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Day 10: Thann - Plombières 89 k
Three reasons to change the route on this clear and sunny day : a) cols are still closed; b) my rim not does favor long steep descents; c) I am tired of climbing with cold muscles!
We retrace our route from the day before. The previously busy main road is very safe this morning since all the traffic is nearly stationary. We cycle past caravan after caravan until we are through the other side of the next town! The road is now too narrow for two lanes of slow moving traffic plus cyclists so it is just as well there is a small road off to the side at Willer-sur-Thur. It conveniently leads to the bike path from yesterday. What is striking about all the bike paths we have been on, is their excellent surface and the lack of broken glass - even when we are going past what are obviously the poorer parts of town. Of course, this is a country where bored teenagers say "excuse me" and "good evening" as we pass them on street corners in the early evening!
We meander up and around the many hillside villages. Sixteenth century buildings are replaced by those from the 18th and 19th centuries. Outside Kruth we turn off for our first col out of the Vosges, the Col d'Oderen. It is long but fairly easy - a nice contrast from yesterday. The sun warms our muscles and we enjoy the sweet smell of pine. The hillsides are extremely steep and so it is surprising to see so many tree trunks shooting up out of the thin earth, clinging to the rock face, oblivious of the forces of gravity. The climbs become ever easier and we stop changing gears. The valley opens up and we look down to see a close succession of villages and hamlets.
Today we learn that a "route barrée" really does mean the road is barred to traffic if the sign is accompanied by "chantier" (meaning workmen really are on site). After Le Thillot and a bike path in the Moselle valley [PHOTO], we turn up to the Col du Mont de Fourche, via the blocked road which emerges at the Col. [PHOTOS]
We are now in the Franche-Comté region and the vineyards have disappeared. The region is pretty but not strikingly so. A long climb through woods brings us out onto wide meadows drenched in spring green. No animals can be seen enjoying this gourmet meal and there is no sighting of any ancient Saracen though this area was invaded and occupied many centuries ago. We do however, see more and more place names beginning with, or incorporating the letter "x" (i.e. Saracen names).
We descend into Plombières, a long and narrow town, hemmed in on either side by steep hillsides. A few Roman ruins in this spa town mingle with a mixture of 19th century buildings. Turrets and wrought iron balconies can be seen from every angle. There are hotels galore to choose from and we finally decide on one with a kitsch display on the front lawn of several life-size armour clad Roman emperors/gladiators/soldiers standing on the lawn. It is run by a family whose very young children hold open the massive front door for visitors. A grand wooden staircase shakes as we ascend, thus making the statue of a naked woman gently shimmer. A large room with great views from our terrace keeps us entertained. Just as well since the town itself is rather dead. As F. Martin said in July 1789 "without the waters, there would probably have been nothing in this gorge but a few charcoal burners' huts."
Dinner is dominated by the sound of a large open-air refrigerator displaying all the desserts on offer. It is odd to always have them in view while one is occupied by the preceding courses. A large platter of cold vegetables is followed by tender pork in mustard sauce and a choice of cheese.
Day 11: Plombières - Contrexéville 77 k
Tapestries drawn to resemble a cheap medieval cartoon line the breakfast room which has in its centre another armour clad mannequin, this time wearing a skirt. Less amusing is the 15% climb over 2 kilometres out of this hotel filled gorge. The climb is forgotten when we emerge onto a very pleasant plateau, where we stay for most of the day. The Valley of the Semouse is idyllic. We whizz through its forests while following the course of a stream. Smooth granite boulders, basking in sunshine are splashed by blue-green water.
Three boys, ambling along with fishing pole over their shoulder, call out words of encouragement, to each of us in turn. I suppose with a little imagination we could appear to be racing since the wind is behind us on this gentle descent. Soon we are brought to a halt by six busy men and two noisy mincers grinding up branches which are spewed back into the forest. We are the only traffic to be inconvenienced during our 10 minute wait.
