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Early start as this will be a long day. We are now entering the Landes region. No mountains but lots of woods (maritime pines, Scots pine, beech and holm oak) growing on (and stabilising) the marshy tracts of Pliocene sands. The smell of pine is invigorating and the shade offered by the forest on the cycle paths is welcome on this hot and sunny day. The next two days bring back wonderful memories of holidays in Georgia and Florida. We mostly meet leisure cyclists who aren't going very far very quickly. Our average speed is 13 - 15mph on the cycle path. There is an easterly wind but the trees form a good windbreak. 99% of the paths are paved, 96% are too narrow for two cyclists to go side by side and 76% of them have a good surface (i.e. no tree roots or sudden holes). As usual with cycle paths, there are too few signs indicating where the path is going or how long it will last. There are quite a few elaborate signs about who has paid for which bit of the cycle path but not much useful information. The most misleading part is after Arnaoutchoc on the D328, where it joins the bike path. There is about 1 kilometre of rubbly forest track which has obviously not seen the Michelin map. It is fantastic having such a long stretch of cycle paths but it means that the local cars think you shouldn't be on the road (even when the cycle path doesn't go where you want to go). By the end of the day we have cycled 92 miles, through pine forests, all within ¼ to ½ mile of the beach . The fact that we don't bother going to the beach is indicative of the number of miles we need to cover and of our contentment with the beauty of these mixed forests. The heather, bright pink, orange and purple, is particularly striking. However, we do have to head inland as the military has marked out a large chunk of land for its own use. It gives us the opportunity to go through some towns and villages. Mimizan, as with most of the fortresses and towns along the coast, was buried by the sand in the 6th C. Threats of reburial in the 18th C. brought on the introduction of couch grass and rushes to stop the dunes shifting. An odd sort of feel remains in these towns, as though they are waiting to disappear again.The towns are full of holiday homes. Outside the town, we pass one campsite after another. The whole area seems organised purely for the tourist industry. We are here out of season so it is difficult to find any shops, open or closed. Fortunately, we have bought lots of food in the first and only big town we go through at the start of the day (Capbreton). Our 3 star hotel is in the middle of nowhere - and produces one of our best dinners. Logis de France offers the service of booking your next day's room if it is another Logis de France hotel. By using this service we find out that the hotels we had wanted for Friday and Saturday are fully booked so we change our route. Surprising as it is so late in September. Roads are nearly empty with wide, well-paved cycle paths running alongside. Long climbs up and over massive dunes, sandy brown with the occasional hardy bush hanging precariously on. Blue sky overhead. We ride alongside the highest dune in Europe but decide not to go to the very top (Dune du Pilat, 114m/373ft). The map (2000 edition) suggests that a ferry to Cap Ferret might leave from Pyla - but it no longer does, at least not in September. Pure luck that we pass by a tourist office on the outskirts of the town where we obtain a map which takes us through the very ritzy and hilly town of Arcachon to the ferry terminal. (So this is where Parisians and Bordelais retire to.) We catch a very small boat to take us across the Bassin d'Arcachon, a triangular shaped inlet.The ferry costs 18 Euros for a 20 minute ride during which the bikes are precariously "balanced", untied, on the top of the boat. It runs every 1.5 hours. The ride itself is perfect as we sit in the shade looking out to a deep blue sea sparkling in the sunshine. In the distance we see the narrow exit channel to the Atlantic Ocean. We embark on a narrow spit of land, covered in pine forests and very large, well-spaced mansions at some distance from the road. The people living in them obviously don't eat as we can't find any food shops. Odd combinations of food items keep us going. Cashew and banana on dry bread is the best of the creations. We return to the wooded cycle paths. Jedi-style we swerve and curve through oak, pine, brightly coloured heather, broom and bushes with large orange berries. Food is finally found in a beach side set of shacks, open for the local surfers. An odd place, Malibu Beach meets Margate and is transported to France. Late morning cocktails, tiny dogs, dark sunglasses and Harley Davidson murals in an atmosphere reminiscent of "Friends" or "Cheers". Emerald green lizards hover near the path which becomes