France: The Manche to The Med

 The Manche to the Med - The Crossing

Setting off day was a nervous affair; have I got everything I need in those pannier bags?. What if something breaks on the bike, have I got enough spare parts? I'd packed, unpacked and packed again - The bags were full anyway - no room for anything else, even if I needed it.

We picked Gary up and loaded his bike onto the rack. The car's interior was packed with stuff - bags, helmets, bottles and we set off for Portsmouth with nervous apprehension. The journey was uneventful and conversation was limited. I felt like a trooper on the eve of D-Day. What would happen to us once we crossed the cold waters of the English Channel?

We arrived at the docks at around 3.00pm - there was a queue for our ferry already - even though it didn't depart until 8.15pm. We loaded up our bikes, more checking that nothing was left in the car and then we were on our own, wondering what to do for the next 5 hours. There was a large departure lounge and we decided we'd have a look in there. We locked up our bikes in the racks just outside and entered. There was nothing much - no cafe, just a Brittany Ferries help desk - we asked them what we needed to do and were told to go to check-in at around 6.30pm. We went back to the bikes. There was a man in a hi-vis vest and a lady from Bilbao. The man told us that loads of bikes had been stolen from here - great we thought. We asked if there was a pub nearby - he pointed to some flags 200 yards away. We set off.

Our first stop!

The Ship and Castle is a traditional waterside pub - offering hearty ales and fare - perfect. We sampled a pint of London Pride. Then another. After the third we decided it might be an idea to get something to eat - probably better than the food offered on the ferry. After that we had another pint. Then we could see that the queue of traffic was beginning to move.

We scrambled into action and cycled the 200 yards back. Getting through the check-in was quicker than expected and we were ushered past the lines of vehicles to the very front of the queue. There were a few other cyclists and a group of motorcyclists. We got chatting to the nearest cyclist who was travelling on his own. He said he'd cycled about 30 miles to get here, "What about you" he asked. Gary told him we'd cycled 400 yards and had four pints in the pub. The lady on the motorbike next to us overheard and burst out laughing.

In the queue - meeting new Paul

Soon we were boarding the ship - first on! We had to walk our bikes up the ramp and were directed to a small hold at the front end. We were told to lash our bikes to the rails that were provided, once that was done we made our way up to our cabin - the crossing is overnight and we had comfortable accommodation for the first part of our adventure.

We changed into shorts and shirts and inevitably found ourselves in the bar area - it was busy already - we grabbed a table and ordered a couple of glasses of wine. Tasted good, so we had a couple more. Then we decided it was cheaper to buy the small bottles they had on offer - same price as a glass but more wine - couldn't argue with that. Soon after the cyclist we had met in the queue turned up - we called him over and asked him to join us - he was another Paul. Pretty soon we found out he was a retired engineer living in Christchurch who had worked on the Airbus project. Like us he was heading to the Mediterranean to meet up with some friends in their camper van, spend a few days in the sun and then fly back. He was a seasoned cycle tourist who had taken up cycling after a drink-driving ban. It transpired that his fondness for the odd tipple has stayed with him.

Our downfall!!

Pretty soon we were ordering our second (full-sized) bottle of Cotes de Rhone. We were amazed that despite his cycling prowess he had no fixed agenda. He wasn't sure what route he was taking, no fixed plan of where he was going, where he would stay or when he'd get there. He pulled out a crumpled map and said he'd have a look?

By the time we'd finished the fourth bottle things were getting silly and slightly surreal. There was some sort of caberet act performing songs from Sleeping Beauty - at least that's what we thought they were doing. It was a close thing but we managed to agree that instead of another bottle it would be best to get to bed and meet for breakfast before disembarking - anyway the bar had closed.

I don't remember much else until being woken by the sound of a tannoy announcement in French. Breakfast was over and the ship was coming into St Malo. I threw on some clothes and staggered up to the breakfast lounge, legs plaited as if the boat was in a storm. I could see no sign of new Paul - I assumed he too had been waylaid by last night's over indulgence. I decided to head back to the cabin and get packed. Gary was awake by then - pale, mumbling and bleary eyed, like a man just waking from a coma. At any other time we might have thought this funny - not today. The ship was in port - we needed to get off. We hastily scrambled our belongings together, all ideas of items being neatly stowed were forgotten - everything was rammed into bags as if loading a cannon at the Battle of Trafalgar.

Three idiots abroad!

Somehow we weaved and wobbled our way down to the lower deck where the bikes were. Still no sign of new Paul - The ramps were lowered we were told to push our bikes into France - we were here. First day on the road was about to start - and we were too hungover to worry about it - I laughed as we took our first pedal strokes on French soil and headed into the centre of St Malo.

 

 

 

The Manche to the Med - Day 1: St Malo to Rennes

Weather wise it was about the same as home - maybe a couple of degrees warmer as we followed the route saved on my Garmin Edge. Although the events of last evening had resulted in a last minute panic and we were clearly jaded, somehow the adrenalin rush had compensated - we were okay - gradually weaving our way through St Malo and heading for Rennes.

Our first French Coffee!

We knew we needed to eat something and after 10 miles we spotted a roadside cafe that was open in a small village. We parked the bikes and sat outside - The French App I've been messing around with should have held us in good stead - we ordered a Grand Cafe au lait and a Croque Monsieur each. We got a cup of coffee and a hot dog. Whatever! - we were hungry.

Gradually the roads became quieter and in places it seemed we were the only ones out there. We both noticed how good the road surface is in France - smooth tarmac with very few potholes and even less litter. We arrived at the Canal Ille de Midi - and proceeded along a wide towpath, probably twice the width of a typical canal path at home with a fairly even compacted gravel/chippings surface - not too bad for cycling and again, traffic free, no sign of anyone, no other cyclists, no walkers, nothing?

Lunch stop on the canal

At a junction we spotted a canalside bistro - perfect for a lunch break. By now the sun was shining and it seemed the perfect stop off point. This time we did get a Croque Monsieur each! After that it was a steady ride into the centre of Rennes, the capital city of Brittany. The Garmin did a great job of navigating through the myriad of busy streets and alleys to our hotel for the night.

Our room was good, we showered and changed but were both suffering from dehydration; the combined effects of the excesses on the boat and the day's ride. We walked into the town for a quick look around - there are some fine half-timbered buildings and Grand Cathedral and the Museum of Arts houses works by Botticelli, Rubens and Picasso. Later we retired to a restaurant in the same street as the hotel. This was not a night for any gastonomic experiments - Gary had a burger, I had Pasta. We were in bed by 7.30pm!

The canalside path

Rennes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Manche to the Med - Day 2: Rennes to Chateaubriant

I woke at 6.00am and decided I needed to stretch my legs. In the street outside the hotel was a cacophony from the tree-lined street. It was getting light and I stood on the corner as most people were hoarding the last blissful minutes with Morpheus in that sleepy, syrupy, dream-clotted, thick-limbed plaiting of consciousness. Gazing up there began a mass exodus of thousands, possibly millions, of small birds from their overnight perches. It was a French city dawn chorus that was more like a morning oratorio. The sky was black with the swirling flocks as they wended their way through the streets, soaring and swooping through corners and avoiding obstacles. The sound cleaved through the morning air like a squadron of Stukas on an early morning mission.

Our hotel breakfast was a satisfying buffet: cereals, fresh crunchy bread and flaky croissants, juice, coffee, ham and cheese. We made multiple visits to the counter to fuel the morning ahead. We try to buy bottles of water for hydration but, being a Friday, all the local shops are shut.

After breakfast and the ritual of packing our bags we were dismayed to see that rain had begun to hammer down outside. 'Rain reigns in Rennnes' said Gary. We can't wait though - we have a schedule to keep and we donned raincoats and set off into the busy morning traffic. Within a few minutes we were back on the canal path which would take us to the outskirts of the city and quieter roads. The weather drifted out of the sky like paint dripping into a glass of water, opaque filigree swathes and fretted blots, whitening out the landscape. All details vanished into the mist.

After an hour or so the rain moved on and the surrounding hills and vales danced in a slim slab of sunlight  - somewhat reservedly, as the the sun peeps out at us from behind still threatening grey clouds. By now we were in hilly terrain - long drawn-out climbs that seemed to go on and on.... The Breton countryside is green and lush, no gorges or mountains and there's a comforting familiarity. The landscape supports many farms, clearly agriculture is a major industry here - we are surprised at how much corn is being grown - field after field, acre after acre, all as high as an elephants eye.

Lunch stop

The maze of tiny lanes are ideal for cycling - not so good for finding a cafe or restaurant - and by now we're feeling hungry. Some miles later we happen across a roadside restaurant, way out in the middle of nowhere - we pull in. We park our bikes and camp at one of the tables conveniently situated in the pleasant early afternoon sun. This is a traditional french, family run establishment. It's simple, honest, fresh home cooking, well presented, thoughtful, considered and reasonably priced. We go for a 'Plat de Jour' of warm goat's cheese salad with lardons and honey and balsamic dressing - this was extremely satisfying - so fresh and tasty - the honey and goats cheese with the crispy lardons complementing each other perfectly. Pudding was an apple gateaux with cream - again, delicious. The interesting thing here was how the whole family was involved - there was grandma at the counter inside, mom and dad doing the cooking and waiting-on, then there was the little 8 year old daughter/grandaughter who came out to us to practise a few English words and take our order for pudding. We gave her a €5 tip.

After the perfect refuelling stop we were on our way again. The afternoon weather stayed kind and we arrived in Chateaubriant without any further need of waterproofs. The GPS locked on to our accommodation for the night, a B&B hidden away in the sprawling backstreets of this small town. We're here earlier than planned and wonder if we'll get access - we decide a cheeky knock on the door will provide the answer. We are greeted by a tall, skinny man who we think looks Scandanavian - he is in charge of the B&B while his wife works as an architect - demonstrated in the tasteful extension that will provide our accommodation tonight.

