Day
1 Roscoff to Gouarec 88 miles 9 hrs 5 mins average
9.2 mph
The overnight ferry from Plymouth arrived at
05.30 am (BST). It was fairly cold and had been raining heavily
overnight judging by the wet roads and puddles everywhere. Setting off
I was thinking that this cycle ride might not be such a good idea after all.
Would I be able to manage 50 to 60 miles a day for the 2000 mile trip? Had
I brought the right things? Would I find camp sites in convenient places
each day? Was there too much weight for my old bike to last the distance?
It seemed to bend alarmingly under the weight of the front and back panniers
plus tent, mattress and sleeping bag and wobbled downhill if I exceeded about 18
mph. The problem was I did not have any lightweight gear and what with my old
three man tent, sleeping bag and other (probably unnecessary!) bits and pieces I
was carrying about 50lbs.
The ride south from Roscoff to Sizun was cold
and it was almost raining. My feet were getting cold in sandals, which
were the only footwear I had brought, so I stopped and put on an extra pair of
socks and also the padded underpants (the only cycling specific gear I had) to
see if they helped with the cold feet and sore bum feeling that was beginning to become
apparent. Both measures seemed to work OK although the padded underpants
would become more of a hindrance than a help after a couple of days and were
later discarded. I tried the new mobile phone to see if it worked in
France with no luck, so I set off towards the intended next stop of Chateaulin. I could find no signs directing me to Chateaulin so I
changed my plans and headed for
Carhaix Plouguer instead. The weather
started to warm up as the road got more hilly so off with the raincoat and socks
and on with shorts. This was more like it (the weather not the hills).
I climbed up to a radio station on top of a
hill, the highest place in Brittany I was later told, then down towards Carhaix
Plouguer. On the way I saw a sign to Poullaouen so I diverted to see if
Sylvia Gazzard, a friend of my parents who moved to France some time ago still
lived there. After a look around the town, which seemed rather a pleasant
little place, I finally found the street and what looked like Sylvia leaning out
of a window. “Hello” I say “Je ne parle pas francais, je suis
anglaise“ was the reply. We sorted it out and I was invited in for tea
and cakes and reminiscences of Goongumpas and more cakes. It is eleven
years since she left apparently. Sylvia told me the phone code for the
UK is 0044 not 044 as I had been trying, so I had another go at phoning home and
this time it worked. After an hour and a half or so I finally escaped,
having been given even more cakes to take with me despite my protests.
I soon arrived at the typically French small
town of Carhaix Plouguer and wandered around for an hour or so before setting off east towards R and
L’s (more friends who have moved to Brittany recently). On the way, at Paule, I
saw a sign to the Brest Nantes canal so I investigated and found a delightful
canal. It was mostly restored but few of the locks were working so it was
not navigable. The towpath was a fairly smooth gravel path. Walkers
and cyclists are allowed to use it so I could forget the road and cycle down the
towpath towards R & L's place at Brehan and thus avoid the traffic and for that matter the hills.
I saw very few people, perhaps about 10 other
cyclists in the 3 hours it took to cover about 30 miles. Sometimes near a road
bridge there were a few picnickers or kids swimming. The trouble was it
was perhaps too
peaceful. There were no shops or cafes and I was running
out of water and food. I then remembered the Gazzard cakes, handy after
all. With no map and no signposts, it was a gamble as to whether there was
a town or village nearby but when the water ran out at about 7 pm I
thought it best to try and turned off the towpath at the next bridge. Yes,
there was a small village nearby (Plelauff?) with just the one shop, a boulangerie,
and one bar.
I bought some bread and a large packet of sweet biscuits at the shop and, at the bar, I
bought a bottle of water (and a couple of beers of course). I set off down the towpath again and arrived at
Gouarec at about 8.00pm. A camp site! the first I had seen since Roscoff 88
miles back. I put up the tent, had a shower, phoned Kath and, refreshed,
set off to town for a meal. The restaurant I had seen on the way in is
shut on Saturdays so I had to go back to the campsite to ask the owner if there
are any others. “Yes” he said “down the road towards Rostrennen
there is a good one and also there is one in a hotel in town”. I tried
to find the good one but gave up after about 4 miles, perhaps he said at
Rostrennen. I headed back to town and the hotel. I found it and yes,
they were serving a meal. This was great as I was very hungry by now but
it was too late. They apparently shut 10 minutes ago at what I thought was
9.30 as my watch was still set to BST but of course this is France and it is
10.30 according to them, damn. I went back to the tent for dry bread and
sweet biscuits washed down with water. Yes, you can eat in France for
very little money .
