaced

So good are the roads in fact, that this was a photograph-worthy event: the first real pothole I’d seen in over 1000km

Although it has to be said that different districts clearly have different priorities: just look at the contrast between Eure (this side of the sign) and Yvélines (beyond):

Today, the roads (and Bernard, still chipper after a Dutchman called him ‘a beautiful bike’ this morning), carried me to a cabin beside the Seine, just 50k west of Paris.

It was my longest day so far, but such a joy to be out on the bike.
Team Bernard are putting our feet and wheels up tomorrow – see you on Monday.