Our 'gite' was everything you would expect from deep within rural Normandy - a single level, stone built affair with bright blue shutters. Diamond laid slate tiles matched with ancient corrugated iron presented a roof with equal amounts of patina and provenance and the flinty track from the road provided just the right level of 'get away from it all' isolation. A feather hitting the floor would have caused heads to turn. It was, shall we say, quiet.
Then of course there are the markets - the great places of pilgrimage for masterly inactivity, they entrance, astonish and comfort the rest of the world with a way of life that is peculiarly French. No one outside France has quite managed to explain cogently what this unique French existence consists of - so we have a French phrase to sum it all up: je ne sais quoi - France's abiding gift to the world. And there is more je ne sais quoi for your euro to be found in a French market than anywhere else. Aisles of trestles and stalls filled with a marvellous array of produce; bright peaches fresh from the tree, ripe and golden. Green and black figs, bursting with sweet, ancient, darkly lascivious simile. The waft of fresh lemon, bunches of thyme and lavender and verbena; oils and olives, pale green and pungent and the honey from orange blossom from heath and orchard. The charcuterie displays dozens of dextrous things to do with a dead pig, in all the hues of pink and pale fatty cream. The strings of saucisson, the pate and rillettes. The boulanger with loaves so crisp and hard, plaited and rounded with dark bitter crusts and soft sour centres - the pastries, the asparagus, the artichokes, the cheeses - all winding their way around a rabbled square with pollarded plane trees and ironwork benches. And at its corners, the most holy of holies in the 'je ne sais quoi' market, The cafe - with cream and pink woven chairs and little metal tables and a waiter with a long apron and the look of a man who is beaten by his wife. A place to sit and just .... look. Sipping a strong cafe with perhaps a small glass of calvados or a tasse of the rough but immensely agreeable local wine - just to smell it is to understand the superiority of terroir over mere talent. And then you can examine the rewards of your forage. 'I just got this artichoke, I liked the colour' - 'Oh well, I got this marvellous chèvre. The man said it was made with his grandmothers goats - or perhaps that his grandmother was a goat'
All this waffle - but did you do any cycling I hear you ask? - Well yes - as a matter of fact I did. Every day.
The thing about riding a bike in this part of France is that there are no flat roads - no chance to get settled into a speedy rhythm - it's all up and down - mostly up it seemed to me. I set off for a long ride, accompanied by my IGN D50 map of 'Manche' From Ste Cecile I headed to the next village of La Chapelle Cecelin and from there followed the D33 to Coulouvray Boisbenatre and then on to St Pois - the roads are smooth and even - nothing in the way of potholes at all - and no traffic. Everywhere is quiet as I pass through each village there is no sign of any living soul whatsoever - where is everyone? I work my way up some long, hard climbs to Le Gast and through a beautiful forest area towards St Sever-Calvados - this is a bigger village - not quite a town but at least there are a few people milling around. I pause for a moment checking the map and just looking around before heading off again towards Courson, back to narrow quiet lanes now - no sign of life - no cyclists - haven't seen one cyclist at all. Even with the map I manage to lose myself in the maze of lanes and tracks - I figure I'll hit a main road at some point and sure enough I arrive at the D524 which takes me through to Villedieu les Poeles - from here it is another 6k climb back to the gite - I take it steadily and manage it okay. 35 miles done in beautiful, empty countryside.
|After the ride??|