6-12 September, 2019
Cherbourg to Cure, France via Normandy and the Jura Mountains
A total of 620 miles with about 29,140 feet of climbing, nearly one-time up Mount Everest from sea level.
Cherbourg to Cure, France via Normandy and the Jura Mountains
A total of 620 miles with about 29,140 feet of climbing, nearly one-time up Mount Everest from sea level.
Top: My trip through France from 6 to 12 September and beyond to Nyon, Switzerland on Lake Geneva, a total of 620 miles with about 29,140 feet of climbing, nearly 1x up Mount Everest from sea level. Also provided is my route through Switzerland to Lichtenstein, where I arrived on 16 September. Bottom: The view from my doorstep, in Balleray, France, 10 September 2019.
I dove into writing about my tour across Wales and England on my way across the British Channel from Poole to Cherbourg only breaking my revelations for conversations, unusually brief for this bike rider, with my candy pimping neighbors, a few random ship wanderers, and allocations to purchase a coffee or to take a wee. However, as we approached Cherbourg harbor, writing completed, I packed-up my laptop and other equipment, by now spread across a table and two chairs both smartly fixed to the floor and overlooking the sea, and wandered out onto the port side decks for air, the view, and as it turns out a lovely chat with an Irish woman that long ago fell in love with a German bloke and they've since lived, I assume, happily ever after. The two of them were near the end of a driving tour of the UK, expecting to be home in about three days to Frankfurt.
The sea rolled some on the roughly four hour crossing but it was otherwise cooperative for all capacities. I saw a few gannets, no other birds of note. With the sea down as it was, in contrast to the crossing that I experienced from Port Ellen, Islay, Scotland to Ballycastle, Ireland, most of the pelagic bird life including sooty shearwater were likely bobbing a little up and a little down, waiting for their cue to fly, white caps and wind. In general, the weather seemed very good for cycling, cool, overcast, wind direction to be determined but impressions on deck suggested southwest as it had been, by now, as a rule since the tour started at Duncansby Head.
When I stepped into the region of France known as Brittany I was stepping there for the first time. And step I did because the ferry boat personnel, the standard for passenger ferries, asked me to walk the bike off the ship and up the ramp which I obliged, no need to start trouble on my very first day in a region that was likely the birth place of my great grandfather on my father's side. I've written what I know about my great grandfather, most of it anyway, elsewhere, in the prologue to my 2018 autumn tour Going Full Tilt to Newfoundland and Labrador. If you're curious, that writing project in general, prologue and chapters (each a blog entry), is a work in progress yet still much more refined and detailed than what I'm able to write for the current tour between riding, resting, and eating! You'll find many more details about, e.g., my evolution from civilian to irresponsible, financial stability in my late 40s foremost, bike touring, adventure cyclist. I hope readers will refer to that writing project for details until I've had a chance to fill in many more to the story that is ongoing.
Way back on the Isle of Lewis, the Island that introduced me to the Outer Hebrides, on my first evening I chanced by way of local knowledge on an unusual hostel, for its authenticity, character, and occupants. Within the walled perimeter of Gearrannan Blackhouse Village, above the sea, enviably circled by sheep in search of green, virgin forage, at the end of a single track road in the village of Gearenin, I met a handful of travelers, each adding something special to my tour. Among them, an Irish couple whose names, regrettably, have slipped my mind, hopefully momentarily, contributed most and plenty. Let's call the encyclopedic lady of the pair, "D", the first letter of her first name.
D went on and on about nearly everything but especially her specialty, marine archaeology; and passions, archaeology of all forms, culture, travel, etcetera. Through her lessons, e.g., I learned of the Kintyre Express, the 12-passenger ferry boat that brought me from Islay, Inner Hebrides, to Northern Ireland in about 1 hr 20 minutes, very comfortably, despite colliding currents, a rough sea, and moderate winds. The route is a gem and the service is equally good. Mr. was no slouch either, e.g., from this patient man I was reminded of the proximity of the famous D-day landing beaches to Cherbourg which brings us back to the moment when I disembarked onto French soil.
By this point, I'd decided that I would divert my otherwise southeast trajectory about 60 miles to the east and slightly northeast to visit two of the famous beaches, Utah and Omaha. I'll have much more to say about these beaches, the June 6, 1944 landings, and the aftermath, appalling for the high casualties at Omaha in particular, when I expand on the basic travelogue that I've assembled so far for the 2019 tour. In the meantime, click on the link (bold gold font) to visit Wikipedia and engross yourself in all the details.
From Cherbourg, I ascended then rode through what I'd like to call, if you would allow, the "Brittany Hills", whether they are truly called this or not I have no idea (insert smile here). I cut across the Cotentin Peninsula, a description recognized by all legitimate map makers, towards the region of Normandy and its coastline in particular. Utah Beach was first, about 40 miles, then Omaha, another 20 miles farther east, towards Paris. I paid my respects to the sad conclusion of so many, in my own way, without words, embracing the sand and a light wind, taking only a few photos for recollection and sharing. By the time I reached Omaha Beach, evening had essentially arrived, nearing dark-thirty. I went directly to a campground that I'd assessed, reviews, etc, from the comfort of the ferry only to discover that the high flying American flag and friendly reviews were just a muse. Reality was an unwelcome greeting by the desk clerk and her supervisor. I was charged before I arrived so I did not take it personally despite my disappointment. Elsewhere, I found a much friendlier host and an 8.5% local pint.
