Friday 4th July and it’s just a few days since I returned from Glastonbury Festival so no cycle training for our trip to see the first 6 stages of le Tour. Pleasant cycle to St Pancras station to meet Simon and Bruce picking up Pete at Stratford on the way to Dover. The train is packed with at least a dozen bikes as quite a few have the same plan as us. We chat bikes mostly admiring Simon and Bruce’s old school steel frame bikes. Pete has an emergency bike not used for a while which we can see by the snail we discover clinging to it which causes a lot of laughter especially those with tip top new gravel tourers. Smooth boarding and crossing with lots of other cyclists and we sit as usual next to the games room so are surrounded by school kids this time German. The ride out of Dunkirk port has it’s usual difficulties of gravel tracks that end in wasteland. But soon enough we’re at our first stop at Bourbourg a nice enough place by the river. Nice enough town with a lively bar with kids running around outside so we have a couple of beers in the sinking sunlight. Bruce finds alcohol free beer which seems very common in French bars. Few places to eat and we resort to O’Kebab where I have my staple of salad and chips unfortunately with mayonnaise. As a sign of things to come Pete’s derailleur slips and breaks a spoke, not great with a full load. I sleep well in my double bed. Well, I did organise the logistics for the trip.
Saturday is a chilly start and after popping into town for supplies we set off on a fairly gentle ride albeit with a typical Flanders wind in perfect conditions a bit of cloud and not too hot. Gentle until we hit the hill of Cassel which we go halfway up before being stopped by police on the race route so go back down and up to the town the back way. It’s a typical Flanders town with lovely old buildings and a great view through an archway across the countryside. It’s also the point of a sprint so crowded with fans and locals including quite a few British cycle clubs in colours. We’re here early enough to catch the tacky caravan come through and join the crowds in the madness that is snatching at the crap being thrown by over enthusiastic marketing types (how do they do this for 5 hours?) whilst strapped into gaudy often completely unroadworthy vehicles careering along at high speed blaring europop at high volume. I hope they are paid a good wage for this every day. Bruce is a caravan virgin and not impressed. I grab a keyring and small shopping bag and am inordinately pleased. The main square has marquees with beers, frites, sausages, various cycle related activities and a big screen showing the race. The local shops are doing a roaring trade too. Bruce and I watch the race just as they get to the top of the hill into the square and two are out front racing for the sprint line but we miss their crash yards (sorry, metres) after the line. Then the rest of the peloton stream past hitting the cobbles of the square. Then all the backup vehicles and a few stragglers. Bruce is impressed which is just as well as we have another 5 stages to watch. We cycle down out of town the way that the race has come which is a tricky descent along about a mile (sorry, 1.6 k) of pave (cobblestones) which I’d much rather be cycling up than down. Back on tarmac we have a bit of a slog for 10 miles (I’m sticking with British from now on) on undulating roads into a headwind then we’re on a canal side path into Bethune. It’s a very wide canal which would have been busy in it’s heyday. The cycle track is pretty good and after another 10 miles or so we cross over into Bethune to pick up supplies. Our place is a few miles outside Bethune in Beuvry reached along a cycle track through a wooded residential area. Pete’s derailleur has been playing up all day and eventually disintegrates a few hundred yards from our destination which is a disaster in some ways but at least didn’t fall apart 10 miles from nowhere. Simon cooks a well needed excellent meal of pasta and tomato veg sauce washed down with red wine and non-alcoholic beer. There is a large firework display in the distance towards Bethune – maybe celebrating France’s win over England in the Women’s Euros? Late to bed sharing a room with Simon.
