Ben and Sean's excellent adventure to France by bike by Benny Goodman

Ben and Sean’s Excellent Adventures

Benny Goodman 2015 Roscoff- Paris- Roscoff by bicycle.

Copyright Ⓒ Benny Goodman August 2015. All rights reserved. Benny Goodman has asserted his rights under the copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A Charity Ride for Two.

The Route:

Preparation

Redruth.

Plymouth

Roscoff to St Brieuc, unplanned dismounts and tagine

St Brieuc to Beauvoir with the wind behind us

Beauvoir to Mayenne losing wallets

Mayenne to Alencon with a broken spoke

Alencon to Chartres, snails and a good burgundy

Chartres to Paris, with another spoke

Paris to Pithiviers and a broken chain

Pithiviers to Blois along the river

Blois to Saumur and a crisis

Saumur to Champtoceaux, a hill finish

Champtoceaux to Rennes, cocks at dawn

Rennes to Vannes and so to rest

Vannes, recovery

Vannes to Rosporden, back to the hills

Rosporden to Landernau and Roscoff, nearly there

A Charity Ride for Two. One damp, dark night in November 2014, two would be long distance cyclists met in a pub in St Columb in Cornwall. A packet of cheese and onion crisps and pint of ale later, and they set off for the Cornwall Air Ambulance HQ at Newquay airport. The word was that the Air Ambulance organises charity bike rides and so that night was to be a presentation by the staff of just such a trip: London to Paris. After a glass of wine and some french nibbles, a plan was hatched. The staff talked about London to Paris, the logistics and fund raising. This got us thinking. Why not cycle from Newquay to London and then to Paris? Now, that is a challenge. Newquay to London is 287 miles, while London to Paris is 292 miles. This makes a total of 579 miles, give or take an inch or two. The first leg would have to be self supported while the second leg is supported by the Air Ambulance Charity. However after deliberating on this for a couple of months, the plan changed. John O Groats to Landâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s End is the classic UK route of 874 wind swept, rain soaked and insane British miles and it is further than than the other two routes. The thought occurred that if two bikes are to travel 874 unsupported miles, then why not do it in more bike friendly territory that still includes Paris? Thus the route from Roscoff, in Brittany, to Paris then back via the Loire valley to Roscoff was decided upon. This would be about 1000 unsupported miles, further than any of the other routes considered. Dates were set - July 25th to August 12th 2015, and some training began. What follows is based on a blog written at the time, and is a light hearted overview of the various events along the way, a very personal view of cycling in France. This can be read in conjunction with troisfous.com , a similar tale of riding from Calais to Montpellier in 2012.

www.justgiving.com/benandseanâ&#x20AC;Š

The Route: For users of Strava, the route can be found here: https://www.strava.com/routes/2507586. For the less inclined to investigate actual roads and miles ridden: Roscoff - St Brieuc St Brieuc - Beauvoir (Mont St Michel) Beauvoir - Mayenne Mayenne - Alencon Alencon - Chartres Chartres - Paris Paris - Pithiviers Pithiviers - Blois Blois - Saumur Saumur - Champtoceaux Champtoceaux - Rennes Rennes - Vannes Vannes - Rosporden Rosporden - Landernau Landernau - Roscoff.

This route would take us through rolling hills of Brittany into lush farmland of Normandy and then the urban sprawl that is Paris, then south through the wine region of the Loire before turning back north through Brittany.

Sean at the start of the year ready for 100 miles on new year’s day.