Day 2 Gouarec to Brehan
44 miles 5 hrs at 8.6 mph
I set off at about 10 as I was under the
impression (false!) that I was only about 20 miles from R and L’s home at
Brehan near Rohan. The camp site owner gave me a map and suggested I took the
old railway track cycle path route to Loudeac and then the road to Brehan via
Rohan. His map only went halfway and mine was very vague. Still off
I went, down the towpath for about 5 miles and then up a very steep hill to the
disused
railway track. I followed it for about 25 miles through mainly open
countryside to Loudeac. It was O.K. but not so interesting as the towpath had
been. I came up behind a group of Romany travellers in a convoy of about six
horse drawn caravans each towing one or two trailers laden with everything
including goats. They were moving slowly and It was difficult to overtake them as they took up the full
width of the cycle path and there were few places where one could ride a bike on
the verge however after about half an hour the problem was solved when the
convoy came to an abrupt halt as their way was blocked by a very solid looking
wall with 4ft wide gate across the path. Shame! but it did allow me to get past.
The old railway stations are now private houses, some still with the station
clock, toilets and fire bucket, French railway enthusiasts perhaps? From Loudeac to R and L’s was about 15 miles on the road and it was raining by
then, still it was mainly downhill and quite warm.
I arrived at Brehan at about 3pm and tried to ring R & L
to find out how to get to their cottage, but no luck. It sounded like an
engaged tone and there was no answer and every time I tried it was the same
so I assumed I was doing
something wrong. I attempted to ask if anybody knew where R & L’s
cottage was. One person seemed to think it was down the next turning left,
so I tried that but it seemed to lead nowhere except to open countryside.
By now it had stopped raining and was sunny and hot. I decided to head back to
town and ask someone else. On the way a dog in a farmyard rushed out and
started barking loudly (un chien mechant?). I barked back and it hid, well
it was a very small dog. Perhaps this was a sign. I took the small
road by the farmhouse instead of going back to town and at the top of the hill
saw a small signpost to R & L's Cottage. That was lucky!
R & L were out. I hung my wet clothes out
to dry in the sun and sat in the garden. I tried the phone again and
inside I could hear a ring so I now knew a French ring sounds the same as an
English engaged tone. After an hour sunbathing and talking to the ducks I
found the house was not locked (well the door was not yet fitted!) so I let myself in and seeing an address book by
the phone, I used it to phone L’s parent's place as they might have been there.
They were, and R was most surprised to hear I am phoning him from his own phone!
They were just about to come back anyway. L’s parents only live a short
distance away so they arrived in a few minutes. The house / cottage is not
finished yet but is nearly comfortable, just a few more days and hot
water will be coming from the taps. R took me to look at their new
cottage. This one is mostly renovated already and could be moved into as
it is but the upstairs is still original that is a barn! even down to old ox
yokes and farming implements. R intends to convert the loft to bedrooms as he
has done with the current place. We tried to go out for a meal but could
not get a reservation. This could be because that night was the football
final,
and France were in it.
L cooked up something which was great especially as it was the first real meal I
had had since the ferry crossing two days ago. I slept on the floor as the second
bedroom has not, as yet, got a bed. The next morning was warm with a mist
blocking out the sun. L said it would be a beautiful day when the mist
lifted, she was wrong. L and Bert (their dog) accompanied me down the
towpath for the first mile or so. On the way we stopped to talk to one of
the lockkeepers and Bert stopped to talk to the lockkeeper’s dog. The
lockkeeper said that although it looked like it would be a nice day he
thought storms might be a possibility later on, he was right! I said
goodbye at that point as Bert seemed reluctant to end his conversation and
continue any further.
Day 3 Brehan to Pontchateau
78 miles 8 hrs 17 mins at 9.3 mph
The canal from R and L’s was much busier
than previously as this section from Rohan to Nantes is navigable but the
towpath
was great with just the odd cyclist or person walking a dog. After about
12 miles I arrived at Josselin, a beautiful old town with a large and fantastic
chateau on the canal banks. I stopped to look around the town for an hour
or so. Perhaps it was a bit touristy but well worth a longer visit
sometime. Indeed I should have visited it for longer this time as
20 minutes after leaving the first storm hit. By the time I had found my
"waterproof" I was soaked. The downpour only lasted ten minutes and I
set off again. After a while a strange feeling rather like wearing a
rucksack came over me. The back wheel was throwing mud up my back, despite
the new mud guards, and for that matter throwing it almost everywhere
else, the bike and I were covered in it. By putting a polythene bag around
the tent bag and fastening it fore and aft on the
back carrier a mud guard extension of sorts
was made, which worked well for the rest of the trip.