After a good night’s sleep Simon and I cycle the mile into Beuvry centre to queue at the very popular boulangerie (I guess it is Sunday morning) and return home through heavy rain. After the staple bread based breakfast we help Pete sort his bike out (shorten chain to bypass derailleur). It’s better than the telly which is showing some weird arts programme of a naked ancient bloke playing piano whilst singing to the spread legs of naked ancient women. All watched by an audience sitting on chairs fully clothed and interviewed afterwards. On a Sunday at 9.30 am. Back to the bike repair then. Simon, Bruce and myself set off to see the race which is passing about 15 miles away sadly saying farewell to Pete who is returning home given his bike is now single speed. Not the first time Pete’s had to bail out early on a trip and he’ll be missed. For the three of us the rain gets heavier and we shelter a couple of times under bridges. Also a headwind so heavy going. Just as we decide we need to press if we are to catch the race, the point of the trip, we hit a long drag up a steepish hill that saps our strength. As ever though once the ascent is over we regain our vigour and soon arrive at Cambligneul where crowds are gathered with a festive atmosphere on a bend in the road. Mickey and Minnie mouse are in attendance along with spiderman and a lion that befriends Bruce. Thankfully we’ve missed the caravan. As the rain eases the break of 2 riders zips past with another 2 a couple of minutes later. Then the main peloton rushes past as ever difficult to see individual riders. The nearby field has the usual village le Tour festival with bouncy castle, beer, sausages, frites and a band that’s highlight is Whole Lotta Rosie to which Simon and Bruce are the only interested audience everyone else focussed on a mechanical bull riding rodeo thing. And a farmer brings a real prize bull along on a trailer sitting on it (I think it’s been sedated) and swinging it’s balls which seems to be rural entertainment in these parts. Ah well, the sun is out and all is well with the world. After the band finish we cycle along the race route past boozing parties who shout Allez Allez at us in time honoured fashion. At these I usually go onto the drops and off the saddle ride in a wildly swinging fashion as if I’m neck and neck with Cavendish in the last 20 metres of a sprint. Luckily he’s retired so I always win the imaginary race. By now it’s a pleasant ride in the sun with a slight breeze over rolling terrain. At a wrong turn we are at a graveyard but in the distance are two massive slag heaps near Loos (near Lens) that Bruce (fountain of historical knowledge) says were hard fought over in WW1 as they commanded an excellent view of the surrounding flat countryside. Next along a pleasant forest track and quiet roads until home (thanks to Simon for all the navigating) where we are in time to watch the end of the race. Shower and clothes wash before dinner which is an excellent curry courtesy of myself. Then football on the box and we hear from Pete who will make it home tonight.
Monday we’re up early and Bruce volunteers to cycle through the rain to get food. A relaxing morning and once drier we walk up to and along the canal for a bit. We watch the start of today’s stage which is particularly crash ridden then cycle off to see the race come along the main road from Beuvry towards Bethune. It’s good weather now and lots of folk lining the road in anticipation of a lazy peloton who seem to be crawling along, compared to usual. As we cycle up the race route we are cheered on by the crowd and I sprint for the line with Simon. Not sure if he realised that we were racing but I won anyway, in my mind. We befriend the woman who lives in the house we are loitering outside and Bruce gives her a beer (0%). She remembers the last time le Tour passed by about 20 years ago. We see and hear the riders come up the hill and round the roundabout then pass us en masse with no breakaway or stragglers. So really over in a blink of an eye. Incredible how they cycle so fast so close to each other. Whilst Simon and I cycle close at times to shelter from the wind Bruce is strictly 20 yards behind all the time. We follow in the footsteps of giants albeit thin ones to the usual cheers and Allez Allezs and on into Bethune’s main square where there’s the usual festivities and follow the race on a big screen. Until they switch off the feed for some reason before the end. Cycle home quickly to catch the race going over the Cassel hill again then to the finish. As it’s our last night here we cycle back into Bethune to look around and it’s well worth it. The main square has some lovely buildings in which I guess is a typical Flanders / northern France / Belgian style with a big tower in the centre. Under the tower a band has started up and we have a real treat in store as it’s Les Chasse Patatas. The band are dressed in cycling lycra and all look pretty good considering their ages. They play an excellent set of punk rock and all the lyrics relate to cycling. Turns out this is their usual thing and not just for le Tour. The musicians are great and the guitarist looks and sounds like Steve Jones (Pistols) especially his poses with a white cycling casquette (cap) rather than the knotted handkerchief. To add to the atmosphere there are two blokes dressed as if commentators who dance in front of the stage geeing up the crowd along with three women dressed as cyclists who dance in sync (well, just about) and then career around the square and audience on small racing bikes. Simply great. They unsurprisingly go down very well and Bruce makes a friend. Oh, the singer has his leg in plaster due to an accident falling off the stage. After that excitement we go to eat and end up sitting in the square eating chips from a chip van. It gets nippy so we cycle home and watch the women’s football.