Out of the forest, the plateau seems to stretch forever while all above us are cottonball clouds set in a deep blue sky. Cream-coloured cows with large brown splotches, jet black chickens, silent donkeys and fuzzy white sheep look up from a green meadow to watch us pass by. A mad tractor rushes past, after straining to catch up, front wheels about to fall off, driven by a man, grinning wildly, a massive head of hair flying in all directions.
Towns appear in groups of three, each with a church so large that one cannot imagine more than a quarter of the church filled on the busiest of Sundays. It is no more than a 5 minute cycle ride from the border of one town to the next but despite this proximity, each town is distinct. The church spire is of a completely different design. There is no regional style. Tall thin stone carved steeples are succeeded by onion shaped dome steeples which are followed by a church roof decorated in multi-coloured tiles. However, other aspects of the villages are monotonously similar. Square, two-storey houses are attached to a barn which is accessed via a wide arched doorway, as in Alsace but without leading into a courtyard. Picnic tables encourage visitors to stop, and when we do, passing locals smile and wave. Spring flowers brighten the verges and front gardens. Everyone seems to be out digging their vegetables patches, cleaning and repairing their house. Pink flowering fruit trees and hawthorns covered in white bloom cheer us on our way.
During the day, many of the villages we pass through have "eau potable" (drinkable water) signs on water fountains. Not surprising in this region which is responsible for so much bottled water, e.g. Vittel.
We take a detour to see the source of the Saône. A recently constructed "neolithic megalith" stands near a picnic table. The actual source of the river is overhung by a stone plinth, with a carved drawing of the Druidic Goddess who found the source. [PHOTO] Some local workers on their lunch break set up a picnic (wine, bread, cheese) after hanging their head below the plinth to suck at the source of the river.
We climb back onto the plateau. About 3 miles from Vittel the traffic increases. The town is too big, too industrialised and much too depressing to stay in. We continue to Contrexéville which the guidebook describes as having the best example of 19th century thermal architecture. We admire it after settling into our hotel located next to the railway station. Half of the hotel residents are here for "the cure". From what we can see this means drinking bottles of the local water and eating low calorie 4-course meals. Each woman (no man appears over the course of the evening) has her own table and even though they now know each other, they remain at their individual tables eating silently. Surrounded thus, we feel rather decadent eating a full calorie meal.
The background music in most of our restaurants thus far has been pretty awful but this is the worst, a selection from popular classical tune alternates with cheap versions of American 1950s rock songs. We have concluded that there must be some very good salesmen working in this region. They also sell electric toilets (in every hotel for the first week of our trip) and red hair dye (used by every woman aged between 40 and 65).
Day 12: Contrexéville - Toul 90 k
Three different terrains today with the prettiest at the start. Lush meadows, sweeping wide across the landscape are bordered by copses, just in bloom. Streams appear and disappear. The roads are never straight, more often taking us in a wide "S" shape. We eventually realise that the road must be following ancient land boundaries. Church steeples mark the numerous tiny villages.
The next terrain begins when we reach the Joan of Arc Basilica outside Domrémy. The views open up and as we stand near the spot where she had her vision, we realise how strategic this vantage point would have been. We can see far and wide in all directions. The confluence of the Meuse River means this was a significant place for many centuries. The Basilica is closed but the views of the grandiose exterior are sufficient. We cycle into her home village where postcards are sold next to what remains of the family farm.
We climb out of this valley over a chalk white hill through wood studded ascents to yet another terrain. The gradients are easy but a persistent NE wine makes it rather more difficult. Bird of prey pepper the sky above. Kites swoop low in hopes of fresh lamb meat. Once, we see men in white coats running out to drive birds away from new-born lambs.
Toul has no Logis de France but we find a pleasant and cheap hotel in the centre. Bored teenagers and town peasants make up the population of this depressing town. White supremacist slogans and "anti-Islamic" posters are plastered on the roads leading to the centre. What should have been a fantastic cathedral is ignored and despised by the locals. European money is attempting to restore it while the town leaves hideous 1950s and 1960s cheap housing abutting the cathedral walls. It is almost impossible to find the cathedral entrance. We only manage to visit the crumbling cloisters. [PHOTOS]
The brasserie across from our hotel happens to be the most progressive place in town. Friendly locals and a creative cook restore our mood, as does the wine, Côte de Blaye, Château de Génie 1993.