I continued in the rain to
Malestroit, another
fine old town where I borrowed the lockkeepers hose to hose me and the bike
down. With wet sandals I slopped into town for lunch. The only
places open seemed to be a pizza place and one cafe serving omelette as its
“plat de jour” neither of which feature very highly in my favourites list. After a visit to the supermarche I had a tomato
sandwich and ham and potato salad thing for lunch in the local park. The
weather had changed to hot and sunny and things were looking up.
I carried on down the towpath towards Redon.
At one point at Saint Perreux the towpath, which was mostly a well defined 6
foot wide gravel track, turned into a grass track and finally, after a couple of
miles, stopped altogether under a bridge. I didn’t want to go back to
Saint
Perreux (on a bike going back is always a hard decision) so I tried to find a
way onto the road above by following a path into the undergrowth to see if there
was a way to get up the embankment to the road further along. After a few
hundred yards I heard a loud thundering noise as something came down the still
not visible road. It was a train. Drat ... back to Saint Perreux after
all.
At Redon it was my intention to continue on
the canal towards Nantes for a while but
Redon is a
large town with canals going in all directions, a harbour, and a town map that
made no sense to me at all. After an hour of fruitless searching for the
right canal I gave up and joined the D733 road towards St Nazaire. Horrors!
hills, traffic, fumes, heat, I am not used to this after 150 miles of peaceful towpath.
Furthermore I have very little water left and all the towns I stop at have no
shops. One Fegreac, had a bar but water? “Non” not even tap water to fill
my bottle but I was welcome to buy a beer and that was that - thank you barman. As it was now about seven o’clock I thought I might as well
stop at the next restaurant I saw for a meal (and hopefully some water).
The next restaurant was a bit of a dive but I went in anyway as by now I was
hungry and thirsty. Inside were three cyclists from England, ( well
Manchester ), eating a “meal”. They were dressed for the part in full lycra gear with very expensive looking bikes. It turned out they had
cycled from St Malo that day and were on their way to St Nazaire to watch the
Tour de France the next day. I could tell they were somewhat bemused by my
ancient bike and me
in my shorts, shirt and sandals and I expect they could tell that I was
equally bemused by them (Martians meet train spotter sort of encounter). Their
meal looked awful so I decided to give that a miss, but I did get some tap water
from the barman this time.
At Pontchateau I saw the first sign to
a camp
site of the day, so Pontchateau would be it for the night. The
trouble is seeing a campsite sign and finding the actual campsite in France (and
later Spain as it turned out) are two different things. After an hour or
so I found a second camp site. The first choice, despite getting to a sign
that said it was just 200 m down the road, could not be found.
Anyway the second site seemed fine, I had a good shower and then went to the
restaurant just up the road. It was fully booked and the only one for
miles around. It was beginning to look like eating out in France was not
going to be possible.
Day 4 Pontchateau to Pornic 42 miles 4
hrs 23 mins at 9.5 mph
I stayed in the tent all morning at
Pontchateau as it was raining and set off about 12 towards St.Nazaire into a
strong headwind. Headwinds are a pain, it is like riding uphill but
without the pleasure of a downhill afterwards. Furthermore the scenery,
being basically flat countryside, was rather uninteresting compared to the
canals. I arrived at St Nazaire at about 2 o’clock to learn that the bridge,
which was the only way south, was shut for the Tour de France until about 6
o’clock. Oh well I will have to watch the
Tour
de France then. This turned out to be a rather odd affair whereby a
group of cyclists rode past in a bunch, the crowd cheered and as each group wore
the same colours and had the same bikes it implied they were a team. 10
minutes go by then another team/group appeared, the crowd cheered, etc, etc.
Sometimes after the group had gone by a cyclist in the same colours rode past on
his own rather like a wounded bird who can’t keep up with the flock, the crowd
cheered anyway (and then turned aside with a knowing look)
At about 6 PM the Tour De France seemed to
stop so I made my way towards the bridge. The trouble was the only road to
it seemed to be a motorway and the only way onto the motorway is out of town and
anyway cyclists are not allowed on
motorways, this was
looking like a problem. I looked around a bit for a way onto the motorway
in town and having not found one, clambered 50 feet up the embankment and over
the crash barrier with the bike, this was not at all easy due to the weight!