Preparation This is the era of social media which helps in publicising the trip. A Facebook page incorporating the just giving website was quickly set up to send out messages and ask for support. This is Sean’s forte, he is the ideas man and loves his social media. Ben has as much affinity with this aspect as a frog has with ballet. During the first half of 2015 various small events were held, including a 100 mile static cycle at the PL4 cafe bar in Plymouth. A very hot day in April saw both Ben and Sean on bikes on static trainers peddle away for over 5 hours on the terrace. PL4 became one of our sponsors for the trip, and supplied ‘Go Pro’ cameras to enable recording of triumphs and (hopefully no) disasters along the way. Other local businesses chipped in as well, including the Atlantic Bar in Portreath, GADigital in Plymouth, Hayle Cycles, Certini cycles and Kernow Stone. These local business really put their money where their mouth was to make the trip possible. The bikes were a red Genesis Equilibrium steel frame with carbon forks and a black Raleigh 351 steel tubed tourer. The latter has form, used twice in tours of brittany over 25 years ago and then featured in the Calais-Montpellier run in 2012. Panniers were two yellow Ortlieb classic rollers for Ben, and Sean started with 25 year old Karri Mor bags which were swapped in Blois for two black Ortlieb cities. …and so with preliminaries settled…..

***

Laurel and Hardy, Ant and Dec, Love and Marriage. What have they got in common? Nothing. And that, I suspect, is what we've got, given our approach to packing. Yes, that time has come when the bikes need loading, the planning is complete and loins are girded. Sean's approach to ensuring that all necessary equipment is required and my approach resembles that of Scott and Amundsen. One amiable gentleman with faith in simply being British to carry the day, the other engaged in Nordic analysis and planning. We know how that all ended. The difference this time is that Scott and Amundsen are joined as a team. This ensures that success is upped by a factor of 0.01%. This random figure is about as mathematically sound a method of prediction as astrology. The fly in the ointment, and what actually is in common in the above pairings, is comedy. Except for Love and Marriage, which are as funny as piles on your birthday, only less rare. With weeks to go, I had a list of items to be taken in the panniers, cognisant of weight and utility being criteria to be applied to any item. This list I shared with Sean, in the vain hope it now appears, as planning is as alien a concept to Sean as 'ecumenicalism' is to Islamic State. The only difference is that 'The Caliphate' can spell 'ecumenicalism' while 'planning' I suspect is 'what other people do'. Scott did not get to the Pole without meticulous planning, oh wait a minute...! That's right, if I recall, a trip saved only by a good quote and gin and a typically British disregard for adequate resources, knowledge of the terrain and a map. For every Nelson, there is a Mr Bean, for every Wellington there is a Frank Spencer and for every Queen Elizabeth there is Philip. Glorious amateurism, joined with enthusiasm and a comedian's nose for order will combine to make our own Tour de France a beacon of British civility, self delusion and misplaced grandiose ambition. With panniers loaded we set off to the railway station for Plymouth.

Redruth.

By Joowwww (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Redruth.jpg) [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/ 2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Jewel of the West, Pearl of the Orient if you are in St Just, and darker than the blackest hole of Calcutta's fetid sewer. However, there is a light to guide the weary traveller and the foot sore pilgrim. The station cafe serves a bacon sandwich the likes of which would turn an orthodox Jew into a slabbering, salivating apostate quicker than George Osborne shouts 'welfare cuts'. So, suitably loaded with pork based victuals, we await the 1023 to Paddington. Redruth has witnessed the Cornish diaspora of miners setting off for South Africa, Mexico and Australia. From the footbridge the escarpment of Carn Brea provides a fitting majestic backdrop. And so two cyclists can now be numbered among that throng that sought new adventures overseas. Many of them never came back, finding only pain, poverty and syphilis, three outcomes we will wish to avoid. A bell sounds alerting us to the arrival of the train, and few moments later it trundles across the viaduct and into the station, sadly unaccompanied by steam, whistles and nostalgia. Loading two bikes should not present too many problems. Loading two heavily laden bikes with the handling characteristics of a hysterical toddler with ADHD and a caffeine habit, is another matter. We are in danger of holding up the train and thus causing First Great Western's timetable to go into meltdown. The 'Dispatch Team' which consists of one bloke with a white paddle, a grievance and a whistle, began to wobble, fearing for his job no doubt if FGW's management learn of late departures. And they will, because they are watching. There is a bloke in an office in Bristol sitting at a bank of screens monitoring every train dispatch from every corner of FGWâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s system. He saw us getting on at Redruth and with finger hovering over the 'fire' button of his weapon system, was ready for any tardiness. Luckily for us he dropped his cheese butty just as the train was leaving and so, momentarily distracted, we escaped his wrath. He has a calendar on his desk, but it only has one year: 1984.