Day 13: Toul - Verdun 96 k
Architecturally, the day marks a transition from arched doorways to rectangular entrances. Crudely carved but ornate Christian crosses appear along the roadside, reminiscent of those we find in the far NW of Brittany.
As we leave Toul, we finally have a clear view of what is, after all, an impressive Cathedral. Another church, on the fringes of the town, has been desecrated by white militant supremacists. [PHOTO] Now I understand why I was seeing so many unfit men wearing full military camouflage in town the previous evening.
We are continuing on the Route des Mirabelles de Lorraine (a soft sweet fruit similar to plums). Spring is at its fullest and white blossoms encircle us in the flat valleys and along the gently rolling hillsides. [PHOTO]
Our first goal of the day is to find the Lake Madine bike path which the Tour de France used one year. We know we are nearby when we see a huge white colonnaded structure on a hilltop. This American memorial at Montsec is meant to dominate the skyline, rather than merge into the natural landscape. [PHOTO] Or at least I assume that was the intention! The bike path, when finally located, is unpaved and unusable without a mountain bike. The lake is continually disappearing from view. We finally conclude that the Tour de France must have used the road we are on for their time trial.
The farms become bigger and the towns smaller until eventually we are cycling through dusty "main streets" lined on either side by a mixture of non-descript houses and functional farm buildings. If the hamlet is as long as a ½ kilometre it might have a town hall which hosts a small school. As we are passing through one of these tiny places I hear the "beep, beep" of a white van which stops and opens its side to display a food shop. Women, on cue, come out of the houses, basket in hand.
Two detours later we are climbing up a steep hill to Hattonchâtel where we enter the woods which are part of the Tranchée de Calonne. Easy cycling is replaced by 21 kilometres of roller-coaster hills. If we get down low enough on our bikes, we are transported half way up the next ascent. We jump from 20+ mph to 6 mph without respite, one sharp decline and incline, following another. But we are on modern bikes with a wide choice of gears, wearing light weight multipurpose clothes and weight conscious panniers - unlike the soldiers who would have walked and cycled this terrain 86 years earlier in fully loaded backpacks, wearing heavy, rain sodden wool in what was one of the worst war zones.
The forest floor is covered in small spring flowers, highlighted by streams of sunshine. We have the road to ourselves. The trenches, partially filled by leaves, are still apparent. Bomb craters have still left a perfect circle, exposed tree roots still in evidence. I see ghosts, lost and grey.
The Alain Fournier memorial is very moving [PHOTO], as is the account of how he and his colleagues were found, buried (following war-time rules) by the Germans. I was amazed to learn that the French soldiers wore very visible red trousers until 1915! The boots of the buried soldiers were from 1881 and water bottles from 1877.
Day 14: Verdun - Vouziers 84 k
We sneak out of Verdun after an awful dinner and one of the cheapest, but friendliest hotels. The cathedral was closing as we arrived so it was impossible to study its Rennish architectural features. Fluvial tourism is big here. The various fountains give Verdun a water theme to match its military one, both combined in a gigantic statue to Victory with its own water display. On the edge of town is the massive Citadelle Souterraine, built by Vauban, which was used in 1916-17 as a resting place for soldiers taking part in the Battle of Verdun. A hospital and arsenal were contained in this structure as well as a bakery which could produce 28,000 rations of bread in 24 hours. No longer.
The landscape continues to roll but with shaper and shorter ascents and longer and more enjoyable descents - ideal. The countryside is beautiful in early spring sunshine. Cows and sheep bow low to graze the ever greener fields whilst overhead thousands of white blossoms gently blow in the breeze. Undulations of the land divide one meadow from another. Steeples continue to pinpoint our route. The villages are more regulated and tidier than those from the day before. Interesting architectural features in the buildings are primarily created through the creative use of different coloured bricks and carved stone work.