so narrow that it is like being on a tight-rope. The path is a series of rectangular blocks of concrete with the metal-rod skeleton poking through, surrounded by sand. Graham manages to eat a chocolate bar (very quickly) while cycling but I find I have to concentrate hard simply to stay on the path. It feels like a computer game, especially when the dense forest suddenly opens out onto acres of devastation - planned, I should add. The ribbon of concrete continues through the slash-and-burn fields. The signposting is poor and the mileage on signs inaccurate. The paths are meant for short leisurely runs, so they wander up and over dunes to views of the sea and then back along forested parking lots and campsites. The miles are increasing rather than decreasing, no food shop appears and the narrow paths are very slow going. We opt for an asphalt forest road after Carcans-Plage. What a relief to cycle at some speed. After Hourtin, we cycle on the "RF", which is completely deserted, ironically with a wide cycle path next to it. The surface of the cycle path is even better than the road, so we proceed, seeing no traffic of any sort. Occasionally, a cyclist appears in the distance like the rider in Lawrence of Arabia. We pass the high hedges of a naturist camp called "Euronat" (or should that be Eurognat?). It has been another hot day with a strong east-north-easterly wind. Nine bottles of water. The last 20 miles of the 88, thankfully, are clocked up at an amazing pace and we arrive in good time for a shower before dinner. Melon followed by confit de canard followed by prunes in armagnac. As on the previous night, there are lots of Germans with a sprinkling of Dutch, Belgian and Parisians. They are either retired or here on business. A lovely start to another gorgeous day with a pink dawn and a good quality bike path to Soulac-sur-mer (site of a 6th-c. city which was swallowed by the sea) where we buy lots of food and admire the small and tidy holiday homes built at the turn of the century. Each one has its own name, lots of verandas and carved woodwork on the exterior. Returning to the bike path we complete the run past World War II bunkers to Pointe de Grave to pick up the ferry. We arrive at the same time as another couple from the same hotel (but they have come by car). In contrast to the day before, we are charged only 9 Euros for a 30 minute ride on a large boat which allows us to walk on with our bikes. The ferry runs every 30 minutes and is far more convenient and much better value for money than the Arcachon ferry. As we disembark, we realise how fantastic it was along La Côte d'Argent (the Silver Coast). Royan (flattened by bombs in 1945) is busy, ugly and big with no cycle lanes. We get out of town on small roads but then twiddle around the suburban fields for a while looking for the road. The quality of the roads is poor but after 7 miles we start going through pretty villages along the Seudre River. Oyster farms, windmills (no longer used), small churches with tall steeples can be seen from great distances in this extremely flat and open landscape. Waterways divide and mark the land. Each town is seen long before we reach it. A very hot day (29 degrees at 11:15). One of the towns we stop in is Brouage which is surrounded by ramparts, rebuilt in 1628 for use as an arsenal by Richelieu. The small town, a perfect square with straight cobbled roads running in a grid pattern, reminds me of the layout of a Roman town. All the buildings are low and the whole place feels claustrophobic. It was silted up in the 17th century and it feels like it could disappear again, now so far removed from the sea. Even when standing on the ramparts, one feels oppressed by the flat countryside. Corn, tobacco, vineyards for cognac and cattle fail to distract us from the clouds of insects which inhabit the roadside hedges. I learn to keep my mouth shut tight. Unfortunately, the sticky sun lotion holds them fast to my face. I know we have entered northern France when rain begins to fall and the day gets colder just as we cross the Charente. The wind increases our fear as we cross the enormous bridge hanging high above the river. (There is a thin cycle lane.) Soon after, we arrive in Rochefort, a regimental town, famous for its very large rope factory and arsenal. Our plans for staying in a very upmarket hotel in the Corderie Royale have to be abandoned as it is fully booked. The dull hotel room we finally decide on mirrors my mood. We sit at a café in the main square under large awnings like features in a fountain while the rain buckets down. The gourmet restaurant at the Corderie Royale has no staffing problems: we are served by four people - one for bread, another for wine, another for the food and another keeping any eye out for anything we might need. Their attentiveness becomes ridiculous as we are rushed from one course to another. But