The trip up to Plymouth was gloriously uneventful, if slow. I believe there are such things as 'high speed trains' up country. I believe there is discussion about building more high speed lines to connect the metropolis of London to Manchester via Birmingham. I will also believe in fairies if it ever takes less than two and half hours from Penzance to Plymouth on the 'drekly' line. Never mind. I suspect that if a Cornishman does anything quickly it's only to rubbish the quality of a Devonian cream tea. So it is with cornish trains. You will get there, but ‘drekly’. Did I say it was raining in Redruth when we left? Mind you, you could have guessed it really. This is the default meteorological condition in Fore Street. There could be sunshine and tea treats in St Ives but the glowering granite bank of Carn Brea gathers the clouds up on its shoulders like little children who then need a pee over Camborne and Redruth. Anyway, those clouds followed us to Plymouth so that we completed the journey in liquid form. At one point on the train I heard children, which prompted a flash back to a train to Preston and poo. Not my poo of course. However, and to our immense relief, these children were well trained. I did not even smell a fart. The Copthorne is our first hotel of many and is only a short 5 minute bike ride from the Station. And so to rest, to check last minute equipment needs. Note to cyclists: you know what 'butt cream' is for but refrain from asking your companion if they have their butt cream while walking into the corridor of a hotel in earshot of the cleaning staff. They might get the wrong impression and may not be able to sleep at night.

By Geof Sheppard (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/ fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons

***

Plymouth 0700: A seagull awakes me, singing like cat trying a gregorian chant at 78 rpmâ&#x20AC;˘. Its friend joins in. Otherwise it is very quiet considering we are in the city centre. I can just about hear the gentle hum of tyre on tarmac as the odd car drives by. Only just. The hotel is next to a Sainsbury's car park and I would expect a cacophony, but no. Plymouth is as quiet as a mid week church. There is a fan in the ceiling that has been on all night. Reminds me of the opening scene in Apocalypse Now but without the drinking, underpants and sweat. It, too, hums gently as the blades travel in a weary circle above our heads. The next sound I hear is an extended fart in what I think is in the key of A sharp major, a bit like a trombone tuning up. It should really be accompanied by a clash of cymbals. Sean sleeps the sleep of the contented. Today we head for France. The ferry leaves at 1500 from what I believe used to be Millbay Docks. I think the area is being 'gentrified', a euphemism for cleaning out working people whose only possessions are pots for pissing in and replacing them with slightly more wealthy white collar working people who have two pots for pissing in, both of which were financed by Northern Rock or RBS and are in negative equity, and if interest rates rise would need to be sold. You would then see pissing pots being sold in the pannier market for 'affordable' prices to Rich London Plutocrats who think Millbay would be a great place to base their mistresses. Thus the cycle of prostitution in Millbay would be complete. Plymouthian streetwalkers being replaced by the uber rich's tarts in fur. This is a metaphor for modern Britain; we replace long established, if old fashioned, dirty work with nouveau riche foreign parvenues providing services. The only difference is a thin veneer of respectability and Russian blood money. I could of course be making this up, but we'll see. Breakfast will be big. A plate the size of the Harvest Moon. I ordered free range corn fed chicken eggs; freshly cured, smoked pig; croissants; flatulence free beans, coffee in a bucket and fifi trixie-belle to serve it. The ship is the 'Armorique' which in Breton means "of the coast". I'd rather it remains 'of the sea' as in my experience ships and coasts make uneasy bedfellows, a bit like a turd and your custard: to be kept separate. The captain, I'm assured, is not Italian and always keeps the bow doors shut. See what I did there? Two oblique Maritime disaster references for the price of one. Mind you the Armorique, when launched, was originally named differently. If you look closely at the present name on the stern, the blue letters on a white background 'Armorique', one can see a faint trace of the old name: 'Le Titanic'. Sense of humour, the French. There is a fake iceberg anchored off Drake's Island just for effect. It is made of the frozen tears of Plymouthians' dashed hopes and regrets they were not born in Kernow, after all a 'Dewdney' is not a 'Philps'. Anyway, the sailing is at 1500, so we'd better be ready. Bon Voyage!

