Feasting on Benches
Day 5: 16th May, to Huelgoat 39 miles, total 170 miles.
The unnecessarily cheerful Brittany Ferries musical alarm wakes us at 6.30am, 7.30am French time. Without getting out of bed I peel back a corner of the curtain, to see bright encouraging sunshine streaming through our porthole and the exciting view of France getting larger by the second. I boil the kettle for 2 cups of tea, which we drink while eating the dinky complimentary biscuits and packing our bag.
The Tannoy tells us to go and find Edith. Hundreds of us race to the stairs and then hang around while the crush we’ve caused unwinds. We are delighted that Edith is OK, and we get her ready for the off with our fellow intrepid cyclists. The man says, Allez,” and we pedal up to passport control, he doesn’t seem to care whether we have helmets on or not. Obviously different rules this side of the channel.
I carry our cards, cash, and passports in a money belt around my waist. I feel happier knowing that our “Worldlies” are safe, and I often find myself patting my pockets for reassurance, as we pedal along. Chris stops at passport control and waits for me to do my thing. I take a deep breath, hand over the passports that I’ve checked are in date a hundred times, and try out a quick, “Bonjour.” I receive a smile and our two stamped passports back from the Douane. Then we’re off, puffing up our first French hill: following the signs into St Pol de Leon.
It's going to take a while for me to get used to traffic passing on our left. I’ve now got to use the rearview mirror down by my left hand to let Chris know about what is coming up behind us. I get plenty of practice, “Car in 5 seconds, …. coming now…. massive lorry in 10, …...coming now.” The ferry continues to disgorge its customers, and they keep rumbling past us. It would be fair to say that neither of us are at our most relaxed yet. We make it to a supermarket, as much to catch our breath, as for the couple of croissants and a bag of sweets. We emerge feeling more confident; they understood some of our French, the new Monzo card I’ve arranged works, and breakfast is sorted. We are happy bunnies.
Feeling full, and more at ease, we consult Komoot, on the best route to the town of Morlaix. We start following Komoot’s directions and after a few hundred metres find ourselves in the town square, behind the counters of the bustling St Pol de Leon Tuesday market. Thankfully the three of us manage to extricate ourselves from the staff side of the impressive fromage display and get back on the right road.
It’s now just before 9.00am and the ferry traffic has dispersed making the roads quieter. The cycling terrain is rolling rather than Devonian and we are moving along nicely in the morning sun.
I’m loving this. They are coping OK with the traffic, and I’ve got an invigorating French breeze blowing past my headlamp. C’est formidable!
The ferry trip was OK, shame that no one from my Thorn family was on board. I had a chat with a couple of electric bikes. They wondered, having looked at The Wrinklies, if my crew were up to a 1400 mile “Unplugged” jaunt. Bloomin’ cheek. “No problem” I said defensively. “Have your riders packed a European adaptor to plug you in?”
We coast downhill into Morlaix which has the atmosphere of a port, although a long way up the river. I’ve been here before, on the Plymouth Poly Mech Eng Soc’ Booze Cruise, nearly 40 years ago. My memory is a bit hazy, but the huge stone viaduct dominating the centre of town looks familiar. With 18 miles done, and having reached a key waypoint on today’s route, we head for a pâtisserie to buy a couple of well-deserved tartes aux pommes.
There’s a bench in the square opposite the shop; we park Edith along the back and plonk ourselves down. We pull the bow securing the cardboard box and gaze at the wonderful flaky confections inside. They aren’t going to last very long. The sun is warm on our faces; it’s the perfect spot for a break and to absorb Morlaix’s bustling atmosphere, as we munch away. This is the glossy travel brochure scene we had in our heads. At this point we should have been thinking about stocking up on bread, cheese, biscuits and anything sugary, but we don’t, and it catches us out later.
From Morlaix we find the first of the long cycle tracks that were once railway lines, these are called the Voies Vertes or Greenways. In 1879 the French state wanted everyone to be within half a day’s cycling of a railway station. This meant a lot of local tracks being built. A hundred years later, many of these railway lines were closed and subsequently converted into the Voies Vertes. Waste not, want not.