the food is good (melon with duck followed by tuna steaks with a selection of vegetables, strawberries for dessert) and by the time we leave, the rain has cleared to display a sky full of stars. Today is just a 25 mile run to La Rochelle through the bocage. The land is drained by means of dikes and other contraptions which alter the flow of canals and streams to release water during the summer which has been saved up over the winter. The flat landscape continues but with the occasional limestone outcrops. Massive beef cattle graze in this extremely quiet region. There are a few hunters in the marshes but no shops or villages until we approach the edge of La Rochelle. Five miles south of La Rochelle, the little road from Ballon that seems, on the map, to slip under the autoroute ends at a screaming river of high-speed homicidal metal, divided in the middle by an obstacle course. This is the main road from Rochefort to La Rochelle. The little road can be seen continuing on the other side - so near and yet so far… This arrangement is quite standard in England but unusual in France. Curiously, the closest hamlet to this traffic pandemonium is called "Loin-du-bruit" ("Far-from-the-noise"). Is this coincidence or irony? Relieved to be on the other side, we follow a woman and two small children, all on bikes, through the maze of little roads towards the city. Fortunately we arrive by lunchtime so we have time to find a room in this town where all the hotels (and there are lots here) are fully booked by mid-afternoon. It is only Thursday but the excellent weather continues and people are obviously taking last minute holidays as a result. The attractive town, with remains of fortresses and medieval streets and shops, is encircled by a beautiful harbour. Cakes from an excellent bakery, a cool beer and one of our best dinners (at L'Orangerie: smoked salmon wrapped around a delicately poached egg on a bed of herbs with a light curry sauce decorating the plate. Rabbit on a bed of potatoes and mushrooms is followed by cheese) raises our spirits no end. Our hotel room, with good views over the harbour, becomes less pleasant as we are bitten by fleas and kept awake by noise through the thin walls from a cloth-eared commercial traveller. Looking on the positive side, it makes for a very early start (before sunrise) the following morning! We have decided to reach Nantes in two days instead of three. (The original plan was to head north via Fontenay to Vouvant in the Vendée: 77 kms, 48 m.; then via Les Herbiers to Beaupréau in the Loire Valley: 93 kms, 59 m.; then via Champtoceaux to Nantes: 66 kms, 42 m.) Instead, we make for Les Sables d'Olonne, where the round-the-world yacht race begins. The squeal of a red stoat, crossing in front of G's bike, breaks the quiet of the morning in this famous Poitou Swamp and conservation area. The D10a from Charron (yellow on the map) is a torrent of trucks, so we turn off onto the tiny, quiet roads around the Marais Fou ("Mad Marsh"). The monotony is broken by lovely white cattle and horses. Of course, the occasional columns of gnats also help keep us awake. The wind is behind us, pressing us forward to the Atlantic Ocean. The last seven miles to Les Sables d'Olonne are stunning. The coast with its rocky beaches is in full view. The day is a warm 25 degrees, overcast and grey. Our hotel is modern and set up for holidays, as is the area which has numerous golf courses, with massive new homes apparently designed for Toytown. Another delicious and creative dinner. My first course is like a painting made of various sea creatures which I would never be able to copy - but the idea of filling a cracked and washed eggshell with a sauce is one I will try later. Another is to bake a hollowed out hard bread roll filled with a fromage frais/goat's cheese filling. Lasagna layered with salmon and a carrot/cabbage mix flavoured with oriental sauces might also be possible to make at home. Because of the changed route, we have no historical notes on the lovely vertical town of Apremont which has a ruined château - first hint of the Loire Valley. The landscape is now gently rolling. The cream coloured cows sitting on emerald green grass flecked by white clover appear as though in a 18th-century painting. We eat an early lunch in a landscaped garden laced with streams and with grottos dedicated to Mary. St Philibert, its church bells ringing out as we arrive, has a picturesque abbey. We pass lots of horse farms as the day becomes hotter (up to 28 degrees). After long stretches of hard cycling on the busy B road (D65), we reach the outskirts of Nantes. Graham swerves and finally stops as dizziness overcomes him. (Note: remember to keep breathing, even if it's only car exhaust fumes.) Desperate for a rest day but first we must get to Nantes. The suburbs go on for miles. There is a cycle lane but it runs along between