Chateaubriant is a quiet town, an interesting mix of old and new buildings with the ubiquitous church and market square at it's centre. We find a bar for a couple of beers, nowhere is open for food until 7.00pm. We have a wander around the centre of town deciding where to spend our Euros. We settle on a small restaurant specialising on meat cooked on a barbeque - there is an English family in there, they've been travelling through France but their camper van had broken down and they were stranded here until it could be repaired - probably a couple of days (they hoped?). Our evening meal was steak with baked potato and chips - a strange combination we thought - but accompanied by a bottle of local wine it hit the spot nicely. The patron had a photograph of himself standing with Jimmy Sommerville (The Communards/Bronski Beat - remember them?) proudly mounted on the wall near to the till. We were done and in bed by 9.40pm

The Manche to the Med - Day 3: Chateaubriant to Beaupreau

Breakfast at Chateaubriant was a mixed affair - some home-made yoghurt, a local cake with additional rum as a preservative, slices of brioche and some croissants. Cheese was limited to small plastic tubs of St Morentz (I think?) and no ham. It felt as though something was missing and generally we thought it not as good as the buffet from yesterday. Still, we eat as much as possible - difficult to say what we would we would find on the road later.

We set off at around 9.00am through the town, quiet and somnambulent, free from the cloned monopolies of chain stores and charity shops that we are familiar with in the UK. Being a Saturday there are no shops open though, so we fail to pick up any water or supplies for the day ahead. Immediately we were climbing, laboriously up a long hill, the first of many that lay ahead. The sun was blissfully blazing in a clear blue sky and would remain so all day. More corn crops to look at and also some fields of sunflowers that are clearly past their vibrant yellow best. There are hedges of hawthorn and blackberry with great oak trees that throw balloons of long shadows across our path.

Later we pass through the small town of Varades and spot a cafe/restaurant that is open. We take up a table outside sitting in the sun, which is far too hot for any lengthy dwelling and results in us scrabbling amongst our panniers for suncream and hats. We order a bottle of local cidre to quench our thirst, this is the stuff, common in France, that comes in a champagne style bottle and is around 2.5% - ideal for a sunny lunchtime stop. We enjoy another cheese salad lunch and order a second bottle of cidre - we were sitting there for almost two hours and it seemed perfect.

Bridge over the River Loire

Back on the bikes and the next two hours were all up, down, up, down - physically tiring and depleting energy, today's route felt like 100 miles but was only around 50 - the heat combined with the weight of our bikes and luggage leaving us somewhat perplexed with the effort required. Body and mind are in some kind of shock, almost in awe, limbs are lifeless, food and sleep are on our minds. We are in the Loire region now and we crossed the river for the first time. Finally we arrived in the town of Beaupreau but our accommodation for this evening was a further five miles or so on the otherside. Some more vertiginous challenges were made on our tired legs as we slowly climbed up to the Chateau de la Moriniere - at last, our overnight stop.

Built in the mid 19th century, the chateau is small, at least for a chateau - but it's all there, very French and fairytale in style. The owners a chef/businessman and his wife live here, this is their home. They have businesses scattered across France but they rent out rooms and provide gastronomy evenings for their guests here that helps with the upkeep of the building and grounds.

The Chateau

We park at the front entrance, no sign of anyone. There's a bench overlooking the valley beyond to a distant church spire - we sit there, in the shadow cast from the Chateau, in silence, heads bowed, glad of the rest. Then Madam comes out to greet us, she looks like the figurehead of a mighty galleon, cleavage pushing up from a tight dress. She has better English than we have French and explains that our accommodation is in one of the annexes in the grounds. We walk with the stiff limbs of a put-out cat to find our beds for the night. The room is large with an excellent bathroom/wetroom - after a fierce shower we are ready for some food.

The evening that followed developed into one of the most memorable of the trip. It was theatrical, cinematic, operatic, and all the other platitudes... It was as if we had been handed a script and were part of a play - we were walking onto a stage and taking part in some sort of drama - a set piece focussed on food and drink. Act 1 was sitting around a large table under an iron gazebo festooned with green ivy and climbing roses, the Chateau in front of us, the valley and distant views behind - it was difficult to approach this table without a frission of indulgent anxiety - here we were, two blokes on bikes, dressed in dishevelled shorts and shirts, sitting in the garden of a chateau with all its rusticity carefully and knowingly preserved, but folded in with a sense of genteel sophistication, all aesthetically framed through bottles of champagne, home made crudities, preserved tomatoes, petit crackers, garlic bread and various other offerings.

Our hosts, along with some of the other guests, did their level best to include us in their small-talk. Whilst the conversation inevitably meandered in French, a gentleman next to Gary acted as translator. There was also a young couple, she a film maker making a documentary about the Chateau and its owners, and her boyfriend, both spoke excellent English and made sure we weren't left out of the conversation.

Act 2: We were taken into the Chateau and through to the conservatory where we would all sit around a single candlelit table, we would all eat the same menu and drink the same wine - no choices tonight!

Dinner at The Chateau

There was an excellent local Vin Blanc to accompany a peerless butternut squash soup with truffle oil and crispy ham - a bowl of silky sensual summer brilliance, the ham lurking in the hidden depths whilst the truffle oil added a tongue-tingling earthiness. The main course was chicken, possibly from their own flock which we had seen scratching around the grounds, simply roasted with herbs and served with new potatoes. And to finish a dessert of apple tarte tatin. A constant flow of interesting local wines accompanied the food throughout.

Around the table were all the players from central casting. Us with a smattering of French trying to keep up with the conversation. The French businessman with his sweater neatly splayed over his shoulders, the stocky french hooker who apparantly worked as an arms dealer, the film maker and her boyfriend and another couple who, we were informed, were mysteriously leaving before dawn. You could look round the table from face to face and judge exactly which script each was reading; who though they were in a Felini film, a Dumas novel, an olive-oil commercial or an episode of 'I'm a cyclist get me out of here'

In the kitchen

Our host and patron was kind enough to let me visit his kitchen - a totally professional set up with restaurant standard stove - although he did tell me he likes Aga's. He bought out a bottle of fine Claret - his friend owns the vineyard - it was silky smooth, rich and warming. We asked if he'd fetch another bottle and we'd pay for it - he said he would but wouldn't hear of us paying.

Breakfast at The Chateau

Next morning we wandered down to breakfast - possibly the best breakfast room and spread of the whole trip - endless baskets of croissants and bread, ham of various types, cheese, fruit, juice, honey, jams & preserves, antique plates and cutlery - it was all there along with coffee of a strength to make your eyes pop. All served up in a room straight from a film-set.

We had no doubt - this had been a special place to visit - Ok everyone, cut, that's a wrap...

 

The Manche to the Med - Day 4: Beaupreau to St Loup Lamaire

 

With handshakes, the exchange of emails, and promises to stay in touch, we departed the Chateau. It had certainly been a memorable experience.

Our target today is St Loup Lamaire. The morning is dry, not particularly warm, but okay for cycling. Once again we're plummeted into a hilly world - not the short steep gradients that we're used to at home - more long, drawn out rises that sap energy and strength - each corner suggesting a summit that then transpires to be, just another corner on an endless road upwards.

We amuse ourselves by halting on bridges over motorways - looking down at the passing stream of traffic it seems like every third or fourth car gives us a wave. Some even toot there horns - we spend ten minutes waving at cars - something that we will continue to do at every motorway bridge for the rest of the trip.

Unpaved road

The Garmin GPS unit I have fixed to the handlebars of my bike has done stirling work in getting us where we need to be so far. Today was to be different. It seems that in France there is a network of 'unpaved roads' that Garmin and Google Maps both recognise as normal, navigable route options. This is an oversight. Some of these 'roads' are in fact farm tracks - the sort of thing you might find in the UK behind a farm gate on a minor road. In France the farm gates are missing and the 'roads' are an apparently acceptable route for crossing the landscape. Today would see us cast out across a rural landscape that would best be navigated in a Land Rover - and even then it would be a struggle. Combined with these roads is the Voie Verte - a more acceptable route option criss-crossing the whole of France, utilising old railway lines, canal paths and such - most of these have been resurfaced with compacted gravel or, in some cases tarmac. We followed the route down endless rough tracks, through barren flat fields that stretched out on all sides as far as the eye could see.

The road to nowhere?

We saw no sign of any other living person all morning. We passed wheelbarrows at the side of the track, loaded with bits and pieces and with tools lying around - but no people. We saw a van with its back doors flung open - but no sign of anyone. There was a machine being used to harvest crops, part loaded, but nobody operating it? - the whole thing seemed strange and eerie - like a science fiction movie where everything had simply been frozen and all the people abducted to an alien spaceship hidden in the clouds.

When we finally happened upon any villages, all the cafes and shops were shut - this being a Sunday. Still no sign of any people anywhere. Passing through one larger village we felt sure there'd be somewhere for a lunch stop - we came off our planned route to explore, riding around the village from end to end and the myriad side streets.... nothing.

We got back onto the Voie Verte - a smooth section, probably an old railway line - the sort of place that in England on a Sunday would be teeming with walkers, cyclists, families out for the day - we saw not a soul. We heard some strange bird calls from the mass of trees lining the route - "Pterodactyl", I said to Gary. Not long after there was the sound of distant cattle lowing "Brontosaurus"

By now we were hungry - we stopped along the Voie Verte and rummaged in our panniers - lunch was to be a platter of Kendal Mint Cake (thanks Jane!), Wine gums and the remnants of a bag of crisps purchased back in Rennes.

Gary I presume?