Tuesday we’re up early cycling in the sun but fresh air to Bethune station and read about it’s history of sieges. We board during a deluge but the weather picks up by Arras as we travel south west to Rouen. An interesting journey especially for Bruce and his newfound Portuguese friend who translates on their phone loud enough for the carriage to hear that they work as an escort. At Rouen we cycle up the steep hill thankfully with switchbacks to the St Catherine panoramic viewpoint with fantastic views over the city and surrounding countryside including the river that we will cycle back along tomorrow. We stay high up and the route is flat to where we watch the race in a small village with an annoying tractor blowing the loud horn full blast. The race races by at a terrific pace with the wind and noise like an articulated truck passing. The usual cycle back along the route to cheering drunks and stop at a big house with screen to watch the finale. The descend the long Côte Jacques Anquetil with great views over the lake that we will be camping near. After pitching camp we go for a dip in the lake then frites and beer (quelle surprise as they say around here) at the campsite bar. Walk along the lake for a while before turning in fairly early under a clear sky.
Up early and nippy out with a dew soaking the tents. Cycle to Rouen firstly along bumpy roads some main ones with lorries then thankfully onto a riverside bike route with great views along the Seine and all the way into the centre. Civilised breakfast at a station café then train to Caen. We cycle in the heat along a quiet route past the race course to Louvigny and our home for tonight and after putting our tents out to dry we cycle back into Caen to watch the race. It’s an Individual Time Trial so we can walk around the town whilst also seeing cyclists pass. There are big crowds here and we spend a lot of time at the 1 km banner. We watch the last riders as they finish and Remco Evenepoel wins. He’s a Gooner and when passing some folk sitting at a café they noticed my SEGA shirt and started singing Remco’s name to me. Pog gains yellow. Cycle along the route until we’re stopped at 300 m then we meander back through the town and then home to cook pasta and rice in a tomatoey mushroom sauce washed down with wine and Bruce giving a lesson in Napoleonic politics. I have the downstairs double bed avoiding the steep steps to Bruce and Simon’s attic room but with the disadvantage of it being en route to the toilet.
Thursday’s sky is clear and it’s hot by the time we leave at 10 am and sweltering by the time we reach “Hill 112” a WW2 hilltop position and the site of fierce fighting. There’s also a coachload of Brits looking around the memorial site. Onto Villiers-Bocage to see the intermediate sprint of the last stage that we will catch this year. I guess six of them ain’t bad. Then westward bound to Simon’s place at Contrieres. It’s tough going as very lumpy and the heat is intense. There is a little cloud cover relief at times but burnt off by midday. Our route is mainly along quiet country roads through hamlets and villages but this means few shops but we stop for a refreshing beer eventually. No country inns as we have in Britain. After 60 odd miles and a fair few feet of altitude gained, and lost, we cross the main road south out of Coutances and we’re under the virtual red banner 1 km from Contrieres. Glad to stop cycling we sit in the shade recovering over a couple of drinks. After much needed showers Simon cooks and Bruce and I hang out the “6 day in the saddle” washing. An evening constitutional walk following our delicious meal.