the traffic and the parked cars - worse than no cycle lane. A car door suddenly swings out in front of G.: good test of the bike - it handles well! The driver apologises. Suddenly, we are on the main city streets. It is a Saturday and officially a "no car day" (see "en ville sans ma voiture"), but no one knows because the many-laned roads surrounding the centre are at a standstill. Cars everywhere - glad we didn't come on a "normal" day. By following several local cyclists along the complex and seemingly dangerous cycle lanes which crisscross the car lanes, we make it to our hotel which is perfectly placed, next to the château, the cathedral, near the Musée des Beaux Arts and the creative and relaxing Jardin des Plantes. Dinner in the hotel is a mistake - no wonder the restaurant is deserted - but 11 hours of sleep are obviously not. Shattered. A rest day! Oddly, there are no British or American tourists anywhere in Nantes. Highlights include the Renaissance "Tomb of François II" in the Cathedral, the Jardin des Plantes with its hovering spheroid flower sculptures, and the giant ferris wheel (G joins me!) which gives us views over the town. Another 11 hour sleep… The escape from Nantes is painless with the help of a cycle map from the Tourist Office. Plenty of cycle lane and considerate drivers. We take a free ferry at Basse-Indre to the south bank of the Loire. The hunt for a dolmen (the Menhir du Champ-Cassis) takes us deep into an intricate web of roads connecting farms to each other but only occasionally to a main road. We recross the Loire at its estuary over a 3 kilometre long bridge, the Pont St-Nazaire (rather frightening as the wind moves us sideways and the bike lane does not allow for any margin of error). We return to our original route. The attractive landscape, gently rolling, is followed by more flat marshes dotted with horses and cows. (The Brière regional park.) Brushy, low, dense woods. Strong NE wind. We arrive in another medieval city surrounded by ramparts. Built in the 14C, Guérande has never been breached - militarily nor by hordes of tourists. It is interesting to compare it with Carcassonne which is a pure tourist town. Whereas in Carcassonne we would have had to pay over a hundred dollars/pounds to stay inside the town, here in Guérande, we are offered a comfortable room full of antique family furniture for less than 30 pounds/fifty dollars. The only catch is that the hotel is attached to a creperie. Not much choice in restaurants so I have a spinach, egg, crème fraiche and bacon pancake followed by banana and caramel pancake. G has goat's cheese and salad crepe followed by pear, almond and chocolate. Another night for sleeping 10 hours. Today is marked by very pretty Breton countryside. Muzillac, our first food stop, is near a lovely wood with a lake and watermill. It is now cold and the northeasterly wind is still strong. An old highway, now unused because it runs parallel to the new road, speeds our way (the quiet old route goes on further than the map suggests; later editions show it in full). At Theix we are lured onto a bike path, signposted to Vannes, but it disappears at the edge of the city and we are forced onto a busy road we would never have chosen: a good example of a bike path funded by one commune but not by the next. Vannes is very busy and touristy - not surprising when one sees its attractive centre full of 15c and 16c gabled houses and winding narrow cobbled streets. The ramparts (13-17c) built on Gallo-Roman ruins are fronted by lovely formal flower gardens, a meandering stream with wooden roofed washhouses. A lack of decent hotels in the centre places us next to the railway station, after a wild-goose chase following signs to hotels that turn out to be miles away. Dinner at the Restaurant de Roscanvec, which is listed in the Bottin Gourmand, is most delicious. Melon in port, beef and potatoes, cheese and fruit salad doesn't sound terribly interesting but it is perfectly cooked and well presented. A fast paced walk back to the hotel which shuts at 10pm gives us quite a workout. Once out of Vannes we move between cycle paths and narrow roads - very quiet. Cool but not as cold as the previous day. Lots of beechnuts today, in contrast to yesterday when we ran over and around numerous acorns. Conkers litter the lanes between the hamlets which closely follow one another. All have Breton names, for example, the parish of x or the field of y or the house of z. The name of a Saint often indicates that a village wasn't settled until after Christianity was introduced in the 8th or 9th century. Other "saints", like some of the "Saint Annes", were originally pagan gods (Anna) or place names (ana = swamp). Languidic and Kernascléden (12th c.) have beautiful weather-worn churches with foliated pinnacles, rose carvings and delicate tracery. Plouay is much less attractive but has a racing