The next morning I set out a bit hung-over! Despite my appreciation of a local pint, I'm in no shape, metabolically, to deal with the alcohol which effectively acts as a poison when I introduced the molecule to my body's systems. But I had a solution at hand, or rather by foot you might say, to pedal until I felt better. Beyond my hangover, I picked-up the pace, but not too much; this is a tour not a race after all. Even though distances and other metrics may suggest otherwise, I'm here for the journey, the primary observer, as it unfolds each week, day, and hour.
From Omaha Beach itself, the sand, birds, and a sun that was just making its way from horizon to the first layer of clouds in the sky, I climbed on a paved, single track road for a few minutes. The view from the top was humbling given the history of the space; I could see cliffs rising sharply from the sea west of the primary landing area, an impenetrable wall to anyone that might have come ashore there. To the east, the transition from beach to inner France was much more gradual. After coasting into the village of Vierville-sur-Mer, the village above Omaha Beach, I officially launched my next goal for the tour, to cross France and then ride into Switzerland initially a short but significant handful of miles to reach famous Lake Geneva at Nyon. My trajectory this morning, of course always varying a bit, this way and that way, on my preferred single-track routes, was southeast, the trajectory that I planned to maintain all the way to Lake Geneva.
For the first thirty-five miles I rode across a mainly flat, with some hills, agricultural and horticultural landscape. This set the stage for all of what I would see on my journey across France with the exception of significant tracks of forest, all of it, seemingly, in harvest rotation. Much of the land between the villages is committed to food production including fields of corn, wheat, and dairy. At this juncture, south of Caen, I crossed the River Orne at Amayé-sur-Orne and just beyond I began to climb. By Mutrécy, I had gained a new perspective, a few hundred feet above the Orne and everything else, a few sheep and goats, many tractors and cows, all the way back to Omaha Beach. From here, I rolled onto a high plain where I remained for many hours and was often reminded of Dorothy and her ruby red slippers. As is the case with North America's Great Plains, France's central plains have been extensively converted to agriculture. By now, I was west of Chartres and not far from the River Loire, farther south, that drains a fifth of France's total land area including a significant portion of the Central Massif.
Beyond Sees, I gained some elevation as I rolled into hills and forest, eventually into Parc naturel régional du Perche. It's easy to imagine how comfortable European settlers must have been when they arrived to New England's forests, the area where I grew up, close to Boston, Massachusetts. The forests in this part of France and elsewhere in Europe are very similar. in character and composition, to New England's forests. Among the hardwoods, I easily recognized oak, beech, and ash. Softwoods, where I encountered them, were also familiar, including a species reminiscent of American hemlock. Relative to the plains, my ascent into the forested hills of Parc naturel régional du Perche dropped the temperature by many degrees, Celsius of course. I pulled my arm warmers back up to my arm pits and enjoyed the solitude of the forest on a single track road, lightly trafficked and often visited by bird song.
Just inside of the best of the evening light, for contemplation and photos, I rolled-out of the dense forests of the regional parc, back out into the open, onto a gently rolling agricultural landscape. Not far from here, I rolled through the town of Ige by now on D938 heading southwest. West to La Bruyère, I detected a scene that was worth exploring, a glimpse between hills, small patches of forest, and farm infrastructure that inspired me to make a u-turn and follow an alternative single track route. The decision led to an enviable scene, warm light, crops, criss-crossing single tracks, and farm buildings made of ancient stone and wood, all assembled, by chance, in a way that celebrated natural symmetry, the lines that inspire our eyes and mind to resolve something that we refer to as beautiful. There was also not a stitch of wind, so when I stopped to photograph the scene I was embraced by a perfect silence broken only by natural sounds which I selfishly assumed was meant for my personal entertainment and enjoyment.
Already inspired by the light, the silence subsequently sent me into deep gratitude and as I often do, in times of great joy or difficult hardship, I referred to my old friend, Brad Kennedy, in this case thanking him for delivering such a wonderful moment. In times of hardship, such as way back on the tour, in the highlands south of Durness when a near gale was blowing in my face enough so that the accompanying rain stung my skin, I spoke to Brad in more serious terms, and joking too, but ultimately asking him to help me to persevere and, if possible, soften the present situation even if just a little which he often does. Although I am physically alone on my journeys, riding solo, I'm never far from warm memories of friends, like Bradford, which I can easily transform, with my mind, into a seemingly very real encounter, and shared experience. I lost Brad to cancer when I was in my 20s but he lives on in my journeys and was foremost in my mind as I closed the gap, down an anonymous hill to the village of Saint-Cosme-en-Vairais, up a chalky, gravel road that I absolutely loved to a perfect conclusion, to the farmhouse of Catherine, an Airbnb host, where my soul embraced the matrix of ancient wood and stone, constructed by forgotten hands generations ago. Shortly after an introduction to the property by Catherine, I settled into what was once a farm building but is now residence for the lucky few that, by chance, find themselves on the dirt track that leads to only a few living souls including a few curious roosters.
The next morning, I returned to Ige, continued north to Bellême, and then rode east to Saint-Germain-des-Grois, by this point well inside of Parc naturel régional du Perche. At Saint-Germain, I reconnected with my planned route, a dark red line staring up at me from my Garmin 1030 GPS and resumed a southeast trajectory which, not long thereafter, led me out of the forest into a space once again dominated by agriculture. The land rolled, sometimes with deep valleys that I patiently climbed out of, descended, and repeated over and over again. A theme I knew well, especially from my ride across Wales but in this case the climbs were very gradual, comparatively. It was a lovely day, a scenario that anyone with air in their tyres, food in their kit pockets, and time could only enjoy. Since departing the ferry at Cherbourg the wind had been over my right should or behind, and this day was not an exception. The temperature was also ideal, around 60-65 F. Although I'd experienced cooler temperature along with wet weather in Scotland and Ireland, since arriving to Wales and beyond, to this point, temperatures had been a comfortable 60-ish degrees. Lots of good on this tour already, some difficult times too but those were far from my memory as I made my way towards Orléans and the celebrated, for its culture, history, and scenery, the valley of the Loire River.