The final track that we had to navigate proved impossible - absolutely no surface or discernable road at all, just a forest floor punctuated by trees, fallen trees, tree roots, ferns, foliage, brambles... we should have packed machetes. We struggled, pushing and pulling the bikes through this jungle for about a mile. Finally we made it to a normal road - thankfully this would take us most of the way to St Loup. We saw a small group of deer gathered in the road just ahead - they scattered as we almost got to them, diving and disappearing into the dense undergrowth.

As we got close to St Loup Lamaire the instruction was once again to take the 'unpaved road' Gary was reluctant - he'd had enough of negotiating rocks and ruts and decided he'd follow his own GPS via the main road - my GPS was telling me our destination was five minutes away - just down this track! - We split up for the last few miles. I followed the track, bumping my way gently downhill until arriving at the main road, just across a couple of river bridges and I was there. I found the hotel - no sign of Gary. I booked in, got the bike inside, removed my luggage and got the key to the room. I managed to work out with the receptionist that the restaurant was closed tonight - it being Sunday, and there was no other restaurants in town. However there was a small pizza parlour - open for an hour between 7 and 8.00pm - she said she would call and book us a table - after some conversation that I didn't understand it seems there was no space in the pizza place - but they would do us a take-out pizza and we could bring it back to the hotel. Still no sign of Gary.

I went into the street to see if there was any sign of him - no. A few minutes later he called - he was close but just outside town - I told him to come across the bridges and take the first left - a couple of minutes late I saw him at the end of the road. He'd come down a hill so steep that he had to get off and walk down! - First time I've heard of walking DOWN a hill? - I wondered if our route tomorrow meant having to climb that same hill? - We were in a valley, riverside, so a climb was inevitable.

Soon enough we were showered, changed and ready to explore. St Loup Lamaire is a quaint sleepy village in the Southern Loire region situated on the River Thouet. The main street has a few shops with the town hall at one end but is dominated by the formidable Chateau St Loup at the other. The Chateau takes in guests and is also an established wedding venue - we met a few English people wandering round, they were here for a wedding, the English bride having seen the Chateau in a book as a teenager decided that would be her dream wedding venue - it is properly impressive with a moat around and 50 acres of garden and grounds.

The bar at St Loup Lamaire

Despite our concerns we did manage to find a small cafe/bar that was open - but only until 9.00 - we settled at a table for a couple of beers - then a couple more, followed by two more. Some wedding guests wandered in - carrying pizza boxes - it seems the patroness, a stern looking women sitting behind her bar working on a crossword - didn't mind. I did my best to ask if it would be okay for us to fetch pizza into her bar - the answer was short and sweet "Qui"

Ten minutes later I'm back in the bar - carrying three pizza boxes - we're hungry! Pizza is immensely simple - essentially a peasant food, the only real secret is the temperature of the oven - which has to be of glass-blowing intensity. Our supper tonight was the best pizza either of us had ever tasted. A wodge of the thinnest, crispiest unleavened base with chewy, sticky napalm stuff on top. It's hot, it's tasty and it's filling - what more do you want? If you have one of those 'nothing but pizza will do' cravings - this would be the place to have it.

With the bar now closing and the pizza nicely tucked up in our tummies there's nothing left but bed. And we have no complaints - we're tired - it's been a hard day all-in-all and more to come tomorrow.

Outside the Chateau at St Loup

St Loup Lamaire

The Manche to the Med - Day 5: St Loup Lamaire to Poitiers

I looked at the map this morning before breakfast. Already we seem to have made a sizeable dent into the journey - the little graphic on the left gives you an idea. When planning this adventure I was hoping for a slow meander through France. There's something immensely attractive about slowness. Something that borders langour and tranquility maybe? Think of those lunches that slip into tea and cocktails, of switching off the computer and taking an hour on the couch, of slow-ripened tomatos or peaches, of a slow stroll to the pub or the occasional loll in a hammock, a slowly handwritten note or a hand-picked posy of wild flowers, slowly sitting down to read a book maybe... So the idea of slowly picking our way through to the south of France, taking time to see things, to smell the terroir, to taste the air... it all sounds just right doesn't it? Now I wonder if we're actually moving too fast? - already things are becoming a bit of a blur.

Breakfast today was okay - but okay over here is like disappointing at home. The bread was faintly stale - probably a day old and tough like bread is when there's no preservatives or additives to keep it soft - still tasty though! The usual spread of cheeses and meats was somewhat miniscule by comparison and we were left wondering if we might find a shop open in the village to stock up for todays ride. We left the hotel at around 9.00am - We rode the bikes to the town hall and the car park there - Gary needed to do some maintenance to his bike - he's been having trouble with the disc brakes on his Dawes Galaxy and some slight adjustments were needed. After that we rode around the village for some exploring - we found a shop - but, being a Monday, it was closed. By 10.00am we were heading out onto the road to Poitiers - immediately upwards from the river - a 100 metre climb so steep and long I felt sick.

We were climbing pretty much constantly for the first hour this morning - then we were back on the dreaded unpaved roads. Not quite as bad as those encountered yesterday - but bad enough to shake us, the bikes and our luggage.... rough, rutted tracks strewn with rocks and debris. After a couple of hours we decided to find a proper road and plot a new route using good old fashioned paper maps! The weather wasn't particularly good either - the full english - rain, wind, rain, a bit of sun, more wind and a final splattering of rain.

Poitiers - main square

Poitiers is a provincial French city, capital of the Poitou area of western France and county town of the Vienne department. It is a historic city that has conserved much of its old-world charm - and has catered for passing travellers since Roman times. It is home to one of the oldest churches in Europe - the fourth-century 'Baptistry' as well as the Notre Dame La Grande from medieval times. The town is also a major university and bustles with many students. As we approached the city I switched back to the GPS to get us through the busy traffic - we found ourselves on a long descent, probably a mile or two, taking us down to river level - then an immediate climb of 40 metres back up to the old town sitting on a plateau above the rivers which surround it on three sides. We found our hotel without incident, tucked away in one of the back streets a short walk from the main square.

More off-loading and unpacking of panniers - a ritual that takes up half an hour at the start and end of each day - then showers and out into the town. Just around the corner from our hotel we're in the thick of it, wide traffic free streets lined with bars and restaurants and then the main square, again with a mass of bars with outside tables. It's sunny now and we sit outside to enjoy a couple of petit beers - there's the comfortable background noise of early evening enjoyment; laughter, conversation, the clinking of glasses, then we find a restaurant for food. Le 16 Carnot is refined, spacious and comfortable - we start with a delicious plate of eggs benedict followed by a simple burger - not perticularly adventurous but very tasty - we both agree, the best burger ever! - the bottle of Merlot was excellent too!

Another early night - we're tucked up by 9.00pm

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Manche to the Med - Day 6: Poitiers to Confolens

It's another drizzly, damp start today. So far we've had a pretty mixed bag of weathers. You can cut the world across many different lines; between haves and nots, first and third, buyers and sellers, blondes and brunettes, tits or legs. But sometimes the most fundamental division is between sun and shade, hot and cold. If you come from the cold, damp north then the sun is a joyous treat. Those who live in the hot and bright all their lives never really understand or experience the joy of meeting a favourite pair of shorts once again after a year apart. The grains of last summer's sand in the pocket. Or the liberation and freedom that a pair of sandals bring to sweaty, incarcerated toes  All-in-all it's a few degrees warmer here than at home, that'll do for me.

We cycle through the city centre looking for a shop where we might buy something suitable for lunch - it being Tuesday though, everything is closed.

Today's ride is a good one - after the descent and subsequent climb from the city we're on smooth tarmac all day. We tell each other again, the roads over here (paved ones) are much better than those at home. Gary says he'd like to bring his carbon bike over - he reckons these roads are fast.

We stop at a roadside cafe, not for food, eating would be too easy - we're in suffering mode now - more to just soak up the atmosphere, the je ne sais quoi. It's a bright room with a high bar and a couple of beer pumps, there are posters and notices and the day's menu on the wall. There's a short narrow corridor leading into a second room, we crane our necks to see, looks like that's the restaurant bit and it hums with activity - we're sitting in the bar area. The place is busy and there are new arrivals all the time. Everyone seems to know each other - there are three or four men sitting on high stools at the bar, working men dressed for the fields or workshop - one sipping beer, one has a bottle of pastis and repeatedly tops up his glass adding a splash of water. The other two are drinking small thimble sized cups of strong coffee. Everyone who comes in shakes hands with the men at the bar - it's like a scene from The Sopranos.

As we leave and are tending our bicycles there is an oldish couple arriving - the man stops and fishes out a photograph of someone on a recumbant bike - there is an exchange of smiles and words that neither party can understand - the bicycles are the common language.

Getting Gaz's bike fixed

Gary's bike though has developed a problem - both our steeds are fitted with kick-stands - invaluable when we need to stop somewhere. Gary's stand has worked itself loose over the past few days, and we don't have a spanner large enough to fit the nut that will enable it to be tightened. Chances of finding a bike shop out here are remote - but we pass a small Peugeot car dealership and notice there is a service area round the back. We pull in and approach the open workshop door - a young mechanic comes out to us and we are able to point at the loose nut and gesticulate appropriately enough for him to see the problem. He disappears into the gloomy workshop and returns with a tool that solves the problem - with the help of google translate we are able to explain where we're heading for "Bravo" is his response with a smile. A little later, back on the road, we spot an InterMarche supermarket - we stop and I go in for cakes - Whilst I'm in there Gary is approached by another interested Frenchman who has good English - they chat eagerly about our journey until I come out armed with a couple of Paris Brests.