*sigh, I guess I have to explain to the 'youth' that 78 refers to the speed of vinyl, or was it hard plastic like bacolite, record turntables. ***

"Isn't it nice to be cycling without having to wear our wet weather gear". The morning sunshine was indeed warm in Plymouth as we made our way among the throng on Armada way towards the Post Office. The first task was to pick up Euros before another visit to Evans cycles for last minute 'stuff'. Yes, it was good not to have to wear the high viz jackets. Nicer still would be if we had them with us. Before leaving the hotel room we had both looked around just in case we left anything behind. I even remarked that this was something I am wont to do. Satisfied that all kit was safely stowed we checked out. Except it wasn't. Two wet weather high viz jackets were safe in the wardrobe rather than on our bikes. So, back I went while Sean continued to get his Euros. Another fine mess avoided. So, then off to Rocksalt for Breakfast. As mentioned Millbay is being gentrified and this little gem of a cafe, bistro, restaurant is a real find. There really was only one choice on the menu - the full Rocksalt English. Two sausages, made with the finest pork from hand reared pigs. One egg, kissed by a maiden as it was laid to ensure its nutrient value. One slice of toast, grilled to perfection fit for a Greek God. Tomato. Just. Heavenly. Slice of black pudding made from the blood of the sacred cows of Valhalla. Black striped Char grilled bacon whose smoke infused flavour knows no equal. Beans individually picked and sorted, marinated in a rich tomato sauce for 24 hours. A succulent almost sweet mushroom. The salt was served in a scallop shell. To serve it, a mussel shell to scoop the grains onto the tomato. There are better breakfasts. But none you will find this side of existence.

***

A couple of hours later we are sat outside the port o' call cafe with a mug of tea overlooking Millbay harbour. The Armorique sailed into view to dock and unload. That was our cue to go. Just before we got up, a lady sat at the table next to us and enquired as to where we were going. It turns out she was also waiting for her husband. He duly arrived. The lady informed him of our plan, he turned towards us with a bit of gapless toothy grin. His hair was a grey bird's nest. The bird was still in it. As he stood, he wobbled slightly. He was thinking of saying something but there was a disconnect between thought and speech, so he thought some more, thought about it again and obviously decided that talking was beyond him.

Right next door to the Port o' call cafe is a pub. I think this is a clue as to this gentleman's current predicament viz a viz talking. He mumbled something to his wife (?) and they both left. About ten feet away was a car. I somehow had the feeling that he was heading for it. Sure enough the wobble took him towards it, and keys produced, both got in a drove away. I don't think he got it out of first gear as he proceeded down Millbay road at walking pace. This was very probably a common occurrence. I fleetingly thought about undertaking my civic duty and calling the police, but in astonishment I had singularly failed to note registration number or make of car. If you watched Spotlight this evening and a news item was about a car running amok on the pavement on West Hoe Road, you heard it here first folks. We left for the ferry in the opposite direction, posed for pictures taken by Steve from the safety of his balcony, and queued to embark. We only had to wait for about 20 minutes in the sunshine and chatted to a couple on a tandem who were heading for the Dordogne, camping on their way down. Compared to flying, catching a ferry is a complete joy. No security checks; no taking off of shoes, belts or pride. No orifices were searched, fingered or otherwise interfered with. No unpacking of bags, bottles or breaches of etiquette. No bomb jokes, queues or tantrums. Bikes were easily secured by helpful crew thus facilitating the early vending of chilled beer on the top deck in the sun. So far, this cycling lark is a 'piece of piss', as they say in Germany. Tonight is Roscoff, arrival is about 2130 UK time. The hotel is about a 10 minute cycle maximum. So, early to bed before our Grand Depart to St Brieuc 67 miles away.