Orléans is a large town, quite reasonably a city from my perspective on a wee bike. At this juncture, my plan was to satisfy food and caffeine cravings and I was successful in both cases. On this tour in particular, I've been stopping for what the locals typically describe as un café crème, sometimes after two o'clock and ideally well before 4 pm each day. The habit fuels my motivation to persist into the late afternoon where I typically discover not only more and more of what inspires me to ride on but also those things in perfect light as afternoon transitions to early evening.
I've had a repeating thought on this tour, that travelers often run-off to their dinner reservation at about the time that light, for photos and personal enjoyment, for absorbing the space and reflecting on what’s important, how you got there, etc, is just getting not only good but a moment later, excellent. My advice is delay the reservation, and also take care, whatever you do, not to run down a bike rider just to make your reservation on time. The food can wait, the light cannot, and the rider has the same basic wishes as the driver, a freedom to explore without risk of annihilation.
On the southern fringe of Orléans, bike and rider crossed a threshold, slowed down, and soon were lost, no longer anonymous, close to the fabric of a river, on mans creations that ran alongside, among a cornucopia of nations represented by the people walking, running, and bicycling in all directions. Far away, on the high plains of France, I was anonymous, a state that I am fond of, that I look for and am never in a hurry to depart. However, this scene along the river, in Orléans, has its merits too. My mind settled in as my eyes sent images that could be resolved and processed. As I rolled alongside the river with so many strangers I felt the same way that I do when I climb into a bed, a deep comfort, an exhale as any residual stress from the day goes elsewhere. I stopped for a cappuccino at Compleux, a village associated with Orléans. It was a pricy wee cup of my celebrated brew but that didn't take away from my enjoyment. Alongside were friends that I may never meet but I was nonetheless happy to spend some time with, no words exchanged, before I casually made my way to the village with the unusual name, at least for an English speaker, Saint-Denis-de-l'Hôtel where I found Sylvie and eventually Francois, two among three wonderful ladies that looked carefully after my wishes and needs, such as a load of laundry.
On the tour I'm carrying two bike kits, two pairs of underwear, one shirt, one short pant, five pairs of socks of different weights, and a light, synthetic, pull-over. That's pretty much the full list of clothing other than arm warmers, leg warmers, and other cycling-centric wear. I washed nearly all of it thanks to Sylvie whom I spoke with at length thanks to Google's translator. We laughed out loud at our clumsiness as we worked through our textual communication. I immediately felt a friendship from her and was grateful. By morning, I was wishing I had more time, a few nights in this enchanted home, amidst its gardens, pianos, and more.
Since departing Omaha Beach I'd ridden over 100 miles each day, 120 on the first day and 112 yesterday. On this third day from Vierville-sur-Mer, I added another 110 miles, a total of 342 miles in three days. Among the reasons that I was able to ride so far was the terrain. Despite the hills encountered along the way, there had been few steep climbs and even fewer climbs of any significant duration. Also, the weather had been favorable throughout, 60s with mostly a tail wind keeping in mind my route had rarely gone in any particular direction for long. And perhaps I was experiencing an exceptional period of flow, achieved by a relaxed mind and a well fueled and not yet completely fatigued body. Reasons aside, this day and the two before brought me most of the way across the second largest country in the European Union, slightly less than two-times the size of the state of Colorado. As both of these stats imply, especially if you've ever spent any time driving in Colorado, France is enormous! After three days and over 300 miles I had made progress for sure, but Lake Geneva was still a distant speck of a very large intermontane lake on an unavailable horizon. As the crow flies, not in reality a straight line but still a useful metaphor, I was slightly less than half way across France on my northwest to southeast trajectory from the beaches of Normandy to the Jura Mountains, the latter a significant obstruction for my goal to reach Lake Geneva on the opposite side.
Returning to tum maxime, the present moment, on this third day of pedaling away from Normandy, from the village of Saint-Denis, I enjoyed 84 blissful miles cycling on one bank then the other, and back again many times, above the Loire. Villages, their beauty, and the same running up both banks to the land beyond and mans manipulation of it, soft and comforting in this region, overwhelmed and inspired every iota of mind and I would hope settled into an impenetrable portion of my memory bank so that I can dwell and share many more details from this part of my tour, down the road, to self, friend, and stranger. Among those villages, I paused for many minutes to photograph, from the west bank, Gien, and then went on a brief tour of the village itself before retracing my route back over a stunning, stone bridge and resuming my journey south towards Nevers
Dipping into interesting historical minutia for just a moment, the Luftwaffe destroyed most of Gien in bombing raids aimed at taking out the bridge. The town and bridge were eventually rebuilt and my guess is to specs very close to their original character. The river, bridge, and town of Gien present a charming scene that anyone, in good light or otherwise, will doubtful fail to notice even zipping along at nose bleed speeds, no doubt on their way to their next dinner reservation!