Friday is a work day under a cloudless sky. Having slept like a log and through the daily 7 am bell ringing (dozens, not just the seven) Simon puts myself and Bruce to hard manual labour like the proverbial mad dogs in the midday sun. I knock off early due to a defective strimmer and that fact that I am wilting fast. I become the indoor chores servant whilst Simon and Bruce work in the heat doing wonders to the garden and building walls and other construction. After tea we cycle to the coast to the Chauffer dans la Noirceur festival at Plage de Montmartin sur Mer. It’s a tricky route courtesy of Simon’s memory and not helped by his left crank disengaging from his bottom bracket at regular intervals. Yes, that’s as serious as it sounds. It’s a smallish festival but has 3 largish stages and a couple of smaller ones. Lots of food and drink stalls and a strange area where you can play games like the wheel of fortune and ten pin bowling with punters in crash helmets. Only downside is the woeful lack of toilets leading to crazy queues especially for women as usual. We were considering camping but Bruce and I persuade Simon that it would be better to cycle back home rather than wake at 7 am in the boiling sun and have to hang around all day. The festival bands don’t start until 7 pm anyway and go on until 3 am so I miss all the ones I thought looked interesting. Our bike park closes at midnight which is a convenient time to make our way home. The festival is full of drunk French which I’ve never seen before so quite strange. We pass quite a few bands so these are the highlights. Sylvie Kreusch is a singer in a white voluminous dress with an excellent backing band who play a great rocking set crossing between Queen and The Last Dinner Party. My buddies say Florence and the Machine. A good Asian rap band who like to overuse the word Motherfker but who pale a little as the songs remain the same. And we finish with an enthusiastic Afrobeat performer called Pongo. After we collect our bikes Simon has to cycle one legged so I loan him my right foot cleated shoe and I have to wear his floppy boot on my right foot. Both of us look ridiculous and god knows what the other festival goers who saw us thought. I cycle ahead to get the Allen key that can reattach the crack at least temporarily but Simon is so proficient at one legged cycling I don’t get far from the house on my return journey before I meet him and Bruce. Quite a day.
Saturday is as hot as yesterday so Bruce and I do a shopping run to Quettreville first thing and after that I don’t last long in the wall building trade. I fettle Bruce’s gears for him (well, adjust a limit screw) and it’s decided that the best solution for Simon’s issue is superglue which does seem to do the trick. There’s a wedding at the church next to Simon’s with well over 100 guests and the service is over an hour so I assume all had communion. Lovely day for it. Evening we cycle to the festival again which whilst busy is less hectic and everyone seems to have quietened down a bit. Highlights are a weird performance art troupe with a great guitarist called Apocalypso in a rotating caravan stage. Bruce particularly loved them. A London band called Dog Race who put on a great set of near goth indie which would be right at home at the Windmill, which I’m sure they’ve played. Washaa are an excellent Latin American sounding band with a funky punky feel think a Brazilian 80s post punk funk band. Enthusiastic too and go down very well. Next a shouty rap group who weren’t so good and a mediocre ageing boy band called 5IVE but we’re sure it’s not the British boy band of the same name. Unless they were French all along. Miki is a electronic music singer who’s fair enough but not Bruce’s cup of tea. Lastly is a highlight which Bruce and I get into the crowd but Simon stays outside. KermesZ à l'Est are an anarchic and chaotic brass based band with a drummer and I think guitarist but difficult to see as we’re in a small very crowded tent with the band in the middle at audience level. They play a jazzy gypsy punky set which sounds like it could have grown from the French members of Gong and which gets the crowd jumping very enthusiastically. They are great musicians and we wonder how they write and practice such tunes. They are real performers too and empty their spit valves over each other’s heads, particularly horrible from the big sousaphone. One dresses as a pope and has the others paying homage in a suggestive way. We all shout for more once they stop but after a few more minutes of musical mayhem we all leave the tent and we catch up with Simon again. Another ride home but all together this time and without mishap.