The Armorique

By Kalle Id (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commonsâ&#x20AC;Š

Roscoff to St Brieuc, unplanned dismounts and tagine St Austell. Nows there is a place one does not expect to mention on a journey in France. We arrive at the Hotel Regina in Roscoff at the same time time as several cyclists and an Italian couple on a BMW motorcycle we met on the Ferry. Its strange how we all have booked the same place for this night's sojourn. With bikes safely locked and stowed in the cellar, and accompanied by the high pitched notes of swifts on the wing, we decide to go for a short walk into 'centre ville' and a nightcap. At the Cafe Ty Pierre we order two 'pressions' and sit outside to watch the world. It is 16 degrees and very pleasant. At the next table sit two gentlemen smoking and enjoying a drink. As I am in France I fancy a cigarette and so purchase a pack of Lucky Strikes from behind the bar. This pack of 20 should last the whole trip. The bar does not sell matches or lighters. This is like buying a pasty but without the meat. I then ask the man sat at the next table for a light, and in good english he obliges. It is then he asks where we are from.

Roscoff By Pir6mon (Own work) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/ 3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Not only does he know Cornwall, but he tells us his story of when as a young man he cycled to Cornwall and ended up in Galway. He fondly remembers St Austell and being taken in and dried off. Camping in Cornwall when it rains is hard, but the reception he got from the locals as they

looked after him has left a lasting impression. So, there we have it, to hear a good word said about St Austell, you have to come to France. Oh the irony! Early to bed it was, for â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;demain on rouleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;! 0830. Everywhere is grim in the rain. I suspect 'Sun City' and its wall to wall blue skies would resemble Grimsby on a wet winter night in February in the rain. I wager even Las Vegas would lose a little of its lustre, Antibes its joie de vivre and Malaga would be misery incarnate. Roscoff offers grey stone walls and seagulls in three part disharmony in the early morning drizzle. I thought Fort William laid claim to wettest town in Northern Europe. It has a serious rival this morning in France. That all being said, we are used to this and shrug off the damp quicker than a Scotsman forgets his wallet when its his round. We set off against a headwind towards Morlaix. We are wearing the high viz jackets that were nearly left at the Copthorne in Plymouth. Sean had bought lights and now had to fit them because the light was as dull as bowl of gruel and only half as useful. Light like this merely hangs around in damp patches, cloying, dismal and unapologetically surly. We have nearly 80 miles of this to go and so, with stiff uppers hardly quivering, we tweaked the nose of adversity. It could be worse. Possibly. It is 20 miles to Morlaix, and the road bends and sweeps through the Brittany countryside to then meet the Morlaix estuary. As we enter the town I try to take a drink from the bottle, but while trying to replace it back in its cage it slips out of my fingers, bounces against the frame and into the road. This induces mild panic because I'd rather lose my virginity to a rum soaked docker than lose a vital piece of equipment. Thus spooked, I stop at the side of the road whereupon the panniers decide to shift their centre of gravity in such a manner as to induce what is known as an 'unplanned dismount'. There is blood. Just a tiny bit on the end of a finger. There is a muttered expletive which rhymes with 'punt'. This being Sunday, and as as you know in France when out cycling every day seems like Sunday in the countryside, we wisely stop at a boulangerie to buy quiche and ham and cheese baguettes, served by a very pretty shop assistant for later on the road. We also need lunch. Morlaix thinks otherwise and is closed save for this one Boulangerie. And yet, the God of cycling smiles as we find a super little cafe. A portion of frites and Tunisian style quiche later we are happy bunnies. Even happier still is Sean who is taken with the doe eyed pretty madame who makes the quiche while we wait.