As my third 100+ mile day in a row approached its conclusion, I was already thoroughly knackered, but I managed to press on to my next nocturnal shelter, following another snack outside of a hospital in La Charité-sur-Loire, not far from where I exited the comfort of the Loire River and it's mostly flat bike route (part of the popular Euro Velo #6 cycling route). I avoided the urbanscape of Nevers, not far south of me at this point, and headed back into hills, farms, and patches of forest to Balleray. Along the way, I was lucky to find one shop open as it was closing in on 8 pm when I reached Guérigny. It seemed like a father and son operation and soon I was enjoying a discussion with the trilingual son, French and English plus his native language, mid-eastern perhaps. It was a brief moment on the tour but one that I enjoyed after so many miles rolling along in my own mind. Resuming my ride to Balleray, the last mile was a steep ascent, not unusual, the universe and my old friend, Bradford, employ a devious sense of humor. Climbs aside, I was once again, as I had been at the farmhouse offered by Catherine, ensconced in picturesque France with all the benefits, including a silence only broken by song birds and other natural sounds.
I slept well in Balleray and took my time the following morning to depart, pushing that inevitability to a few minutes after 11 am, enough time to visit with a group of ladies that were staying in a larger apartment on the same property. Once underway, farmland persisted and I celebrated the solitude, for something like 30 miles; and the transition was equally good, into another massive forest parcel, Parc Naturel Régional du Morvan. Like the parc before, this one was in crop rotation, clears signs of cutting all around. But this necessary practice didn't take away from the setting, which was peaceful, cool to the skin, and fresh to the lungs. My transect through Morvan was about 30 additional miles.
Just beyond the forest's eastern boundary, I arrived to the large town, perhaps just barely city status, of Autun, a place known by the Romans as their two surviving stone gates and theater prove, the Norse raiders (Vikings), and Charlemagne among others. If that doesn't crystallize the rich history and importance of Autun then let me add that the theater sat 20,000, the largest among all of ancient Rome. I visited the theater the next morning before I departed the town heading east and south. Remarkably, I only shared the experience with four other people, one was chatting on his cell phone, another jogged past, and two more arrived just before I departed. Like many historical sites in Europe this one was unfenced and free to the public to explore, a fabulous reality for all to take inspiration. Note, the night before I slipped into a bike shop to have my rear derailleur adjusted, the chain seemed to be hanging up on the lower pulley wheel, the adjustment made little difference in this regard and would have a tragic end, unfortunately, more on that later-on in the story.
More significant than the 99 miles I bagged on this day of exploring by bike, 85 miles into the day, at the village of Macornay, I began to ascend and that ascent seemed to have no end. Ten minutes in, roughly, I took out my motox4 Android smart phone and recorded a video of my impressions, in particular that I was pedaling into the Alps. That turned out to be consistent with reality. From the top of the climb, about 20 minutes after I stopped the video, I descended with haste down to Bornay. In the village, I was encircled by green slopes in all directions, amidst patiently grazing cows, fence lines, and buildings that backed-up time many centuries.
At Macornay, I had breached the threshold of the Jura Mountains, a sub-alpine range in the Western Alps. Bornay was a marvelous space to arrive to, I took my time here, and nearby, as I absorbed what I'd accomplished so far, the journey to the here and now and the journey that lay ahead. It was a marvelous moment on the tour, a flash point that's no doubt been embedded, safely, in the neurological matrix between my ears, one of them housing titanium-replacement bones, the purpose of a middle ear surgery when I was about 12 years old to recover some of my hearing following damage from repeated infections.
Despite my enthusiasm and the depth of my distraction from sore legs and other signs of fatigue, I was thrilled to go mostly downhill beyond Bornay, with one exceptional exception. Eventually, one more col withstanding, I found my way to the village of Pont-de-Poitte where I, sadly this happens far too often, discovered that my pending Airbnb reservation had been declined. I used my Euro SIM card and smart phone to locate alternatives, there were several Gites in the village, thankfully. I went in search of their owners after a quick trip to the local grocery shop. Above a lake and river, I found my next host and her cabins; and for just 30 euro. I quickly settled into one of them with a beer, coffee, and milk in hand, pro bono. It was a marvelous conclusion, perhaps even better than what I had booked, certainly a gift from somewhere, a nudge of positive from a distant gesture of kindness in the Andromeda Galaxy? In the meantime, I ate, showered, ate some more, communicated and edited images, until I dreamed of Switzerland and Lake Geneva.
The next day I departed, after a short conversation with my host’s boyfriend, by about 10 am. First over the River Ain, from Point-de-Poitte, then deeper into the Jura Mountains. Before I reached the border with Switzerland, I stepped two more times up into the Alps, up and over two difficult passes, the first known as Col de Joux. A few miles before the summit of the second climb, I arrived to the village of Cure, split by a border, and from their pedaled my way from France into Switzerland. Farther along, a handful of miles past Saint Cergue, I reached the pass, and an enviable descent for both its winding turns and its scenery, which I occasionally pulled hard on the brakes to photograph and ponder: a spectacular view of Lake Geneva below with the Swiss Alps forming a seemingly impenetrable wall in the background including the snowy summit of the highest summit in all of Europe, Mont Blanc.
My journey across France provided more than I ever anticipated, and those expectations, what lay in wait for me on a transect from Normandy to Lake Geneva, were quite high. If I ever get the chance to return, and hopefully that will be many times, I'll be eager to absorb many more of the details, to stay longer and explore the periphery of the places that I visited and the places that are awaiting my arrival. In the meantime, I wish for France, its diverse landscapes and characters, its belief in the freedom of man, etc, a long and fruitful existence, Viva la France and vive la liberté!