Sunday is a day of relative rest. I go for an early morning swim in the river with Simon (La Sienne) which is surprisingly warm. Lovely to float as the sunlight peeps over the trees warming my face. After breakfast Bruce and I go shopping for lunch which I make and then I have a lazy afternoon. We have a look round the church with it’s medieval 11th century font which apparently depicts the Norman invasion of Britain. Bruce and I ascend the rickety ladder to the bell tower which has a dangerous earth slope to scramble up and a number of decaying birds and skeletons. We descend before they clang the hour. Also a stained glass window in memory of those fallen in WWI and there’s a section of the graveyard commemorating the fallen from both world wars including some women who we assume were resistance fighters. Quite usual in France. I cook curry for tea. The weather breaks with thunderstorms but eases off as we set off for the festival. After a few miles it chucks it down so we shelter in a concrete bus shelter until it stops. Which is doesn’t really do so I decide to return home and give Simon my cycle rain jacket as he’s not bought his. So a relaxing evening to myself reading The Death of King Arthur, eating peanuts and drinking white wine. Maybe it’s my age but not missing the festival. Well, I was at Glastonbury for a week just a fortnight ago. The boys are back before midnight.
Monday is Bastille Day reminding me of Simon and myself being woken by leather trench coated Gendarmerie Nationale prodding us with their sub-machine guns whilst kipping on benches on the Champs-Élysées. That was a long long time ago. We cycle to Quettreville (more accurately – sur-Sienne) for their Vide which is a big version of a car boot sale spread throughout the village. They all take it in turns throughout the spring and summer months. I assume shifting the same stuff around and between all the local villages. Anyway, they are very interesting although the only thing I buy are frites and receive a beer from Simon. A nice enough way to while away a sunny morning and people watch the French. Afternoon isn’t a bank holiday for me as I’m weeding the front steps and stones in between rain showers which stop by late afternoon. It’s now cooler than the last few days so should be perfect cycling weather tomorrow. We blackberry pick during our evening walk storing them up for tomorrow.
Our last day in France and all woken by the 7 am bell ringing. We leave by midday having had a cyclists breakfast of porridge and blackberries and tidied the house. It’s cool and windless as we start our ride to the coast along country roads then we follow a riverside path alongside La Vire into and through Saint-Lo. We have a bit of a headwind here to compensate for the flat terrain. Striking out on roads it’s getting hotter and a bit lumpy so we stop at a regular bar in Le Molay-Littry which doubles as a weapons store. After a refreshing beer and having our bidons filled with cold water we skirt the centre of Bayeux and gain the Channel /La Manche where we follow the coast road mainly along the beach pathway. Simon and I go for a dip very refreshing after all those miles as it’s got a bit hotter this afternoon. I get a bit of hot foot and fortunately can un-cleat my flat cycling shoes. At Ouistreham (Caen’s ferry port) we dine me with a meagre salad and a massive family sized plate of frites. The temperature drops and it spits with rain so we make for the port and check in. We are sheltered in a big marquee with motorcyclists avoiding heavier rain which stops for us to board the ferry. After a mint tea with fruity “le Tour” bread we hit the bunks.
Wednesday we are woken as we are pulling into Portsmouth but we have time for breakfast where I finally speak to a French person who understands veganism and gets me a few sausages and hard brittle bacon. First off as ever and Simon escorts Bruce and myself to the station but we’re early so we sit in the sun in the precinct watching Portsmouth wake up. A long train journey back to London and I leave Bruce at Clapham Junction for my final leg of the tour of le Tour. A great holiday but nice to be back home. Thanks to my cycling buddies… Pete “stowaway snail – check; working derailleur – non” Jones (sadly missed in the latter stages); Simon “but it says straight ahead on my phone – why’s there a field there” Cathcart and Bruce “I’ll be 30 yards behind you – it’s safer here” Shaw. Blog (c) Jim "the sun's out so I'm going inside for a nap" Wood. Next stop the Spring Classics…
