And There It Was, Gone!

Finally, I made it to Dieppe and the end of my French sojourn. For a last meal I went to the local Pataterie, which serves everything potatoes – and 100% French potatoes at that. On Sunday evenings they have a magician who moves from table to table entertaining. His name is ‘Flechon’ – which probably means Wizard - and about 20 years old but he did a fine act, in a mixture of French and English all for my benefit.

And he was good, making me choose a card, writing my name on it and then not only finding the card in the pack but also one next, its exactly double the but without my writing. So once more he had a full pack and so let me keep my card.

Yes, he was good but then I showed him my trick. I made a whole Tartiflette disappear in about five minutes. Delicious.

R2D3?

I have found another way to approach Dieppe and it’s lovely. Having fought your way out of Rouen - making sure you do not end up in Le Havre for city road signs insist on taking you to the motorway – well play it right and you end up on the D3.

It’s a lovely road, called ‘La Route Du Valle’ that lives up to its name. You pass through some pretty French towns as it takes you gently along the river Scie, with cows grazing in green fields. For this is the land of all things dairy and much more.

Yes, it’s a wonderful ride with comforting signs announcing that you are on the “Cycle Route of Apples and Cider”. The tourist board welcomes you and then suddenly, like a jilted bride, they drop you onto the frenzied highways that is car land for the last section into Dieppe. But don’t let that put you off, the courtship is wonderful.

Meet the New Bike, Just Like the Old Bike

I have been remiss in not introducing you to New Bike. He joined the team a few weeks back when I needed a new means of transport around Cambridge as flimsy Sun Tourer finally failed in the bottom bracket department. The plan was to get another bike that no one would want to pinch, that being an epidemic in Cambridge.

But then I saw New Bike on Ebay and he was just like Old Bike being a 1990’s Dawes Super Galaxy but he has paddle gear changers and who can resist those? The other benefit is that unlike Old Bike he actually fits me. On my previous trips I have felt like Don Quixote on his servant’s donkey. Perhaps that’s a little harsh as he served me well and couldn’t help being slightly deficient in the size department.

So for this trip Old Bike stayed in the garage and New Bike has been wonderful. It also means that if you are between 5’ 8”-5' 10” then pop round to my place and we can pop out on a ride together. For I now have a spare bike.

The Road to Rouen

There are at least two ways of cycling from Paris to Rouen. You can follow the meandering River Seine passing the Renault factory, a large cement works and probably a couple of nuclear power stations but that probably doubles the distance as the road maps the curves of the river. 

Alternatively you can go ‘over the top’ in a direct line that follows the D14. It’s a fine straight road but one which car drivers claim as their own. So on the way you get honked at as you squeeze to the side following the white line and pray that a negligent lorry driver doesn’t clip you with his wing mirror. All this to keep you on edge.

The authorities seem to have identified this risk and will occasionally tease you off the main road with a cycle path signposted Rouen which will later mysteriously disappear forcing you once again back on to the risky road. At one point someone clearly decided to drive a tank along one section, gouging chunks from the edge just where you want to cycle. 

And finally, just as you are nearing your destination, there is a big sign saying Boos to shock you out of any complacency. Yes, you can take the fast route but then, as the old saying goes, that Road to Rouen is paid with goads and tensions.

Men and the Art of My Tour Cycle Maintenance

I should say in advance that this posting is going to be a bit technical. It’s all to do with my new Schwalbe Marathon Plus back tyre – yes, I knew that would get your interest. 

You see, while it has long been my tyre of choice for road trips they have recently changed the design ditching the Kevlar lining, which seemed to be its main point of difference, and substituted an extra layer of rubber below the tread so that any invasive sharp object does not penetrate far enough to cause a puncture.

So I installed one of these newmatic wonders just before I left home but immediately found that the extra rubber causes the tyre to rub on my mudguard mounting – still with me? 

Never mind I thought, the excess ‘flash’ rubber left on the surface of the new tyre would quickly wear down as the tyre rolled along the road and the rubbing would stop. Hopefully, somewhere around Canterbury.

What is more – and this is the clever bit – the mudguard mounting would then serve to knock off any of those pesky stones which may adhere to the tyre before they could do any damage. The idea was so good I was about to file a patent.

The trouble is that it does not work. As I found out today on the Somme Canal Path, just short of Amiens, my first real encounter with grit. All that happens is you pick up a stone and that forms a good basis to collect some more, until very soon the back of the bike sounds like a rusty Ferris wheel. Goodness knows what it would be like on a muddy track.

So it’s back to the drawing board and the pressing need to remove the back wheel and cut off a little of that mounting. 

But I’m OK with it all. For we must be phlegmatic in the face of adversity, or to adapt a quote from Robert Pirsig’s book: It's the sides of the mounting which must claim the knife, not the top. And if you can track down the original then you get to be 'eclectic bloke of the week’. Alongside me.

Tack Ticks

If you are ever on a bike heading south from Calais through a very blusterous Northern France with the wind in you face then I have a few tips for you.

First, try zig-zagging, choosing roads at an angle that prevent you coming to a grinding halt as the wind gusts to 20m.p.h. or more. It may mean that you have to cycle half as far again but at least you will be moving and, after all, that's the idea.

Secondly. Hide in the valleys or behind hedgerows. It’s not cowardly, it’s OK, no one is looking.

And finally, when you finally get to your destination and look in horror as the French weather forecast predicts exactly the same for the next day, then switch to the BBC web-site. There they suggest calmer winds. Some sort of British understatement perhaps but it gets you out of the door and this time they were right.

Tunnel Vision

This may just look like the Greenwich Foot Tunnel but to the laden cyclist it is a welcome sight. The National 1 cycle route brings you down through London to the Thames and here, thanks to the thoughtful Victorians, is a gentle way across, or rather under, that river barrier. 

The lift works well at both ends to avoid the spiral stairwell and after a peaceful stroll under the river it brings you out to Greenwich to view the Cutty Sark and Maritime College. So I am at the Greenwich Meridian, a suitable place to start any journey. Phileas Fogg would approve.

Now it’s off into the mysterious land that is Sarf London

Route Canal

This new route to London takes me along country lanes to Bishop Stortford where I joined the River Stort Navigation. These canals creep into towns by the back door so finding the route out takes some investigation and a conversation or two with the helpful locals. 

Eventually you remerge into countryside and, though the path was bumpy in parts, this way you encounter green fields, narrow boats lining the banks and picturesque locks, with perhaps a café offering tea and cake.

Nearer London the architecture becomes industrial as you pass through the drained marshes and eventually exclusive canal side developments with a price to be paid for the river view. The Stort joins the Lee Valley, a green lung extending deep into London, and then past the Olympic Park and Canary Wharf to meet the tubulent Thames.

Let The People Speak!

As I cycled through England en route to Paris on election day, I took pictures of the polling stations I saw, happy that the democratic process was working fine. Then I woke up this morning to the result. Clearly the majority of my compatriots are not thinking the same way as me. We seem to be retreating back into Little England. Oh well, at least I should be in France on Saturday.