circuit set up all year round (the World Championships were held here) so that we are able to cycle past crowd barriers and under the finishing line just like the professionals but with no crowd and at a slightly slower pace, especially as the landscape is becoming less horizontal. While in shopping at one of our stops (Carhaix), Graham is mistaken for someone called Vince Montana (famous cyclist? cowboy? private eye?) by a friendly woman. Priziac is on the edge of the Black Mountains, created 600 million years ago and made of impermeable crystalline rock such as granite, gneiss, mica-schist mixed with volcanic rock. It is out of season so is very quiet and even quieter today because it is a Wednesday. Wednesday... "Our region is cradled between legend and reality" is the message in our hotel room. Unfortunately dinner was a reality we had to face. At least it was very cheap. The waitress is deeply depressed and seems to be running the hotel and restaurant by herself, including the cooking and serving. It must be better in season... Quiet night's sleep. No croissants for breakfast, only bread rolls. 9am before we are off in the fog which gets worse so that the first 20 miles are invisible beyond a few metres. Long stretch (4 miles) of loose gravel also makes for slow progress. Very chilly with a NE wind. We eat a better breakfast deep in a gnarled and mysterious wood. Around noon the fog finally clears and we enter the Parc naturel régional d'Armorique. It is very pretty with gorges and forested hills full of walkers and picnicking firemen who draw us into conversations about the toughness of the climb and jokes about the pastry box secured to the back of my bike by a bungie strap. Pine and oak forests continue but are soon opening up to the plains below to display distant views of the sea and a cloudless sky. Map shows some roads but not all, some crosses but not all. Some of this is due to recent housebuilding. As usual, in the middle of nowhere, we cycle our 2000th kilometre. Hurray! Rolling fields of dark green cabbages on the low skyline merge with the deep blue of the sea. Breton stone spires, appearing as paper cutouts in the setting sun, mark the pretty town of St Pol de Léon. Feeling elated and a bit tired, we finally consume the pastries (in a perfect condition after 50 miles). A last French beer is enjoyed at an outside café in Roscoff which provides us with views of massive rocks, poking up out of the sea we will be crossing around midnight. We try to remember all that we have seen and done over the past 26 days while enjoying the best meal of the trip in a Châteaux et Hôtels establishment, `Le Brittany'. Only catch is that we won't be able to take a shower or change into our evening clothes, but a quick comb of the hair is good enough to get us in for dinner. The starter is a cold puree made with cauliflower but tasting much nicer than one would expect. The main course is a variety of pork - all perfectly cooked and full of fantastic flavours - with a bottle of Maldoror. A peach which has spent several hours in alcohol is the dessert accompanied by vanilla ice cream and mint. A smooth ferry ride allows us to get a good sleep after a welcome shower. A last French beer is enjoyed at an outside café which provides us with views of massive rocks, poking up out of the sea we will be crossing around midnight. We try to remember all that we have seen and done over the past 26 days while enjoying the best meal of the trip in a Relais et Châteaux establishment. Only catch is that we won't be able to take a shower or change into our evening clothes, but a quick comb of the hair is good enough to get us in for dinner. The starter is a cold puree made with cauliflower but tasting much nicer than one would expect. The main course is a variety of pork - all perfectly cooked and full of fantastic flavours - with a bottle of Maldoror. A peach which has spent several hours in alcohol is the dessert accompanied by vanilla ice cream and mint. A smooth ferry ride allows us to get a good sleep after a welcome shower. Up very early. Still dark. There are no directions to Portsmouth station from the ferry port, but a friendly porter comes out of a hotel to point the way. The earlier train is empty, but we are not allowed onto it because our tickets are for a specific time. Fortunately, our official train is on time. Bikes are put in racks. Bike reservation costs £1, bought in advance. Thinking the holiday was over, I am overjoyed by the return cycle trip from Reading. Ipsden forest goes on for miles and miles, filtered sunshine lighting up the well maintained woods. Very little traffic, even at the Maharajah's Well where we eat lunch. Two dinners are required to satisfy our hunger and we are in bed by 8:30. The piles of post stacked by our house-sitter make me suspect that another wonderful holiday is coming to a conclusion. |