There was a very long queue of vehicles waiting to cross the bridge that
stretched to the horizon. I made my way to the head of it
and found that the police were still not letting anyone across the
bridge until
some straw bales and other cyclisty bits had been removed. After a few minutes I
asked the police if it was OK for me to ride over the bridge before the traffic
was allowed to and very much to my surprise they said OK. As you can see in the
photo I am probably the first person to have the bridge to myself for years.
The bridge is a huge suspension thing rising
perhaps 150 feet above the Loire river mouth. Riding across was scary due
to the very strong side wind. Each time I rode past a support wire I was
sucked towards it and then blown across the road afterwards. On the other
side I rode down the normally busy D213 but it was an hour before any traffic
appeared as the bridge still had not been opened. When the traffic started
it was continuous so I stopped just before
Pornic
at Camping du Golf for the night. Again there were no restaurants nearby
so no meal again. I phoned Kath and said I am losing weight . She
assumes it is the exercise, she is wrong.
Day 5 Pornic to Bretignoles sur Mer
64 miles 6 hrs 12 mins at 10.3 mph
There was a French owl at Camping du Golf last
night. All night long it was going “le mange tout, le mange tout”.
When I set off in the warm sun there was a strong south westerly head / side
wind blowing. The countryside was completely flat with drainage ditches
usually on both sides of the road and really rather uninteresting apart from the
occasional small town. At Bourgneuf en Retz I took a wrong turning at a
roundabout and headed inland towards
Machecoul for an hour. I should have
realised my mistake as the headwind had become a following wind but I didn’t
and was almost at Machecoul by the time I found out. There was no
alternative other than continue into town and then head back to the coast
towards Beauvoir sur Mer. This turned out to be a hard ride into the wind. Slowly
the church spire on the horizon would become a small village that had no bar,
shop or anything much to break the monotony except for another church spire on
the horizon that held the same hope of food and drink but resulted, after 30
mins riding, in the same disappointment. Perhaps the only slightly
interesting thing about this area of France was the road kills which consisted
of otters, snakes and moorhens. Headwinds really are a pain even on flat roads
they cut my normal speed of about 13 mph down to 7 mph or so.
Once back on the coast the road was not much
more interesting, flat countryside, the occasional river or inlet, usually with
dozens of strange "fishing machines" on
each bank (how do any fish survive?) Although if you like oysters
and moules perhaps this is your ideal area as there were lots of roadside / inletside emporiums that sold nothing else. I, not having managed to eat out
once in France yet, was looking for more normal eating places. I
stopped at a camp site just outside Bretignoles sur Mer, put the tent up, had a
shower, and rode into town determined to find a restaurant. Finally I
found one open, a fairly ordinary little cafe place that served up a fairly,
well, very, ordinary steak and chips, still it was a start. Perhaps I should
have gone for the only other thing on their menu - moules et frites. Do they eat
anything else in this part of France?
Day 6 Bretignoles Sur Mer to La Rochelle
78 miles 8 hrs 25 mins at 9.1 mph
A long days ride made hard work by very hot
sunny weather and yet another headwind. The countryside remained flat and
uninteresting which also did not help. The only maps I had brought with me were
AutoRoute express prints on an inkjet printer and after Les Sables d’Olonne
they were proving inadequate partly because they didn’t show the small towns
(my fault, chose a too small scale) and partly because the ink had run when the
rain got them back at Josselin. At Avrille I noticed a tourist office open
and tried to get a more detailed map of the area, something they didn’t have.
It was hardly surprising as why anyone would want to holiday in this part of
France and why Avrille even had a tourist office was beyond me.
They did have a map of the whole of France showing Logis de France hotels
and restaurants and that was just fine to show the towns and roads to La
Rochelle - onward.
I came across an old
car
museum and paid a quick visit. It was full of French cars, some very nice
ones, and worth a look
around for an hour or so, I was the only customer for most of the time. I headed
inland to
Lucon, a small town notable perhaps only
for its tree lined street. I had hoped to find a camp site
before La Rochelle but, perhaps reflecting the
somewhat uninteresting scenery, I found none. I wandered around La Rochelle’s
old port area in the evening sun and had my first reasonable meal at a
restaurant on the quay, after which it was time to continue and find a camp
site, or hotel, for the night. Surprisingly it appeared there are no camp
sites in La Rochelle itself, most are on the Ile de Re, an island just offshore
to the north but one person I asked thought there was another one about 10km
south of town. It was a bit of a risk heading out of town as it was almost dark
by now but luckily he was right there was a camp site on the coast by a railway
line.