Confolens

There is a pleasant and easy descent into the medieval town of Confolens, situated on the River Vienne. The sun is shining now and the river sparkles in harmony with the glorious old buildings lining both sides. This is picture postcard France, the old bridge, cobbled lanes and alleyways, plane trees and fountains. The GPS guides us through the centre to our B&B accommodation. I knock on the door and after a few minutes we are greeted by a man who might well have been the inspiration for The Hobbit. His French sounds shaky and after a few garbled sentences I ask him if he's English? He is - he and his wife have been here 20 years.

Where we're staying has all the idiosyncratic peculiarities one might expect of a Hobbit. A room decorated entirely with artifacts from a Morrocan bazzaar. All wall space throughout the house is taken up with paintings by the Hobbitman himself. He locks himself away in an upper room and paints away with music blaring. There's a most wonderful and ancient oak staircase. A mosaic tiled floor, sun-bleached blue shutters, faded fabrics and dust. The place is at once a museum and a testimony to eccentricity. I love it. Our room on the second floor is basic but comfortable. The bathroom is like no other I've ever seen. The toilet facility involving a strange and ancient pumping system to facilitate a flush. The iron roll-top bath is shrouded in a hessian curtain and the floor covered in ruckled linoleum.

After unpacking and showering we take to the streets - there is bright yellow, blue and red bunting everywhere, from a recent festival. Along the street is a cobbled causeway to the river - there is a woman set up with her sketch pad painting a river scene. A bit further is the old bridge, dating back to the fourteenth century. We find a bar and settle in for a couple of beers. I hear an English voice and get chatting to a man enjoying a drink with his family. He is a builder, probably mid-thirties and has just moved his family here to live. After a walk around to the market square and another couple of beers we come back to the first bar to order some food. There is a sizeable restaurant at the rear overlooking the river. I order snails as a starter - no fast food here. For his main course Gary orders a local speciality.

France - the cradle of gastronomy, the great stockpot from which every restaurant from every other nation has taken the measure of flavour. France, that invented all the stations of the kitchen, its epicurean techniques and skills, of sauce and the application of heat. And here we are - Gary has ordered the five year old sausage. We knew it was on its way five minutes before it reached the table - the smell was of sewers and sweat, rank and achrid. Who knows what dark techniques have been used to create this? Possibly all the nasty bits of pig buried in a sack at the bottom of the garden for five years and then dug up, forced into the remnants of a mouldy leather caseball and served by a waiter holding his breath. I can still smell it now - quite the most foul pugnacious dish I've ever encountered. Gary said it was the Epoisses of sausage - but apparently it tasted good.

 

The Manche to the Med - Day 7: Confolens to Rochechouart

The night was peppered with nightmarish dreams of five year old sausages crawling from the river like giant slugs and dragging us and our bikes down into the sewers. Breakfast was the usual affair - croissants, bread, cheese, jam, honey - I'm starting to get the hankering for an English breakfast - but hold on the sausage please.

Our bikes had been conveniently stabled in what was probably an old stable - in any event it afforded Gary some valuable space to further tinker with his brakes - while I went out shopping for water and any other bits I could find to sustain us - but, being a Wednesday, everywhere was closed.

We felt the need to savour some more of the town this morning, and duly rode around, taking photos and sitting at a cafe with a couple of cups of strong coffee. Finally we got moving and the GPS directed us through some narrow cobbled streets where there was a sudden, violent uphill climb. There was a group of French daytrippers walking down the hill - they looked at us with amazement - with our bikes loaded to maximum as we struggled to move upwards "Chapeau, Chapeau" they cried whilst clapping their hands. Five seconds later their cheers turned to groans of disappointment as we came to a sudden, stumbling standstill - beaten by the severity of incline. This was to be the only time we had to get off and push - and pushing was almost as difficult as riding. The steepness was so great that getting up meant taking a few steps, heaving the loaded bikes, then applying the brakes to prevent the bikes rolling back, getting a better grip on the slippery cobbles, then taking a few more steps. It was tough. When the incline lessened so that it was possible to attempt riding again - we were still on an upward trajectory - and would be for the next mile or two.

Chabanais

Today is fair weather, so much so that I have my washing line bungeed onto my back panniers with shorts and socks hanging out to dry. We're domesticated New Men you know. We've been washing kit most days and lycra does dry fairly quickly in the right conditions. We stop at a village called Chabanais - there's another pretty river bridge and a weir to look at and we sit in the sunshine enjoying another strong coffee. After that it's more climbing, mostly, until we arrive at Rochechouart.

Rochechouart labels itself 'the town of the meteorite' - because 214 million years ago an enourmous six billion tonne meteor smashed into this spot. We hope that meteors don't strike twice as we roll up to our small hotel situated on the very edge of town. It's glorious, hot sunshine and we sit outside with a couple of glasses of Cidre. Earlier I'd sent a text to New Paul (the guy we left on the boat at St Malo) - he hasn't made particularly good progress and was slightly behind on the schedule he never made. He said he'd meet us here and stay the night.

Our hotel at Rochecouart

We get our bags unpacked, shower and enjoy some more cidre as new Paul rolls into sight. He's been camping so far, so tonight, staying in a hotel will be a treat. We take a stroll to another bar and Paul gets a round of Pastis. We sit under shady trees sipping at the cloudy aniseed aperitif like proper Frenchmen. Later we eat at our hotel, taking one of their 'complet' menu options along with a couple of bottles of local wine. The food is reasonable and the general ambience good. New Paul suggests we finish off with Cognac - at €10 a glass we feel it's overpriced - it is harsh and acidic I struggle to finish mine - New Paul takes care of it for me.

Next morning after another bread-based breakfast we pack our stuff and part ways. New Paul is heading in a different direction to us - we wish him well and promise to stay in touch. Gary and I have a ride around the town - there's a marvellous Chateau at the end of the village - The Chateau de Rochechouart - currently undergoing some rennovation and now home to a Museum of Modern Art. The streets all around are decorated with enourmous stone troughs brimming with flowers and there are equally impressive hanging baskets all around. The church here has an interesting twisting octagonal spire. We look for a shop, having the idea of taking a few pastries with us for lunch - but it's Wednesday - nothing is open.

Flowers around the village

At the Chateau

The Chateau

The church with twisted steeple

 

The Manche to the Med - Day 8: Rochechouart to Thiviers

We're on the Voie Verte again - but it's a lovely smooth surface for mile after mile. And we share it with no-one. We're cycling through the 'Parc Naturel Regional Perigord Limousin' 1800 square kilometres of moors, meadows, forests and a few lakes.

It's good cycling country, beautiful. Cathedrals of trees displaying every imaginable shade of green line the path on both sides, rising up the steep banks and poking into the bright azure sky. Through gaps the fields are gilded with buttercups. The path meanders past farms and homesteads, barns and a cluster of golden hayricks. There's the occasional grey steeple looking out from a pretty confusion of trees and the light falling in sheets. Like Laurie Lee we wanted to stagger into a village and be revived by a flagon of wine and by late morning we reach such an outpost.

Chalus sits on the edge of the Voie Verte in the Nouvelle-Aquitaine region. We didn't realise it but this is the place where Richard the Lionheart was besieged in 1199, he was wounded by a crossbow arrow and died here of the wound. His entrails are preserved in the chapel. Not only that, Lawrence of Arabia celebrated his 20th birthday here on August 16th, 1908 - he too was on a cycling tour, tracing the route of Richard 1st in preparation for his thesis 'The Influence of the Crusades on European Military Architecture at the end of the 12th century'.

The bar at Chalus

We cycle through the village, there's roadworks and general improvements going on. We look for a shop to maybe pick up a baguette - but being a Thursday, everywhere is closed. We manage to spot a bar that's open and take up a seat outside. The patron could possibly gain employment as a stuntman for Johnny Depp, he brings us a couple of Grand Cafes au Lait and we sit in the sun watching while nothing happens. An old lady hobbles across the road with her walking stick and takes up a seat in the opposite corner. We quickly establish that she's English, from Nantwich. She came here with her man 15 years ago - they split up but they're both still here. She points us to the castle where Richard died, it's just at the end of the street.

Plaque commemorating the visit of Lawrence

We set off again, and search for the road to Thiviers our destination for tonight. We pause at a junction to check maps and are joined by two other cyclists, man and wife, he riding a vintage style Pashley Guvnor and wearing retro clothes. They're from Yorkshire, here on holiday, and enjoy a 15 mile cycle ride each day. "We try to avoid the hills though" he tells us. 

We carry on along a smooth, busy road towards Thiviers, passing through another small village where we spy a cafe/restaurant - we stop hoping for something to eat - no luck, lunch has finished. Instead we sit outside with a couple of beers. I walk back to a small Boulangerie/Patisserie I'd spotted in a row of shops a few hundred metres away. It looks closed but it isn't - I wander in and madam drifts through a floral curtain dividing the shop area presumably from her living space. I order a couple of small delicious quiches, and some other bits and pieces - a simple point of the finger and "deux, s'il vous plait" suffices. I wait an age while madam wraps them as if they are presents for an aged aunt, but they're tasty treats and we sit in the sun greedily munching and sipping cool beer.

On the Lionheart trail

At Thiviers we receive a good welcome - Adrian and Sharon, bought the hotel a couple of years ago and moved here from Norwich. We get a complementary upgrade, our twin room now has two double beds! Unfortunately the hotel restaurant is closed on a Thursday - and the other restaurant in town is closed too - the owners there have gone on holiday. There's a kebab shop or a small pizza parlour Adrian tells us - but nothing opens until 7.00pm.