The sea rolled some on the roughly four hour crossing but it was otherwise cooperative for all capacities. I saw a few gannets, no other birds of note. With the sea down as it was, in contrast to the crossing that I experienced from Port Ellen, Islay, Scotland to Ballycastle, Ireland, most of the pelagic bird life including sooty shearwater were likely bobbing a little up and a little down, waiting for their cue to fly, white caps and wind. In general, the weather seemed very good for cycling, cool, overcast, wind direction to be determined but impressions on deck suggested southwest as it had been, by now, as a rule since the tour started at Duncansby Head.
When I stepped into the region of France known as Brittany I was stepping there for the first time. And step I did because the ferry boat personnel, the standard for passenger ferries, asked me to walk the bike off the ship and up the ramp which I obliged, no need to start trouble on my very first day in a region that was likely the birth place of my great grandfather on my father's side. I've written what I know about my great grandfather, most of it anyway, elsewhere, in the prologue to my 2018 autumn tour Going Full Tilt to Newfoundland and Labrador. If you're curious, that writing project in general, prologue and chapters (each a blog entry), is a work in progress yet still much more refined and detailed than what I'm able to write for the current tour between riding, resting, and eating! You'll find many more details about, e.g., my evolution from civilian to irresponsible, financial stability in my late 40s foremost, bike touring, adventure cyclist. I hope readers will refer to that writing project for details until I've had a chance to fill in many more to the story that is ongoing.
Way back on the Isle of Lewis, the Island that introduced me to the Outer Hebrides, on my first evening I chanced by way of local knowledge on an unusual hostel, for its authenticity, character, and occupants. Within the walled perimeter of Gearrannan Blackhouse Village, above the sea, enviably circled by sheep in search of green, virgin forage, at the end of a single track road in the village of Gearenin, I met a handful of travelers, each adding something special to my tour. Among them, an Irish couple whose names, regrettably, have slipped my mind, hopefully momentarily, contributed most and plenty. Let's call the encyclopedic lady of the pair, "D", the first letter of her first name.
D went on and on about nearly everything but especially her specialty, marine archaeology; and passions, archaeology of all forms, culture, travel, etcetera. Through her lessons, e.g., I learned of the Kintyre Express, the 12-passenger ferry boat that brought me from Islay, Inner Hebrides, to Northern Ireland in about 1 hr 20 minutes, very comfortably, despite colliding currents, a rough sea, and moderate winds. The route is a gem and the service is equally good. Mr. was no slouch either, e.g., from this patient man I was reminded of the proximity of the famous D-day landing beaches to Cherbourg which brings us back to the moment when I disembarked onto French soil.
By this point, I'd decided that I would divert my otherwise southeast trajectory about 60 miles to the east and slightly northeast to visit two of the famous beaches, Utah and Omaha. I'll have much more to say about these beaches, the June 6, 1944 landings, and the aftermath, appalling for the high casualties at Omaha in particular, when I expand on the basic travelogue that I've assembled so far for the 2019 tour. In the meantime, click on the link (bold gold font) to visit Wikipedia and engross yourself in all the details.
From Cherbourg, I ascended then rode through what I'd like to call, if you would allow, the "Brittany Hills", whether they are truly called this or not I have no idea (insert smile here). I cut across the Cotentin Peninsula, a description recognized by all legitimate map makers, towards the region of Normandy and its coastline in particular. Utah Beach was first, about 40 miles, then Omaha, another 20 miles farther east, towards Paris. I paid my respects to the sad conclusion of so many, in my own way, without words, embracing the sand and a light wind, taking only a few photos for recollection and sharing. By the time I reached Omaha Beach, evening had essentially arrived, nearing dark-thirty. I went directly to a campground that I'd assessed, reviews, etc, from the comfort of the ferry only to discover that the high flying American flag and friendly reviews were just a muse. Reality was an unwelcome greeting by the desk clerk and her supervisor. I was charged before I arrived so I did not take it personally despite my disappointment. Elsewhere, I found a much friendlier host and an 8.5% local pint.
The next morning I set out a bit hung-over! Despite my appreciation of a local pint, I'm in no shape, metabolically, to deal with the alcohol which effectively acts as a poison when I introduced the molecule to my body's systems. But I had a solution at hand, or rather by foot you might say, to pedal until I felt better. Beyond my hangover, I picked-up the pace, but not too much; this is a tour not a race after all. Even though distances and other metrics may suggest otherwise, I'm here for the journey, the primary observer, as it unfolds each week, day, and hour.
From Omaha Beach itself, the sand, birds, and a sun that was just making its way from horizon to the first layer of clouds in the sky, I climbed on a paved, single track road for a few minutes. The view from the top was humbling given the history of the space; I could see cliffs rising sharply from the sea west of the primary landing area, an impenetrable wall to anyone that might have come ashore there. To the east, the transition from beach to inner France was much more gradual. After coasting into the village of Vierville-sur-Mer, the village above Omaha Beach, I officially launched my next goal for the tour, to cross France and then ride into Switzerland initially a short but significant handful of miles to reach famous Lake Geneva at Nyon. My trajectory this morning, of course always varying a bit, this way and that way, on my preferred single-track routes, was southeast, the trajectory that I planned to maintain all the way to Lake Geneva.
For the first thirty-five miles I rode across a mainly flat, with some hills, agricultural and horticultural landscape. This set the stage for all of what I would see on my journey across France with the exception of significant tracks of forest, all of it, seemingly, in harvest rotation. Much of the land between the villages is committed to food production including fields of corn, wheat, and dairy. At this juncture, south of Caen, I crossed the River Orne at Amayé-sur-Orne and just beyond I began to climb. By Mutrécy, I had gained a new perspective, a few hundred feet above the Orne and everything else, a few sheep and goats, many tractors and cows, all the way back to Omaha Beach. From here, I rolled onto a high plain where I remained for many hours and was often reminded of Dorothy and her ruby red slippers. As is the case with North America's Great Plains, France's central plains have been extensively converted to agriculture. By now, I was west of Chartres and not far from the River Loire, farther south, that drains a fifth of France's total land area including a significant portion of the Central Massif.