We enter the Argonne Forest, part of the WWI front lines for four long years (the Haute Chevauchée). It is not possible to enter this forest between sundown and sunrise while the ghosts still linger. The damage from 86 years ago seems barely visible until we are suddenly faced by a large rectangular concrete bunker squatting on the side of the road. [PHOTO] We climb into the interior and look out the slit holes at road level, the forest visible in the shadow of sunshine. It is dark, dank and cool inside.
We pass a French cemetery, all white crosses (which reminds me of the opposite sight in the Vosges - a German cemetery where all the crosses are black). Information boards near and around the memorials along the route are excellent. There are clear explanations and numerous quotes from combatants along with photographs from the period. We run along one of the communication trenches and peer into enormous, deep craters created by the bombing. German trenches merge into French trenches. Often, soldiers were only 20 metres from each other since the complex maze of trenches intersected and overlapped with "the enemy". Photos show the utter devastation of the forest, pricked by fox holes which become so numerous as to create the shoulder high trenches. It is an amazing place to visit. Tiny flowers have layered the forest in swathes of white and purple amongst the tangle of leaf filled excavations.
We emerge into the hot shadeless sunshine and take off our coats for the first time this trip. Rollercoaster hills continue but more gently than the day before. We enjoy another batch of "characteristic villages" before finishing the day at the Argonne Motel. It is on a large unbuilt business park on the edge of Vouziers. The US style red neon sign makes us think of Kansas. This is the eastern limit of the vast plain that stretches most of the way to Paris.
At the back, there is a view of Mr Bricolage, a car tuning centre, a garbage heap with a good growth potential and a few shiny vintage cars. Ninety percent of the hotel population consists of people inaccurately referred to as vintage car enthusiasts (the sort of faffing about and low-key preening they indulge in precludes all ideas of enthusiasm), and a group of grim Eastern European labourers. The hotel sports its own sign saying that (the sign or the hotel) was funded by European money. Nothing else to do but rest and relax in our room. Rimbaud came to Vouziers to escape the boredom of his home (which we are visiting tomorrow). It must have been really dull. We cycle our 999th kilometre today.
Day 15: Vouziers- Bouillon 83 k
The dawn sky is foie gras grey and lemon with a few smoky puffs of cloud. After breakfast, we cycle along the Route de Reims, past the rickety house ("Mon Rêve") whose owner gave us directions the previous night, into Vouziers, birthplace of Hippolyte Taine, resting place of Roland Garros and possessor of a lovely church portal belonging to a church that was never built ("This church was funded by the Holy Roman Empire").
Heading out of Vouziers to the north, we pass the first of many "Route Rimbaud Verlaine" signs [PHOTO] on the way to Roche, where Arthur Rimbaud wrote "A Season in Hell" on his mother's farm. This sort of exercise is more than usually futile in Rimbaud's case, but it is entertaining to see the wash-house officially designated as a place that "is said to have inspired Rimbaud". [PHOTO]
Almost nothing remains of the hamlet as it was in the 19th century. Rimbaud might have been pleased by that. Far more interesting is the old station house in the valley under Voncq. You can creep through the trees and onto the crumbling platform where Rimbaud, dying of bone cancer, waited for the train that would take him away for the last time from the home he hated. The "Waiting Room" sign seems to have been repainted by the owner. [PHOTO]
This part of the Ardennes - the Crêtes pré-Ardennaises, according to the old catchy formula of the tourist signs - is almost insultingly hilly - short but painful climbs followed by irritating, truncated descents. There are signs to Charleville to the north-west and Sedan to the north-east. After a forest and a lovely panorama at Omont, we descend again to the Canal des Ardennes for some easier cycling to the foot of the little known and stupidly steep Col de Cheveyes, which no laden mule could ever have climbed (i.e. more than 8%). The land looks fertile , but there are large gaps between villages and a low population. At the top of the col, we join the main road into Sedan from the south. Nearby in the woods once stood a weaver's cottage where the defeated Napoleon III spoke with Bismarck after the Battle of Sedan.