Thiviers

We have a walk round the small town - We're in the Dordogne now and Thiviers is the 'Capital of  foie gras in Green Perigord' it also specialises in local produce such as walnuts and truffles. The 12th century church dominates the small market place, there's a small Chateau behind the church and a scattering of shops and bars. Jean-Paul Sartre lived here for a while. We sit out in the warm sun and enjoy a couple of beers before wandering around looking for somewhere to get food - we are amazed that there is nowhere. We spot the small pizza shop - the owner is in there and we place an order - but he won't be open until 7.00 - okay we'll call back then. Next door is another bar, appropriately, The Bar Des Amis. We go in. It's small and basic, a high bar with a few stools and half a dozen tables and chairs. We grab a seat in the far corner and take a couple of beers and a pastis each. Back at the hotel later we would find out that this place is known as the 'Alchi's Bar' - It has an edgy feel, although everyone in there seems happy enough - probably because they were all pissed. Gary thinks we're in the heart of the French Resistance here - but they can't resist the temptation of another glass.

The Bar des Amis

After a couple of drinks we're back at the pizza place - it's essentially a small takeaway - although there is just space for two small bistro style tables next to the counter. One of those is taken by a young man eating pizza - turns out he's the chef from the hotel we're staying at - he eats here on his night off. We take the other table. The owner asks if we'd like a drink while we wait for our order. We ask what's available - "Everything" he says. We decide we'll try a bottle of local Perigord wine - it's very good. We get chatting to the pizza man - he speaks good English. He was a Michelin starred chef but gave it all up to open this pizza shop - work/life balance and all that. He also does B&B and rents out a gite for holidaymakers. The thing with pizza is that it is essentially a simple, peasant food. It is bread with a smear of tomato sauce and some flavourings plucked from the surrounding land. If it is made, with care and understanding and the toppings are simple and fresh and the oven is blast-furnace hot and the base is rolled to paper thinness - pizza can be the best, most satisying meal in the world. And so it was in Thiviers tonight.

In the pizza shop

Admittedly we were hungry - another lunch-free day today, but the taste and crispy freshness of these pizzas was a joy. We ordered another to share. By now the chef from our hotel had gone and his table was taken by a French couple - we decided to show that, despite Brexit, the English can still be relied on to demonstrate hospitality - we offered them a glass of wine. She took us up on the offer - he declined, I think he was driving. We ordered more wine - then a family came in for a takeaway - Dad, Mom and two kids - English - we made them drink a glass of wine too. And so it was for everyone who came into the pizza shop for the next hour - as we gradually got more pissed, so we cajoled and bullied the customers into taking wine with us - a sort of post-Brexit communion. Soon the pizzaman had run out of glasses and we'd ordered four or five bottles of wine - most of it given away. The word must have gotten round - next we had a couple of Resistance guys from the bar next door - one of them spoke in a mixture of hand signals and whistles - strangely we seemed to understand him. He ordered two pizzas - one for him and one for us. He took a glass of wine from us - and then bought us another bottle - it would be fair to say he joined the game. There was some conversation in French and the couple at the other table were laughing - we asked the pizzaman what was being said - " Ah - he says the Englishmen are gay!"

Our friend from The Resistance

It was getting late and we were finding it difficult to speak. We staggered out into the night with promises of gifts being sent to the pizzaman and with the Resistance man still hanging around my neck whistling something or other. We couldn't manage to eat the pizza he bought us but we took it with us so not to offend him. I gave it away to someone just around the corner.

Tonight was another one of those unplanned, unforeseeable events that will remain one of the highlights of the entire trip. Vive La France.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Manche to the Med - Day 9: Thiviers to Montignac

Breakfast is everything. The beginning, the first thing. It is the mouthful that is the commitment to a new day and a continuing life. Here we are, on the road in France and every day the same thing for breakfast - although I delight at the egg-shell crusted bread with its soft white centre and the creamy salted butter and local cheeses, I could use a change.

Today was maybe the worst breakfast. What should be, and is, the easiest meal to lay out for guests in a hotel has sadly slipped past our English hosts here in Thiviers. Possibly they wish to minimise costs, ensure that people don't dwell too long in the hotel or maybe they just don't get it? Bread was limited to a couple of slices off a baguette, there was no cheese or ham and the croissants were three mini-sized offerings, two of which had chocolate in them and I don't like those. There was no choice and no chance of any extras. One cup of coffee a glass of juice and that was that. All very clinical, very dry and very disappointing.

We packed up and were on the road for 9.00am - The GPS took us up the steep hill into the town centre - I swung out at a junction and an angry Frenchman blasted his horn and waved his fists - the first and only sign of road-rage encountered on the whole trip - and my fault to be fair. We looked for a boulangerie to perhaps pick up something for the day ahead - but it's Friday, inevitably the shops are shut. Once out of the town we had a nice easy descent for about two miles - then flat roads for the next twelve. After that it got difficult; lots of steep, hard climbs through narrow, tree-lined roads and thick forests with signs that, we were convinced, were a warning of bears.

One thing we've noticed on our travels so far is how many French people, particularly in rural areas, leave two or three dogs roaming their gardens. Always they would bark and growl as we cycled past. Out here, deep in the Dordogne region there were many dogs, hound of the baskervilles type, wolves maybe?. We cycled through pretty villages with avenues of olive trees and saw the best phone-box ever. Oak framed and stone with a pointy tiled roof - like a miniature chateau.

We managed to avoid the off-road sections that the GPS would have preffered us to take - using our hard-copy maps instead to plot a suitable route. We stopped at a village called Theron, Gary spotted a roadside restaurant and we pulled in, taking seats at the tables outside. No one came out. Gary went in, he said it was packed inside but there was no one at the counter. We waited a few minutes and then rode on.

A peaceful spot

We arrived in Montignac in the early afternoon. A postcard-pretty village nestled on the River Vezere. There's an attractive stone bridge and balconied houses along the river frontage. The place has many half-timbered buildings and, because The Tour de France passed through here this year, lots of the shops have been decorated with cycling caricatures and graphics. We decide to stop at a cafe/restaurant before finding our hotel - the sun is shining and we sit out in our cycling gear enjoying a lunch of Quiche and salad with a glass of Cidre. After finding the hotel and showering we walk into town and explore the narrow winding streets and alleys. We stop at a Tapas bar and buy a couple of glasses of local wine and a slate of cheese - both excellent. Later we will dine at a riverside restaurant - duck for me and burger for Gary. Another bottle of local wine and we're about done for the day.

Tour de France decoration

The river and town of Montignac

 

 

The Manche to the Med - Day 10: Montignac to Sarlat

We're over half way now - another glance at the map and it seems hard to believe that we've cycled all this way, carrying all our stuff, unsupported, on bikes that weigh almost as much as we do!

The hotel in Montignac is interesting - it seems there is just one man running the whole show, he booked us in, he sorted out breakfast for everyone, he always seems to be around, hidden, but popping up almost telepathically whenever he is needed. Kind of a Ninja Hotelier.

Today and tomorrow will be easier. Tomorrow certainly - we've built a rest day into the schedule - we'll get all our washing done and have a lovely day taking it easy. Today is a short ride to Sarlat but first we have decided to stay in Montignac for a couple of hours and visit the Lascaux Cave Paintings. We thought we'd buy some water first, but it's Saturday, everything is closed.

The cave was discovered in 1940 and contains Paleolithic paintings estimated to be 17,300 years old. The cave was put on show in 1948 but the damage caused by carbon dioxide exhaled by visitors led to it being closed in 1963. A replica cave was built in 1983 and now there is a totally new Lascaux IV International Visitor Centre - on the outskirts of Montignac and offering a totally new visitor experience. I'd visited Lascaux II a few years ago - so I knew this would be worthwhile - and worked hard to convince Gaz who was a bit reluctant at first.

Lascaux IV

Walking up to the site, the first impression is of modern architecture, then it sinks in that the building design is reminiscent of a crack in the rocks - rather like the discovery of the cave must have been. We got our tickets and waited for our allotted tour - we'd be taken round with an English speaking guide. When we were called our group consisted of only half a dozen people. The guide was exemplary, she explained everything clearly and answered all the questions we had. She walked us through to the cave entrance - there was a dog barking and a man shouting in the wooded slopes just above - I suddenly realised there are speakers out there recreating how the cave was discovered.

The visit was absolutely worthwhile - and we can thoroughly recommend it to anyone passing through or visiting the Dordogne - this is definitely not to be missed.

We finally got on our bikes at the crack of noon. The first mile or two from Montignac was okay - but then we started an excruciating long climb that went on and on. Cars were hooting - either in sympathy or admiration - as they passed. We were riding up Duck Hill - why Duck Hill? - because it was Canard.

When we approached Sarlat there was a welcome downhill stretch for a mile or so and then we were on flat roads into the town. It was market day, the streets were overflowing with traders and tourists. We couldn't cycle through so we dismounted and pushed our bikes along the medieval streets.

Sarlat market

Sarlat has been inhabited since Roman times and became an important and prosperous city in the VIIIth century. It is the most famous town in the region and one of the most renowned and visited in France. It is also one of the most attractive. The old town with its impeccable Medieval and Renaissance buildings, built from yellow sandstone, is a delight.

We finally made it through the throngs to our hotel, situated half a mile outside the old town. Our room was good and after stowing our bikes in the underground garage we enjoyed a quick beer.

The Manche to the Med - Rest Day: Sarlat

Planning an adventure like this is always going to throw up issues that can only be answered with hindsight. If we were doing it again, or when we do something similar, I think shorter mileage and a couple more rest days would be a good idea. As it was our schedule was pretty tight and one rest day was all that could be managed.

Wandering around Sarlat

If there's going to be a rest day on a cycling trip across the whole of France, Sarlat seems the perfect place. We decided not to bother with breakfast at the hotel this morning - we'll get something in town instead (we have already established that there will be places open today - even if it is Sunday!). When I wake up there's no sign of Gary - he got up early and has already gone down to the old town and sorted himself a breakfast.