Beyond Sees, I gained some elevation as I rolled into hills and forest, eventually into Parc naturel régional du Perche. It's easy to imagine how comfortable European settlers must have been when they arrived to New England's forests, the area where I grew up, close to Boston, Massachusetts. The forests in this part of France and elsewhere in Europe are very similar. in character and composition, to New England's forests. Among the hardwoods, I easily recognized oak, beech, and ash. Softwoods, where I encountered them, were also familiar, including a species reminiscent of American hemlock. Relative to the plains, my ascent into the forested hills of Parc naturel régional du Perche dropped the temperature by many degrees, Celsius of course. I pulled my arm warmers back up to my arm pits and enjoyed the solitude of the forest on a single track road, lightly trafficked and often visited by bird song.
Just inside of the best of the evening light, for contemplation and photos, I rolled-out of the dense forests of the regional parc, back out into the open, onto a gently rolling agricultural landscape. Not far from here, I rolled through the town of Ige by now on D938 heading southwest. West to La Bruyère, I detected a scene that was worth exploring, a glimpse between hills, small patches of forest, and farm infrastructure that inspired me to make a u-turn and follow an alternative single track route. The decision led to an enviable scene, warm light, crops, criss-crossing single tracks, and farm buildings made of ancient stone and wood, all assembled, by chance, in a way that celebrated natural symmetry, the lines that inspire our eyes and mind to resolve something that we refer to as beautiful. There was also not a stitch of wind, so when I stopped to photograph the scene I was embraced by a perfect silence broken only by natural sounds which I selfishly assumed was meant for my personal entertainment and enjoyment.
Already inspired by the light, the silence subsequently sent me into deep gratitude and as I often do, in times of great joy or difficult hardship, I referred to my old friend, Brad Kennedy, in this case thanking him for delivering such a wonderful moment. In times of hardship, such as way back on the tour, in the highlands south of Durness when a near gale was blowing in my face enough so that the accompanying rain stung my skin, I spoke to Brad in more serious terms, and joking too, but ultimately asking him to help me to persevere and, if possible, soften the present situation even if just a little which he often does. Although I am physically alone on my journeys, riding solo, I'm never far from warm memories of friends, like Bradford, which I can easily transform, with my mind, into a seemingly very real encounter, and shared experience. I lost Brad to cancer when I was in my 20s but he lives on in my journeys and was foremost in my mind as I closed the gap, down an anonymous hill to the village of Saint-Cosme-en-Vairais, up a chalky, gravel road that I absolutely loved to a perfect conclusion, to the farmhouse of Catherine, an Airbnb host, where my soul embraced the matrix of ancient wood and stone, constructed by forgotten hands generations ago. Shortly after an introduction to the property by Catherine, I settled into what was once a farm building but is now residence for the lucky few that, by chance, find themselves on the dirt track that leads to only a few living souls including a few curious roosters.
The next morning, I returned to Ige, continued north to Bellême, and then rode east to Saint-Germain-des-Grois, by this point well inside of Parc naturel régional du Perche. At Saint-Germain, I reconnected with my planned route, a dark red line staring up at me from my Garmin 1030 GPS and resumed a southeast trajectory which, not long thereafter, led me out of the forest into a space once again dominated by agriculture. The land rolled, sometimes with deep valleys that I patiently climbed out of, descended, and repeated over and over again. A theme I knew well, especially from my ride across Wales but in this case the climbs were very gradual, comparatively. It was a lovely day, a scenario that anyone with air in their tyres, food in their kit pockets, and time could only enjoy. Since departing the ferry at Cherbourg the wind had been over my right should or behind, and this day was not an exception. The temperature was also ideal, around 60-65 F. Although I'd experienced cooler temperature along with wet weather in Scotland and Ireland, since arriving to Wales and beyond, to this point, temperatures had been a comfortable 60-ish degrees. Lots of good on this tour already, some difficult times too but those were far from my memory as I made my way towards Orléans and the celebrated, for its culture, history, and scenery, the valley of the Loire River.
Orléans is a large town, quite reasonably a city from my perspective on a wee bike. At this juncture, my plan was to satisfy food and caffeine cravings and I was successful in both cases. On this tour in particular, I've been stopping for what the locals typically describe as un café crème, sometimes after two o'clock and ideally well before 4 pm each day. The habit fuels my motivation to persist into the late afternoon where I typically discover not only more and more of what inspires me to ride on but also those things in perfect light as afternoon transitions to early evening.
I've had a repeating thought on this tour, that travelers often run-off to their dinner reservation at about the time that light, for photos and personal enjoyment, for absorbing the space and reflecting on what’s important, how you got there, etc, is just getting not only good but a moment later, excellent. My advice is delay the reservation, and also take care, whatever you do, not to run down a bike rider just to make your reservation on time. The food can wait, the light cannot, and the rider has the same basic wishes as the driver, a freedom to explore without risk of annihilation.