We leave Morlaix while trying to follow the Garmin's directions. As all you computer buffs know there is a maxim that says 'shit in, shit out' meaning that even the best technology in the world is open to abuse from f*ckwit human input and interpretation. So climbing a hill which is cobbled, slippery and very very steep, we realise we have come the wrong way and so have to descend. This could have been an 'issue', but again adversity gets its nose punched and we continue towards Giungamp and St Brieuc. We have to stop in a very pretty riverside village called Belle Isle sur Terre for coffee and quiche. We stop again in Guingamp for baguette. Cycling makes you bleddy hungry, I could eat three pasties on the road. Thankfully the weather clears up in the afternoon and we are treated to blue skies and warm sunshine. I'm so happy I could dance barefoot in freshly laid cow pats. After 120 kms (we are in France) we arrive in St Brieuc (you don't pronounce the 'c' we learn, to my mind why put it there then?). Still hungry we find the only restaurant open, really this is not an exaggeration. This France, this is Sunday. I kill the cow myself, clean it's bottom and garnish its entrails in garlic. The beer disappears faster than car salesman's promise. Sleep, perchance to dream. Tomorrow is another 120 kms to Mont St Michel. I hear its quite nice. Facebook does not like video uploads in France for some reason, and so we wrestle with technicalities. Ho Hum.

***

St Brieuc to Beauvoir with the wind behind us

Mont St Michel

As consciousness slowly returns, the sound of a garden hose, set to drizzle mode, plays softly against the glass. Surely, there is no one cleaning windows at this time of the morning? Of course, from the warmth and security of my bed, I am distanced from the sound of cold water

and its full meaning. Nonetheless, as sleep gives way, the rain gently falls outside. Heaven's tears are falling to wash away the sins of St. Brieuc into its gutters and drains so that the citizens can face afresh the day without reproach. There are not enough tears in heaven to wash away our sins though. We'll just muddle through. Just in case, I salute the many wayside Crucifixes and Virgin Mary statues that stand at the village boundaries. We leave St Brieuc heading for Beauvoir and Mont St Michel. the original plan is to go via Dinan, however we decide to ignore the garmin and use the maps. The small white roads look more inviting and indeed prove to be so. First stop is at a charming small town called Lamballe. it has a proper square adorned with what we would call tudor or elizabethan timber beamed houses but for obvious reasons the French would not. As we enter the square through a narrow street, I get an overwhelming, and fittingly, feeling of deja vu so strong that I can almost smell the croissants of three decades ago eaten in a very similar square. Perhaps I have been here before with Ann during our motorcycle tour. We stop at a cafe for, well, coffee and a baguette. Madame takes our order and then pops over to the boulangerie, As we sit at the window watching the french world meander through the square, madame returns with two large baguettes under her arm. I have seen this many, many times before. Freshly baked baguette is a religion here, except there is no official priesthood or buggery. Half a ham and cheese 'snackette' and two black coffees later, we set off across country. French courtesy to cyclists is alive and well, supported by cycle paths through towns and villages. Quite a few give a beep and a wave and a thumbs up as they pass. They give us room, they don't rev their engines trying to squeeze past, nobody winds down a window to shout 'wanker' at us. There is often very little traffic. In fact, except in towns there is no traffic, just occasionally the odd car or tractor, and it is very occasionally. Each time I cycle here it saddens me to think of our own attitudes in the UK. Things could be different. Feeling peckish, again, we pull over at the side of the road near the driveway entrance to a well kept house way out in the countryside. There is only the sound of birds and trees in the wind. Across the fields rises the spire of the church of the small village of Plevenen. Golden corn fields ripple in the wind, swallows dance and sing encouragement, no one farts*. We pull out the uneaten half of our yard long baguette when Monsieur from the house calls over and offers us seats. He has the ruddy complexion of a farmer and the portliness of a lover of pies and ale, or should that be vin and quiche. We are only too to happy to join him. He has a triple garage, a man cave extraordinaire. And so we sit with him eating and chatting. Madame comes outside to see whats going on and joins in. Soon, the two daughters come out as well, probably just to see who is mad enough to be cycling to Paris. The house itself comes with what looks like an acre or two of garden, four bedrooms and of course the 'garage'. I note a hand written 'A Vendre' sign, and so I ask if the