Great French Bake Off??

I finally wander down and we sit in the main square just watching the world go by. It's like looking into a fishtank, as the many figures and colours flash by. We have a brilliant little waiter who is easily the best we've seen on the trip so far, he dances amongst the tables, singing, joking, taking orders in all languages, delivering them on a tray piled mountainously high - I feel sure he'll drop something, but he doesn't. He comes to our table "Deux Bierre s' il vous plait, Stella" we say - "Ah you want the small ones or the English Stella" he answers with a wry smile. Gary goes for the English sized Stella - half a litre, I opt for a small but with a glass of pastis to go with it. And we just sit, and look, and listen. There are plenty of American accents here, lots of English, Japanese, in fact it's a multi-cultured visitor attraction. It's easy to see why as we gaze at the ancient buildings and the many shops selling top quality foie gras, wine, truffles and nougat. There are some wonderful pattisseries too, with an array of perfectly presented cakes like miniature works of art.

There is no rush today - we enjoy another beer and then a plate of frites with an accompanying plate of cheese - particularly good. We have a wander to another bar and then around the busy streets exploring and doing the touristy photograph stuff. I have to get back to the hotel to get out on my bike. Even though this is a rest day for our trip - I also have my new years 'ride every day' resolution to keep up - I've made it this far, and I'm not ready to give up yet. In the end we both walk back, Gary wants to adjust his brakes again while I'm out on the bike. As we walk back we meet another cyclist, clearly a tourer with a loaded Dawes bike. She's from New Zealand, she bought the bike on ebay, shipped it to France and is spending time darting around the country by train, on her own. She stops off for a few days cycling and then takes another train to another area. She's lost. We help her find the road she needs for her excursion today and off she goes.

I cycle from the hotel back into Sarlat, take some pics with my bike in them, then ride around the park and back to the hotel - about five or six miles - but it counts. After that we relax for an hour in the hotel room watching French TV, then we're back into town for supper.

First we do a little shopping - we fancy something to take home, some foie gras maybe? - We pop into a large, beautifully presented shop and are greeted by the pretty assistant - she speaks fairly good English and offers us a taste of the various foie gras option, duck or goose, truffled or not, as well as some of the local Montbazillac sweet wine that goes with it so well. The girl has an English boyfriend we find out, from Manchester, poor thing we say. We come out having spent a few Euros and with more stuff for the panniers.

The girl in the shop

We mess around for a while wandering round looking at menus - in the end we settle for a street cafe on the main drag through the old town. We start with a couple of beers while we're waiting for the 7.00pm opening time. There's a street performer in the main square, a mime/mimic artist who just walks around a couple of steps behind his target, mimicing their movements and actions - he's quite good and he gets everyone laughing.

For supper we go for Duck, that seems to be the big thing around here and it's very nice. The local delicacy is duck gizzards - I fancy having a go but Gary doesn't - I decide to leave it. We drink a nice bottle of local wine and consider if, as seasoned athletes, the marginal gains proffered by a second are worth it - we decide they are and opt for a slightly more expensive bottle. As is tradition we finish with a couple of coffees - it's been a perfect relaxing day, and afforded some rest for aching legs and posterior parts! - Tomorrow we'll be back on the road.

Pretty streets

Cobbles and ancient buildings

 

 

 

 

The Manche to the Med - Day 11: Sarlat to Cahors

Breakfast was another decent buffet this morning. The room was busy, lots of American's fussing over which sort of coffee to choose. For us it was back to our usual routine, eat as much as possible, get our bags packed, load the bikes, pay the bill and off. And because we were staying in a place more geared up for tourism, shops were open - we purchased a couple of Ham and cheese baguettes, stowing them for later

We're getting slick at pannier packing now - the process whittled down to less than 10 minutes compared to the half-hour or so that used to take. We're up on the second floor so today we'd be hauling our bags down to the basement garage via the lift - a Shindlers Lift - As the lift arrives and the door opens there is a small man standing in the middle, the lift isn't particularly big and I see it will be a squeeze. Gary shuffles in carrying his five bags, helmet and water bottles, "Sorry about this" he offers. There is a look of alarm on the face of the little man already in there as he is engulfed - he makes no attempt to move as Gary clatters into the space, bags scraping the sides and bumping into the man - There's a moment of chaos as a couple of Gary's bags slip from his arm, his water bottles crash to the floor and spin around, he lifts his leg to break the fall of his helmet as that too spirals downwards. "We'll get the next one" he concedes, kicking his bottles back out into the corridor and dragging his bags.

Cafe stop

We finally get out and onto the road. Today we'll be in the Lot Region. The GPS navigates us through some main roads for a couple of miles and then we're onto the Voie Verte - a good smooth surface, winding along a tree lined valley, innocent of traffic or life of any kind. It's a grey, cloudy day and despite us being further South than ever, not particularly warm. We see a few sleepy villages and half a dozen houses before coming off the track and rejoining normal roads. There are some climbs, not too bad though and we arrive at a small village with a bar/restaurant. Another place hidden out in the wilds, difficult to understand how it could be sustained as a viable business? We sit outside under an awning as drizzly rain begins to fall. A couple of coffees, a couple of beers, a couple of glasses of pastis. The resturant area has only one person in there, the tables are immaculate with linen tablecloths and neatly folded napkins. Gary thinks they are laughing at us for some reason? - I'm not sure they are but try to listen for any clues in the conversation. We set off again and within two hundred metres are faced with another duck hill - this one is specially canard - 16/17/18% and long too. It's a relief when we finally get to the top. Maybe that's what they were laughing at I think. They knew we'd got that coming.

Lot to do!

In the afternoon we are directed down another unpaved road - this one is little more than a bumpy grass track - thankfully it's short; it eventually joins up with a busy main road to take us to Cahors - we stand at the roadside for a minute - it's narrow and there are a lot of lorries - we decide to stay on the vague grass path running parallel - this is tough though, the track rises and falls like a rollercoaster. Finally we find a quiet paved road and detour through another small village onto further quiet roads that will take us to our destination.

Cahors is a city on the Lot river in the Occitanie region. Founded in Roman times it is known for its deep red wine and the Pont Valentre, a medieval bridge with three towers. The old-town has many half-timbered houses, narrow alleyways and an imposing Cathedral and boulevards lined with plane trees. We drop down to river level and locate our accommodation for this evening - a small hotel not far from the famous bridge.

The Cathedral St Etienne

Our bikes are stored in the adjacent garage, we unload and tramp up to our room for the usual unpacking ritual, during the daily washing we've developed a particularly useful sock drying technique - making use of the always available hairdryer, simply slip the sock over the end, a quick blast on full power and we're good to go!

After a shower, change of clothes and we're out. There's some sun now and the bridge and the riverside path look particularly beautiful, illuminated by the late afternoon sun.

We wander round the old-town, lots of pavement bars and restaurants and everywhere seems busy. There's a shop that appears to sell just brushes: all manner of implements utilising hair and bristles, can't imagine why or how there's enough demand to support such an enterprise? We find a restaurant for supper - it's evening now, getting dark and definitely cool. I nip back to the hotel for an extra layer and we sit out with the usual beers and pastis. Gary orders a flammekueches - translates as 'flame-cake' it's an Alsation/Mossellan dish - essentially like a pizza. I opt for a simple caesar salad. We of course order a bottle of Cahors to wash it down.

Sock dryer in action

We walk back to the hotel in the dark, making another visit to the river and the bridge which is illuminated by a lighting system that cycles through different colours, yellow, blue, pink. It's impressive and there are lots of people taking in the view. And then we were done - it's bedtime - we're way down South now and the feeling is that our journey is edging towards its end.

Cahors bridge at night

 

The Manche to the Med - Day 12: Cahors to Montauban

By now mornings are pretty much an autopilot affair - the bedroom scene is simultaneously choreographed and automated, as we pack our panniers in robotic fashion. We could probably do this with our eyes shut. Breakfast: No surprises - but it does the job. We contemplate wandering into town to buy provisions - but it's Tuesday and,... well,.. you know.

We get going and cycle up from the river and over one of the bridges. Traffic is busy, people getting to work and what-not, but compared to home it's relatively quiet and easy. We are tempted to stay on main roads and take the quickest but prosaic route, instead we opt for the tranquil back roads, a mere smear of concrete and tar but this will be the scenic route - through farms and copse, past brooks, blackberry bushes and abandoned barns. There are different airborne scents throughout the day: cut grass, jasmine, manure, bonfire - thankfully no five year old sausage.

As the day grows and we head further towards our destination of Montauban, so the weather improves. It gets warmer, hotter, sunnier. Our route sees us following the river for some miles, then upwards and through some small villages before dropping again to river level. We've passed many fields of sunflowers on this trip, all of them gone to seed and awaiting harvest to produce oil. Today we spotted a field in flower, probably a second crop. We couldn't resist halting for a photo.

Montauban sits on the bank of the River Tarn at its confluence with the Tescou. The town was founded in 1144 with buildings constructed from the attractive pink stone typical of this area. The town centre is built on a square grid system with many arches, arcades and walkways - some opening up to large squares surrounded with cafes and bars. There appears to be a lively shopping area with many individual and stylish shops and boutiques. The Mona Lisa was briefly hidden in a cellar in Montauban during World War II. We cycle through pedestrianised streets to find our hotel sitting conveniently next to the main centre.

It's hot and sunny - I enter the hotel to try to check in - we're somewhat earlier than expected and I wonder if our room will be ready - its clear that some conversational French must take place. I fire up my French App and tap away. The converstion went something like this...