On the southern fringe of Orléans, bike and rider crossed a threshold, slowed down, and soon were lost, no longer anonymous, close to the fabric of a river, on mans creations that ran alongside, among a cornucopia of nations represented by the people walking, running, and bicycling in all directions. Far away, on the high plains of France, I was anonymous, a state that I am fond of, that I look for and am never in a hurry to depart. However, this scene along the river, in Orléans, has its merits too. My mind settled in as my eyes sent images that could be resolved and processed. As I rolled alongside the river with so many strangers I felt the same way that I do when I climb into a bed, a deep comfort, an exhale as any residual stress from the day goes elsewhere. I stopped for a cappuccino at Compleux, a village associated with Orléans. It was a pricy wee cup of my celebrated brew but that didn't take away from my enjoyment. Alongside were friends that I may never meet but I was nonetheless happy to spend some time with, no words exchanged, before I casually made my way to the village with the unusual name, at least for an English speaker, Saint-Denis-de-l'Hôtel where I found Sylvie and eventually Francois, two among three wonderful ladies that looked carefully after my wishes and needs, such as a load of laundry.
On the tour I'm carrying two bike kits, two pairs of underwear, one shirt, one short pant, five pairs of socks of different weights, and a light, synthetic, pull-over. That's pretty much the full list of clothing other than arm warmers, leg warmers, and other cycling-centric wear. I washed nearly all of it thanks to Sylvie whom I spoke with at length thanks to Google's translator. We laughed out loud at our clumsiness as we worked through our textual communication. I immediately felt a friendship from her and was grateful. By morning, I was wishing I had more time, a few nights in this enchanted home, amidst its gardens, pianos, and more.
Since departing Omaha Beach I'd ridden over 100 miles each day, 120 on the first day and 112 yesterday. On this third day from Vierville-sur-Mer, I added another 110 miles, a total of 342 miles in three days. Among the reasons that I was able to ride so far was the terrain. Despite the hills encountered along the way, there had been few steep climbs and even fewer climbs of any significant duration. Also, the weather had been favorable throughout, 60s with mostly a tail wind keeping in mind my route had rarely gone in any particular direction for long. And perhaps I was experiencing an exceptional period of flow, achieved by a relaxed mind and a well fueled and not yet completely fatigued body. Reasons aside, this day and the two before brought me most of the way across the second largest country in the European Union, slightly less than two-times the size of the state of Colorado. As both of these stats imply, especially if you've ever spent any time driving in Colorado, France is enormous! After three days and over 300 miles I had made progress for sure, but Lake Geneva was still a distant speck of a very large intermontane lake on an unavailable horizon. As the crow flies, not in reality a straight line but still a useful metaphor, I was slightly less than half way across France on my northwest to southeast trajectory from the beaches of Normandy to the Jura Mountains, the latter a significant obstruction for my goal to reach Lake Geneva on the opposite side.
Returning to tum maxime, the present moment, on this third day of pedaling away from Normandy, from the village of Saint-Denis, I enjoyed 84 blissful miles cycling on one bank then the other, and back again many times, above the Loire. Villages, their beauty, and the same running up both banks to the land beyond and mans manipulation of it, soft and comforting in this region, overwhelmed and inspired every iota of mind and I would hope settled into an impenetrable portion of my memory bank so that I can dwell and share many more details from this part of my tour, down the road, to self, friend, and stranger. Among those villages, I paused for many minutes to photograph, from the west bank, Gien, and then went on a brief tour of the village itself before retracing my route back over a stunning, stone bridge and resuming my journey south towards Nevers
Dipping into interesting historical minutia for just a moment, the Luftwaffe destroyed most of Gien in bombing raids aimed at taking out the bridge. The town and bridge were eventually rebuilt and my guess is to specs very close to their original character. The river, bridge, and town of Gien present a charming scene that anyone, in good light or otherwise, will doubtful fail to notice even zipping along at nose bleed speeds, no doubt on their way to their next dinner reservation!
As my third 100+ mile day in a row approached its conclusion, I was already thoroughly knackered, but I managed to press on to my next nocturnal shelter, following another snack outside of a hospital in La Charité-sur-Loire, not far from where I exited the comfort of the Loire River and it's mostly flat bike route (part of the popular Euro Velo #6 cycling route). I avoided the urbanscape of Nevers, not far south of me at this point, and headed back into hills, farms, and patches of forest to Balleray. Along the way, I was lucky to find one shop open as it was closing in on 8 pm when I reached Guérigny. It seemed like a father and son operation and soon I was enjoying a discussion with the trilingual son, French and English plus his native language, mid-eastern perhaps. It was a brief moment on the tour but one that I enjoyed after so many miles rolling along in my own mind. Resuming my ride to Balleray, the last mile was a steep ascent, not unusual, the universe and my old friend, Bradford, employ a devious sense of humor. Climbs aside, I was once again, as I had been at the farmhouse offered by Catherine, ensconced in picturesque France with all the benefits, including a silence only broken by song birds and other natural sounds.
I slept well in Balleray and took my time the following morning to depart, pushing that inevitability to a few minutes after 11 am, enough time to visit with a group of ladies that were staying in a larger apartment on the same property. Once underway, farmland persisted and I celebrated the solitude, for something like 30 miles; and the transition was equally good, into another massive forest parcel, Parc Naturel Régional du Morvan. Like the parc before, this one was in crop rotation, clears signs of cutting all around. But this necessary practice didn't take away from the setting, which was peaceful, cool to the skin, and fresh to the lungs. My transect through Morvan was about 30 additional miles.