We cycle into Sedan through a series of flat fortifications and open spaces, out the other end up what proves to be a very long climb to Belgium. Traffic, this Saturday, on the road to Bouillon is surprisingly light. At last, we turn off into the forest and up to a junction where the border (no signpost) is reputed to be. We are now along the "old French road" traversed by coaches. The 13% descent is extremely dangerous, especially as it ends abruptly at a busy cross road. By braking all the way, and using my feet at the sudden stop sign, I manage to halt just in time.
The postcard pretty town of Bouillon straddles either side of the river. [PHOTO] It is a long and narrow place, enclosed by steep hillsides. A fortress and chateau perch on one side while on the other are hotels and houses which enjoy the view. Our B&B bedroom looks onto the Fortress, quite striking when lit up at night. We remember our preference for the anonymity of a hotel as we listen to children playing in the living room below us. We are here because the price of hotels in Belgium are so high. Even though we are just across the border, the price is twice that of France (we found this to be the case in Germany as well, hence our decision to recross the border and stay in France).
Flemish and French are interchangeable in the shops, cafes and restaurants we visit. There seems to be a distinction between classes, e.g. Flemish is spoken by working class folks and French more often by middle-class locals, who are rare. G has run out of reading matter but there are no bookstores or quality magazines for sale in this town full of motorcycles, bad driving and bored teenagers. Fortunately, the quality of Belgian beer gives a more pleasant sheen to the town.
We sit at the Hôtel de la Poste, watching the rain fall and thinking of when Rimbaud and Verlaine sat in this same cafe planning their life together in Britain. Napoleon III also spent the night here after surrendering to the Prussians. With Germanic food in mind, we decide to dine in an Alsatian restaurant where we enjoy a large pot of stew made with beans and sausages. The waitresses are keen on our eating it all even though it is enough for four hungry cyclists (and 8 regular diners).
Day 16: Bouillon - Givet 72 k
Grey clouds but no rain yet, only a very moist SE wind. We put on all our winter gear, yet again, on this cold morning. We climb 7 kilometres out of Bouillon (not sure how it is so far when the surrounding hills are so low in height!). The climb is incredibly gradual and the gradient is excellent. We are passed by a Belgian cycling club heading towards Bouillon. They wish us "bon courage" and I wonder what lies ahead! Food is bought at Corbion amongst many church goers.
There are some subtle differences with French supermarkets in the choice of foods. The bread is so light it is almost non-existent. Sausage rolls from Bouillon are of very good quality but there is no chance to eat them in the wind, rain and cold which makes any stop unpleasant. More positively, the wind pushes us up hills which go on for nearly 20 miles. The climbs are gradual and the scenery is very pretty in the open woodland when we can look down into the Semois River Valley. [PHOTO] The hillsides are so steeply banked that it is hard to see how the trees hang on to these vertical slopes topped by granite boulders. Town buildings. made of grey granite stone topped by dark slate, remind us of Scotland as does the surrounding countryside and woods (though the climbs are clearly of the Ardennes).
Soon we begin to have wider views of meadows and forested hills crowded with tourist huts. There are a few houses, but most are shacks or caravans with attached porches. We occasionally pass large mounds of earth with a small pipe chimney jutting out from the back and a door at the front with a date carved into the stone lintel - 1947 or 1950. One of these is slightly bigger than the usual 8ft x 8ft and has two front windows above the door. Picnic tables appear regularly but the weather is keeping everyone indoors. Just as well since Belgian drivers, like the British, lose all sense of space when they step into a car (i.e. they drive much too close to cyclists and pedestrians). No cyclists are out this afternoon but most are probably watching the Amstel Gold cycle race taking place in the Ardennes.
Givet returns us to France. The Meuse River dominates this town with its attractive stone bridges, a donjon and other fragments of the past in dark grey stone. The hotel is friendly and the dinner is excellent . They serve their own marinated salmon, lamb cutlets in parsley garlic butter, lentils, cauliflower, carrots, green beans. Rimbaud stayed here as well, smuggling tobacco on his way to Charleroi in Belgium. We think of him as we sip a Chimay beer in a very jolly café noisy with animated conversations. We have a superb view of the River Meuse from our room.
Click here for Part Three
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