"We are guest do you await?" I say
"How many" she says
"Sixty"
She looks in the registry - I see Gary's name and point furiously "Voila, Voila"
"Ah - Mr Gary"
"No - I am"  I reply  "It means nothing to us"
She says something else - this time with gestures.
We stare at each other for a bit.
"What time" I say "Before midnight or in the garden"
For some reason she seems confused. But finally we are able to establish that we have a room booked.
"Must we store the safely bicycles" I ask
She gestures to a room next door - we can put the bikes in there.
And that's it - easy - we're in and our room is ready, although there are still staff working on other rooms on the floor. The hotel is good and the room comfortable and well decorated, the bathroom has a decent shower and a trendy porcelain basin.

Later we walk across the road into town. A maze of cobbled, shop lined streets, plenty of bars and restaurants and some trendy apartments. We stop at a small bar for a small beer sitting in the sun - then walk on to another, set in a large square, with large beers. There are trendy, arty shops all around. Later we find a restaurant for supper, we sit inside, it's a multi-level interior with lots of decorative lamps and high ceilings. Gary goes for a pizza and I have a salad - both are okay - we sample a bottle of the local Fronton wine - good. We opt for a pudding, Gary has a towering multi-storey ice-cream/cream thingy and I have profiteroles - the desserts are huge, I can't finish mine.

It's not far to the hotel - we're in bed by 10.00 but it's hot. I set the air-con to cryogenic but the noise is too much to bear. It's going to be a sticky night.

 

The Manche to the Med - Day 13: Montauban to Toulouse

It feels cold this morning, the sky is a uniform felted grey, it's drizzling outside. We wander down to breakfast and survey a familiar scene: this is our daily bread, and croissants, ham and cheezzzzzzzzzzeee.... oh I'm so tired of it.

I'd just worked my way through my plateful when my eyes glanced at the wall above the table carrying the buffet. I feel like sawing my head off. There, bold as brass, for all to see, was a poster. There was a picture of a plate of rashers of bacon, grilled tomatos, hash browns, fried eggs, toast, sausage... the headline said 'If you'd like an English Breakfast just ask" I felt like becoming instantly bulimic. Noooooo - Gary, look what we missed.

The Garonne canal

Thankfully the drizzle had stopped when we set off for Toulouse - Last night we purchased sandwiches and water from a small supermarche in Montauban - no need to worry about where lunch is coming from today. We cross a large bridge heading out of town, traffic is light, quickly we're onto a bike path at the side of the road. We make our way along quiet roads towards Montech where we join the Canal du Garonne - the towpath surface is excellent, smooth and ideal for an easy, flat ride today. It's a beautiful route with plane trees sheltering us from the sun. The canals over here are poles apart from what we're used to at home. They're much wider for a start, up to 20 metres in places and the towpaths are wide too, it's possible to ride side-by-side for most of the route and there's very little traffic - a few boats but hardly any people or other cyclists.

Canalside cafe

We pass a small canalside cafe and stop for a bolstering coffee before taking our lunch on a bench sheltered by the ubiquitous plane trees - there must be thousands lining this canal. And then its on to Toulouse - La Ville Rose - the romantic pink city, due to the colour of the stone and bricks used in many of the buildings. It's a big, bustling metropolis, teeming with traffic and packed with people. We carefully weave our way through the busy streets and finally locate our hotel - it looks dubious, the area is rough, there's a strip club next door. Our bikes are left in a corridor and we head to our room. The hotel feels tired and has the feint whiff of disinfectant. In the street outside is a pool of blood. We wander towards the city centre, the streets full of people of all nationalities, carrying, pushing and pulling luggage. The sun is strong and it's probably the hottest day we've encountered so far. We spot a small pavement bar on the junction of a busy throughfare. we stop for a beer and Gary has a croque monsieur. The place is heaving, as are all the bars/cafes. Toulouse is the fourth largest city in France, it has one of the oldest Universities in Europe and a student population of 100,000 - the whole place feels like one big fiesta.

Toulouse

We carry on walking and the general feel and ambience shifts - the streets are wide and pedestrianised - the buildings and shops are grand and exude a sense of exclusivity and quality. There is a gastonomy festival taking place with lots of artisan stalls selling local produce. There's an oyster bar and I'm tempted. For Gary this is a definite no-no - last time he eat oysters he was ill for a week. We move on through the hectic streets eventually stumbling upon the main central square with its imposing buildings and hotels. There's a market here and we find a seat at a bar and sit and watch for a while. We sip at cold beer and pastis as an endless stream of people passes. I'm feeling more relaxed and comfortable here - this part of town feels much better than where our hotel is located.

We explore further, stumbling upon a dark tavern in a side street - it's like something from Harry Potter inside, there are oak barrels, wooden floors with just wine for sale. The man behind the counter is preparing frites for his evening menu. We ask for a couple of glasses of the local wine - it's very good. We carry on exploring the vast boulevards and many side streets. We take supper at an Italian restaurant overlooking a small square with a fountain in the middle. There are three soldiers armed with machine guns patrolling the street. The menu has some interesting translation: 'Ravioli stuffed in the ricotta and in spinach wipes cream in the parmesan'. I'll give that a miss. We've got a long ride tomorrow so I think pasta will be a good option - Spaghetti for me, Gary opts for Pizza. I overhear the lady next to us ordering 'un verre de vin blanc' - sounds like an English accent. We get chatting to the couple who retired here 15 years ago. Clearly it must have been early retirement. They are in the city to attend a cinema screening of a Dave Gilmour concert. They originally lived in Abbotts Bromley, a village I know well and not more than 20 miles from where I live. Small world.

As darkness falls we make our way back to the hotel - it seems quieter now that when we arrived, less threatening. We stop off for a final beer on the way but we're in bed by 10.30 - tomorrow is a long day.

 

The Manche to the Med - Day 14: Toulouse to Carcassonne

 

Today's ride will see us cover 63 miles - the longest stage of the trip. Not massive miles ordinarily, especially if we were on road bikes - however on these heavy tourers, carrying a full load, it's an entirely different proposition. We're slightly later getting to breakfast than we'd hoped - consequently the small room is full - there's nowhere to sit. We hang around in reception until space becomes available.

I scan the walls first, but no English Breakfast option today. The room is busy, there're a lot of Germans who snaffle all the bread and croissants - we have to make do with a few odds and ends.We settle our bill and then pack our bikes ready to set off. Outside there is a group of cyclists listening as their tour guide gives them instructions - I recognise some of the Germans from breakfast - looks like they're here on a cycling holiday. We set off at the same time as them but quickly leave them behind.

From the hotel it's a mile or so amongst the busy morning traffic before we join the Canal du Midi - this will take us 50 miles or so towards todays destination - Carcassonne.

On the Canal du Midi

The Canal du Midi is 240km long. It stretches from the Atlantic Ocean at Bordeaux to the Mediterranean at Sete - it was constructed between 1666 and 1681 during the reign of Louis XIV. It remains one of the oldest canals in Europe still in operation and is a UNESCO World Heritage site. We're riding amongst more centuries-old plane trees again, (must have passed millions?) old barges lie sleepily in the water and soon the hustle and bustle of Toulouse is behind us. The towpath is busy though, lots of joggers, walkers and plenty of cyclists, including a couple of tandems who sped past us. There are a few cyclists passing us in the opposite direction, we give them a nod and a hearty 'bonjour' - I wonder how many are doing something similar to us? - certainly there are a few flat-vowelled English accents amongst them.

It's a clear day, not particularly sunny but comfortable for cycling. We spot a small restaurant nestled alongside the canal and decide to give it a go.

It's another family affair, there are a few working blokes gathered at a table chatting and laughing, the room is warm and smells good. We order a coffee and then ask for the menu. We opt for the Plat du Jour, starting with the most exquisite quiche, light, fluffy with a thin flakingly crisp pastry shell. One of the best things I've tasted on the entire trip. Main course was roast chicken with macaroni and some green beans - the bird was stuffed with what tasted like sausage meat, whatever, it was delicious. Pudding was a creme brulee, dribbling like a french kiss and full of flavour. Try to picture it: this is the French version of a transport cafe in England - there are rugby posters and rosettes decorating the wall. There's a TV with football playing. Next to our table there are some kids' toys and games. All the cooking, whoever does it, is craftsmanlike. The food is prepared with love and consideration - we feel totally sated by the time we leave, as far as our limited culinary experiences have stretched on this journey across France, this little place was one of the best.

Back on the canal we soldier on. It's pleasant cycling but considerably slowly than on normal roads. We stop at a seat under some trees for a drink. A man walking along the towpath stops to chat - he speaks good English, he did a job transfer a few years ago and worked in East Anglia for a while. He delighted in telling us he'd been to Cardiff to see Bob Dyan play. He was waiting to meet his brother and they were going to jog along the canal to Toulouse.
We leave the canal with about twelve miles still to ride into Carcassonne. As we approach the town the traffic gets steadily heavier; there are jams leading into the main area but we are able to weave our way through. There's a steady climb up through the new town, and then we see the main attraction: The Citadel, perched on top of a rocky hilltop and bristling with zigzag battlements, stout walls and spiky turrets. It looks like something from a children's storybook.

The first view of Carcassonne

The ride up to the entrance is steep and windy, it's a slow haul but we make it. We pause outside the main gate - it's an ant's nest of tourists: only to be expected, this is the second biggest tourist attraction in France after the Eiffel Tower. A UNESCO World heritage site since 1997, Carcassonne is the reputed inspiration for Disney's Sleeping Beauty. It is indeed a fairytale collection of drawbridges, towers and atmospheric cobbled streets. There are no less than 53 towers, strung together by enourmous walls and surrounded by a moat.