This track heads gently uphill for 11 miles. We attack it with enthusiasm and are impressed with our post tartes energy levels. The track has disused stations along it at regular intervals, some have been converted into cute little houses, some are still waiting for a new owner with vision. Surprisingly none have yet been converted into a café. In the UK these spaces would have been filled with Mr Whippys, popup coffee yurts, and campervans selling wood-fired pizzas out the windows. We plough on to the top, snack deprived and then enjoy the 8 miles of freewheeling down the other side.
Komoot orders us to leave the track and rejoin the road, where we soon spot the attractive entrance to our first campsite at Huelgoat. Excitingly called Rivière d’Argent. Feeling triumphant, we roll on to the site around 3pm.
It’s like the Marie Celeste - the reception is shut, the shop is shut, the pool is shut. All we have is a bag of boiled sweets and we are feeling decidedly low on energy. A tad deflated by the lack of a banner saying, “Welcome Mr and Mrs Clark from England,” we pitch the tent somewhere sunny, partly to get the tan going, but also to get Big Blue working on the batteries. The tree covered railway track has not provided much full power charging today, and we need to top up. Komoot seems to be draining Nicky’s phone battery in a couple of hours.
Suddenly, I realise, I am totally pedalled out, and I crawl into my bag for a snooze. Nicky wakes me up a little while later, saying that we really need to get some supplies for tonight. I don’t want to move but knowing that I’m not going to feel much better until I’ve eaten, I haul myself out of the tent.
With the expected camp shop still resolutely shut, the nearest supermarket is 2-3 miles away, uphill. Popping a stack of boiled sweets in my mouth, in an attempt to get my legs going, we doggedly follow Komoot into Huelgoat proper, and to their village oasis named Intermarché.
We plunder their shelves for supplies, plus Camembert, a baguette and a beef tomato, which we eat on another bench, this time overlooking the village duck pond. Sat here, these three basic ingredients taste more like a feast than a fuel top up, and with each bite we feel more human again.
Starting to feel human again.
Beyond the pond we spot some of the other cyclists from the ferry checking into a hotel; we can’t help feeling pleased that they appear to have been slower than us. We decide we’ve got to stop this; we’re on holiday. This is about us and our journey of rediscovery. Not some rehash of the Wacky Races. Maybe we are rediscovering that we’re just a bit too competitive?
We pile all our other goodies on to Edith and freewheel downhill back to camp. Of course everything is now open. Full of carbs and feeling a whole lot better, we manage a guilty swim/wash in the swimming pool, before sitting around the tent drinking Rosé and munching crisps. Couscous, salmon and remoulade for supper, then an evening in the campsite bar, to play cards, try the local beer and do the crossword. Very confused by the answer “Smelly,” to the crossword clue “Melodious”. Clarity returns when I find my glasses back at the tent and see that the clue is of course, “Malodorous”.
If you drink a ½ a bottle of Rosé plus a couple of local beers, then wash it down with a cup of tea in bed while writing up your diary, you can guarantee one thing. You’ll need to get up for a pee in the night. At home it’s annoying, in a two-man hiking tent it is a cross between a military manoeuvre and a game of Twister. The act goes something like this.
First: Realise I can’t hang on for another 4 hours. Sigh.
Second: Unzip tent, using a combination of moonlight and Braille, while trying not to wake companion.
Third: Nudge companion by accident and apologise.
Fourth: Crawl over shoes, beer bottles and choc wrappers in porch.
Fifth: Poke head out of door to see if the coast is clear.
Sixth: Endure dew on bare feet while heading for a convenient bush. Scan horizon to avoid alarming insomniac campers.
Seventh: Enjoy extraordinary display of stars.
Eighth: Head back to tent and pass companion, who can’t make it to morning either.
Ninth: Lay back in bed feeling better. Get nudged intentionally by companion as they return.