house is actually for sale. It is and for the princely sum of only 160,000 euros. A bargain, if you happen to have that under your mattress. We wave goodbye and move on down the road. So far the French have been very, very friendly, even to us English. Perhaps it is the bikes? After a few more miles, we have to have more food. It is amazing just how hungry one gets. Knowing how sparse services can be, we stop in Languenan. It is about the size of Praze an Beeble. One church, one bar tabac with adjoining 'corner' shop, three cats, a one legged dog and some horse poo. No pub. In fact there are no pubs in France at all of course. I don't know why we have them across the channel. One theory is that the french are too busy at home at lunchtime making 'lurve' to their wives and mistresses and thus do not have time to go to the pub. Anyway, we stop at the bar tabac order coffee and buy food in the shop. This consists of 'gallette breton' (buttery biscuits), bananas and a pack of artificial plastic uncooked sausages. Delicious. Suitably victualled, we head for the coast. The wind picks up from the west, the sun shines and we finally reach the town of Le Vivier sur Mer. Mont St Michel is still 32 kms away, but as we turn left at the coast the tail wind soon gets us cruising at over 20-23 miles an hour without working hard. In the distance the spire of the Mont rises above the fields and trees. The scenery now flashes by in the early evening sunshine, the last few miles fly by. It is some of the best cycling one can ever do. Dodging a tractor with an overhanging load that could take one's head off, we swing around to Beauvoir, over the bridge of the river Cousnon, to the Hotel. This is a gothic structure, run by old hippies right on the river's edge. Food, then a walk to see Le Mont, watch a sunset from the big bedroom window, then a short plan with the maps for tomorrow's route. Now sleep. Another 140 kms today. perfect.

* for those of you with middle class sensibilities, you may ignore this. For those of you who have eaten energy gels, then you know what I mean.

***

Beauvoir to Mayenne losing wallets Morning sneaks in the back door quietly, no fanfare, no red sky in the morning as the sun hides behind cloud. Breakfast calls and we are greeted with more than a faint whiff of marijuana in the bud. The owner looks like an old hippy from the 60's and it seems he is keeping up old habits. Just to make sure he is in touch with his roots, he is wearing an orange flowery tie dye shirt. Across the road from the hotel is a handy boulangerie where we stock up on quiche and baguette. This is not very adventurous of us, and lacks imagination, but we are on bikes and after the first 20 miles this is just what we will want. And so we set off under grey but dry skies. The

road to Louvigne is again cycling paradise. We stop here for food, coffee and a couple of pictures. We stop outside a cafe and I reach into the bar bag for my wallet and see that it is not there. It is always there, it should always be there. That is its place. Nowhere else. This is because I don't want to spend time looking for it and also because I often leave things behind. But it is not there. I stare at the place where it should be, willing it to appear but it does not. The map is there, the iphone is there, the wallet is not. Adrelanine shoots through me as I consider that the wallet is in the Boulangerie in Beauvoir. Perhaps a taxi back? Will it still be there? Has a Frenchman eaten it (don't laugh, they eat everything here). In just a few seconds I go through my options: Taxi or muddle through without it. Thats it, thats my options. I'm just a tad below the panic setting. Where is the nearest British Consulate? Am I insured. Am I about to sh*t myself? Do I want to cycle two hours the way we just came? The answer to the last three are yes, nearly and f*ck off. Boulangerie? Where I bought the quiche? Where is the quiche? Thats not in the bar bag either. Now we are going to starve. No wallet, no quiche. Things are getting worse. Sean just stands there saying nothing. This is exactly the correct thing to do. No 'helpful' comments like "where did you last see it?". I guess he intuitively knows that things could get rough very soon. Quiche? Maybe it is in one of the panniers? It is!! On top of the wallet!! The adrenaline surging around my system has now resulted in hunger pains that would put childbirth in the shade for discomfort levels. I'd rather catch my scrotum in a revolving door than go through that again. So, without any more fuss, we slip into the cafe for food. At the next table is sat another cyclist as it turns out. He is not on his bike today, just popped in for lunch. We learn that he has cycled all three routes up Mont Ventoux in one day. Chapeau! As we leave, he comes outside to see the bikes, and shows real interest. As he wanders back up to his car, I can't help but notice he is built like a whippet rather than the British Bulldog I resemble. Perhaps I should put that croissant down. The panniers on the bike weigh about 16 pounds. Thats a small dog or three bags of potatoes, or a large Philps pasty. The extra weight is just dandy going downhill although braking too quickly induces a bit of a wobble. Going up hill is different. Today on our way to Mayenne, we meet one or two slopes which in Cornwall would count as a hill, or 'les montees' as they call them here. I call them something else. We stop again at a town called Garron for coffee and quiche. Upon parking the bikes, Sean looks for his wallet. However, it is not in the bar bag where it should be. It is always in my bar bag for all the reasons mentioned above. This time it is not there. Taxi? Two hours cycling back? I say nothing because that is the correct thing to do. No helpful comments like "where did you last see it?" I value keeping my scrotum where it is rather then being nailed to the nearby church door. Of course he finds it "where he last saw it" (by definition).