There're far too many people walking through the narrow streets for us to cycle; we push our bikes to our accommodation, well within the medieval city walls. It's a fabulous hotel with stunning stone walls, a suit of armour, various statues and tasteful furnishings. The girl at the desk is doing a great job handling a coach-load of American tourists. We stash our bikes in a room out back and get to our room - after the usual shower and change we're out exploring. There are some that argue this place is over-restored, and the centre is a bit like a Disney theme park with a mess of overpriced shops selling cheesy trinkets and dodgy nougat; that it has more than its fair share of mediocre restaurants, serving bland salads and heavy cassoulet. It's a pity, because the too-perfect nature of the restoration coupled with the chintziness of the 'town' do undermine the realness and atmosphere of the fortifications, but it's still a great experience, you'll never get the chance to see medieval (and Roman) military architecture on this scale anywhere else - and the view of the castle from a distance as well as that from the citadel out across the modern city to the mountains beyond is unforgettable.

Outside the main gate

We find a restaurant and start with beer and pastis. After the fabulous lunch today we don't bother with a 'complet' - opting for just one main course each. I'm back with the goats cheese salad and Gary has a steak. We accompany the meal with a bottle of local Langeudoc. We wander back to the hotel and sit in the bar area with another bottle of wine. There is an English couple sitting opposite - he's a photographer from Rothley near Leicester - just up the road from where I live. We chat for a while before they leave for bed. We order a couple of Armagnacs to finish the night. It's been a good day - lots of cycling and we've enjoyed it. We muse over the journey we've made, the miles we've covered, the places we've visited, the hills we've climbed. Tomorrow we'll arrive at our destination.

The old town walls

The Manche to the Med - Day 15: Carcassonne to Gruissan

Breakfast started with a promise - bacon and eggs on the menu - but on closer inspection their idea of a English breakfast was small lardons and watery scrambled eggs - didn't look appetising whatsoever. We opted for the usual fare, stocking up for what should be a steady ride to our destination on the Mediterranean coast. The GPS profile indicates that it's flattish all the way.

We have a final wander around the old town before loading up and hitting the road. Some last-minute photo's a tightening of the pannier straps and we're on our way. The road towards Narbonne is busy with morning traffic, but it's easy cycling, seemingly slightly downhill for five miles or so. The GPS takes us off the main drag and up a dubious 'unpaved' section, not too bad though, then we're on quiet backroads. There is mile after mile of vineyards; neat, tended rows as far as the eye can see, hugging hillsides and valleys alike. Some appear to have been stripped of their grapes while others are fully laden with lucious dark purple fruit. We rejoin a busyish main road and climb a couple of short but annoyingly steep sections. The road is quite narrow and passing traffic sometimes feels dangerously close.

Vineyards

There's no lunch-stop today. We seem content with a non-stop mission to get to the sea and the end of our adventure. Each signpost counts down the remaining kilometres to Narbonne and from there it will be just a few further miles to Gruissan. As we arrive in Narbonne the GPS sends us into the city centre, through one-way streets (the wrong way!) and finally into a shopping precinct. We dismount and push our bikes through a pedestrianised area into a large open square with cafes and bars.

Narbonne

Narbonne was established by the Romans in 118 BC, Julius Caesar settled veterans from his 10th Legion here, developing it as a port that rivalled Marseilles. We resist the temptation of a thirst-quenching beer and find the canal path that will take us out of the city towards Gruissan. With just nine miles to go this canal path proved to be a difficult stretch. Narrow, pot-holed and bumpy all the way we crawled along at around 5mph. The GPS indicated there was a path off to the left, but there was none - we carried on along the towpath until we came to a bridge with access to a road. From there we cycled through flat salt-marshes, constantly looking for our first sign of the sea.

The Med

Finally we spotted it! The Mediterranean, there it was in the distance, not the gleaming, glittery blue that I was expecting - more grey and flat on this dull overcast day. The last few miles were along a smooth surfaced cycle track - lots of cyclists zipping around as we arrived at the resort. The afternoon has taken on a rosy glow now as we cycle past rows of holiday apartments, shops and bars. Gruissan is a fishing village sitting between two lagoons.There's a marina with apartments and restaurants and mooring for 1300 boats.

We locate our accommodation, a self-catering apartment that will sleep 6 and is 200 metres from the beach. It's basic but adequate and we can store the bikes inside. We head to the beach - it's huge with hardly anyone around. The tide is out and the thin strip of sea is a 400 metre walk along a strip of whicker carpet. We get a couple of photos and then get back to the apartment.

Made it! - Channel to The Med.

With a lunch-free ride we're hungry now. There's a couple of bars and restaurants a stones-throw from our apartment, we wander there and get a couple of beers and a bowl of olives. The restaurant opens at 7.00pm.

The bar owner is friendly and allows us a tab as we order more drinks and glasses of pastis. Finally we get to order some proper food - by now the restaurant is filling up. There're Duck Gizzards on the menu - last chance - I order some. Gary resists. The food is plentiful and the gizzards are tasty. We enjoy one of the menu options that gives us three courses, accompanied by some local wine.

Champagne celebration!

After that it's a few more beers and a glass of champagne each to toast the end of another fantastic challenge. It's dark now, and cold. The bar is heaving with holidaymakers as we enjoy a final nightcap. Our celebrations were inevitably intense, we wander back to the apartment zig-zag fashion, the cool night air doing nothing to suppress the effects. But we've done it, cycled across France, end-to-end, from The Channel to The Mediterranean.

 

The Manche to the Med - Homeward Bound

Heads were somewhat delicate this morning - and there was a sense of sadness as we packed our stuff for the last time. Whilst this adventure has seen us on the road for 15 days, it seems to have flashed past in a blur. Suddenly it's done and we're heading for home.

We take our final breakfast in France - croissants, bread and cheese, we ask the lady in charge what would be the best route back to Narbonne - we need to get back there to meet up with our coach transport back to the UK. She tells us the cycle path is the easiest and safest route. We don't fancy the bumpy canal path again but decide we should probably heed her advice.

Pick up point

It's bright and sunny as we pedal off. Traffic is light but the main road looks busy. We stick to the cycle path where there are many cyclists already buzzing back and forth. Soon we're on the canal again, bumping and rattling along, slow but steady. It doesn't seem quite as bad as it did yesterday and we arrive on the outskirts of Narbonne by 10.30am. The roads here are very busy. We're on a dual carriageway and decide to pull over to figure out where our pick-up point is. According to the instructions we've been given we need to find a 'Hamburger Quick' which we assume is a fast-food outlet - There's no sign of that but we spot a Burger King on the other side of the dual carriageway. We cross the road and walk towards it, there's a man with a bike standing on the grass verge at the edge of the road. I walk over and quickly establish that this is the place. He was dropped off here a week ago and has been touring the local area and canal paths.

All aboard for home

We've got a four hour wait now until the European Bike Express picks up us, our bikes and luggage. We stand around; we sit, we go for a burger, we go to the supermarket just across the way. Still three hours to wait. I wonder if we should cycle into the city centre and find a bar or something - but we decide against it. It's a long wait but finally the transport arrives. It's a standard coach but towing a second trailer that stores the bikes and baggage. We're greeted by a small man who is too short to lift our bags onto the storage racks - Gary steps up to give him a hand. Then we're on the coach with just hand luggage. There's some confusion over the seats - we have allocated seats but someone is already sitting in ours. The little guy comes aboard and puts us somewhere else. Then we're off - we'll be onboard this coach for the next 23 hours or so. There'll be further pick-ups throughout France as we head to Calais for the ferry to Dover - then dropping people off through the UK - we'll be dropped at Leicester Forest East and then there's a 10 mile cycle ride home - 20 for Gary.

The European Bike Express

The coach gradually fills with more and more cyclists - mostly older, skinny veterans of the road, seasoned tourers by the look. They all seem to know each other and the coach staff, greeting one another like long lost friends. Gary chats to a couple of them, one has been touring in Northern Spain, another couple Burgundy, but no-one has done a journey to match ours.

The coach stops at various service stations and we are able to stretch our legs and make use of the facilities. Gradually we make our way North as night falls. I manage to get some sleep but it's patchy, I remember being woken as the coach picked up some cyclists at around 2.00am. Finally we reach Calais at about 6.30am on Sunday morning. I feel as comfortable as anyone who's just spent 15 hours squeezed into a tin can with 50 others wearing two-week unwashed lycra. Each time we get back onto the coach after a comfort break there's a noticeable sweaty 'hum'.

No sign of bluebirds?

On the ferry we queue for breakfast and tuck into pale, watery bacon, fried egg, tomatos, sausage and toast. I know it's rubbish but it tastes okay. Soon the White Cliffs come into sight - we think the tannoy should start playing the Vera Lynn song. As we get back onto the coach I sit down heavily, wondering what lessons to draw from our trip - or from the confines of the coach journey home. Only a few more hours to go though.

We are dropped off at the motorway service station at Leicester Forest East and load up our bikes for the ride home. The sky is threatening and before long we are pulling on waterproofs. There is a torrential downfall as we edge up some steep inclines through Desford - but it's nothing compared to the hills we've been up in France.

And so the adventure ends on a damp Sunday afternoon on the outskirts of Leicester. It's good to be back, safe and sound. In terms of madcap ideas generated on a Friday night in the pub, this one was right up there. I feel it surpasses anything we've done before, not least because we were on our own - no support to call on if we got into trouble. And because the journey through France, end-to-end, Channel to Med is not particularly common. We know plenty of people who've cycled Lands End to John O Groats - but no-one who's done the French version.

Thanks to everyone who helped and supported us on our endeavour - not least Kate for transporting us to Portsmouth with our our bikes and luggage - we couldn't have done it without you! John and Jane, whose emergency mint cake kept us going! and Val for the farty car video which made us laugh.

So that's it for now - thanks for reading these notes. Keep an eye on this blog for the next thing. Anyone fancy Spain?