Just beyond the forest's eastern boundary, I arrived to the large town, perhaps just barely city status, of Autun, a place known by the Romans as their two surviving stone gates and theater prove, the Norse raiders (Vikings), and Charlemagne among others. If that doesn't crystallize the rich history and importance of Autun then let me add that the theater sat 20,000, the largest among all of ancient Rome. I visited the theater the next morning before I departed the town heading east and south. Remarkably, I only shared the experience with four other people, one was chatting on his cell phone, another jogged past, and two more arrived just before I departed. Like many historical sites in Europe this one was unfenced and free to the public to explore, a fabulous reality for all to take inspiration. Note, the night before I slipped into a bike shop to have my rear derailleur adjusted, the chain seemed to be hanging up on the lower pulley wheel, the adjustment made little difference in this regard and would have a tragic end, unfortunately, more on that later-on in the story.
More significant than the 99 miles I bagged on this day of exploring by bike, 85 miles into the day, at the village of Macornay, I began to ascend and that ascent seemed to have no end. Ten minutes in, roughly, I took out my motox4 Android smart phone and recorded a video of my impressions, in particular that I was pedaling into the Alps. That turned out to be consistent with reality. From the top of the climb, about 20 minutes after I stopped the video, I descended with haste down to Bornay. In the village, I was encircled by green slopes in all directions, amidst patiently grazing cows, fence lines, and buildings that backed-up time many centuries.
At Macornay, I had breached the threshold of the Jura Mountains, a sub-alpine range in the Western Alps. Bornay was a marvelous space to arrive to, I took my time here, and nearby, as I absorbed what I'd accomplished so far, the journey to the here and now and the journey that lay ahead. It was a marvelous moment on the tour, a flash point that's no doubt been embedded, safely, in the neurological matrix between my ears, one of them housing titanium-replacement bones, the purpose of a middle ear surgery when I was about 12 years old to recover some of my hearing following damage from repeated infections.
Despite my enthusiasm and the depth of my distraction from sore legs and other signs of fatigue, I was thrilled to go mostly downhill beyond Bornay, with one exceptional exception. Eventually, one more col withstanding, I found my way to the village of Pont-de-Poitte where I, sadly this happens far too often, discovered that my pending Airbnb reservation had been declined. I used my Euro SIM card and smart phone to locate alternatives, there were several Gites in the village, thankfully. I went in search of their owners after a quick trip to the local grocery shop. Above a lake and river, I found my next host and her cabins; and for just 30 euro. I quickly settled into one of them with a beer, coffee, and milk in hand, pro bono. It was a marvelous conclusion, perhaps even better than what I had booked, certainly a gift from somewhere, a nudge of positive from a distant gesture of kindness in the Andromeda Galaxy? In the meantime, I ate, showered, ate some more, communicated and edited images, until I dreamed of Switzerland and Lake Geneva.
The next day I departed, after a short conversation with my host’s boyfriend, by about 10 am. First over the River Ain, from Point-de-Poitte, then deeper into the Jura Mountains. Before I reached the border with Switzerland, I stepped two more times up into the Alps, up and over two difficult passes, the first known as Col de Joux. A few miles before the summit of the second climb, I arrived to the village of Cure, split by a border, and from their pedaled my way from France into Switzerland. Farther along, a handful of miles past Saint Cergue, I reached the pass, and an enviable descent for both its winding turns and its scenery, which I occasionally pulled hard on the brakes to photograph and ponder: a spectacular view of Lake Geneva below with the Swiss Alps forming a seemingly impenetrable wall in the background including the snowy summit of the highest summit in all of Europe, Mont Blanc.
My journey across France provided more than I ever anticipated, and those expectations, what lay in wait for me on a transect from Normandy to Lake Geneva, were quite high. If I ever get the chance to return, and hopefully that will be many times, I'll be eager to absorb many more of the details, to stay longer and explore the periphery of the places that I visited and the places that are awaiting my arrival. In the meantime, I wish for France, its diverse landscapes and characters, its belief in the freedom of man, etc, a long and fruitful existence, Viva la France and vive la liberté!
The Roman Theater in Autun, France built around 70 CE.
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The image, above, with my foot raised in shadow (9-10 Sept 2019) is a Gite hosted and owned by Maryse which she describes in her Airbnb post as le petit studio dans la prairie. The panorama below the map showing my journey through France is also taken at this property, a beautiful, secluded, heaven on Earth, and also inexpensive, in the village of Balleray, France. The three, connected stone buildings are part of the property owned by Catherine, Chambres minimalistes aux portes du Perche on Airbnb, in the stunning little place, a valley long-ago transitioned to food production, known as Saint-Cosme-en-Vairais, one of a collection of villages in the area. The town of Gien rises above the target of German WWII bombers, an impressive, palatial stone bridge that was destroyed and rebuilt around that time, the town also burned essentially to the ground, a casualty of proximity. The water spigot is from a graveyard somewhere in France, all graveyards have one, something that I learned on my first bicycle tour in Europe from a man that I met at a fountain, a cyclist in his 70s, strong and sharp, his name was Herman ("eh mo"). I've been consistently living on a few items in particular on this tour, fresh bread bought in small villages, ideally, a variety of goat cheeses, avocado, humus, raw broccoli, fresh olives, sometimes organic sliced meats including prosciutto, quiche de jour, and of course, if you now me well, cappuccino! During the day, whilst cycling, I often have a bag of mixed nuts and dried fruit in my left-kit pocket and / or part of a baguette, a banana, apples, are among my favorites. I've also taken advantage of free apples, pears, and blackberries growing along the roadside. The sunrise is at Omaha Beach, the scene on 6 June 1944 of appalling stupidity (those that led us there) and bravery (those that did the fighting) that sadly concluded the lives of far too many.