We pop inside and make our order, then I have to unload the handlebar bag again. A portly older frenchman is admiring the bike and panniers, his verdict? They are 'impermeable'. As I

rummage around in them, another younger more wiry, and bald, chap is smoking a cigarette, turns to me and says "Shitty weather for it" in what sounded like a Yorkshire accent. It is, and he says he lives here. "Quiet" he says. This is a description not a command. the shittiness referred to is the rain that has started. 'Just a shower' I think and pop inside for coffee. Garron is about 22 kms from Mayenne. No problem. The 'shower' thinks its no problem as well and follows us all the way. The 'shower' looks and feels like 'rain' to me. The road kicks up spray from passing cars, which are thankfully few in number. The tyres are as grippy as baby's hand in butter and only half as predictable. Brakes, well they would be nice to have available. In this weather 22 kms might as well be 22 light years. We finally get to Mayenne alive. And wet.

Food. Mayenne is closed. There is a lovely river in the middle of town. There are no cafes, bars, restaurants or anything at all beside the river. There are no tourists, no entertainment and what looks like no hope. There is a duck, who incidentally is loving the weather. It could be pretty here. Every second shop is for sale or boarded up. Those that remain should be boarded up. There are no immigrants to blame it on either. This is what is known to economists as 'creative destruction', when capitalism realises there is no money to be made and moves on leaving businesses to crumble and bonhomie to dust. Except it is too damp for dust. So, just 'crud' really. Redruth by comparison is a thriving metropolis of merriment; filled with peace, love, pasties and harmony. I might have just gone overboard with that last comment. We do find a good place to eat and to reinforce the feeling of isolation from tourism and its money, there is no menu in English, or anyone who can (or is willing) to speak it. This is not a problem as I can get by. I engage the waitress in not only ordering, but in discussing the finer points of french history, art and literature. I impress her with knowledge regarding 'Les philosophes', Jean Jacques Rousseau and the artists of the 'rive gauche'. Then I wake up and order chips. Not really. I order a tartin de foie de volialles followed by Gros Pommes 'La Paysanne'. Sean goes for 'trois saumon' and an escalope de veau a la carbonara. In other words, chicken liver pate, potatoes in a creamy sauce with lardons and chicken; salmon and calf meat and pasta. But it sounds and tastes so much better in French. It really does. It is really really good.

Unlike the rain which is still falling. It is July? Tomorrow is a rest day of 37 miles to Alencon.

***

Mayenne to Alencon with a broken spoke Late. 0916. I've just woken up. It is dark, very dark still. Why is there no blue sky coming through the windows? That's because the shutters are down. So, we've missed breakfast and the opportunity to take our wet clothes to the laundry. Today is a 'rest' day of 39 miles, which gives some a bit of extra time to make up for this loss. The phone rings and it is madame asking if we would still like breakfast. Well, tickle my arse with a feather, if we are not being shown some authentic french hospitality. It clearly states on the reception wall that breakfast is between 0700 and 0900. Past tense. And yet a miracle has just happened. We skip joyously to the breakfast room. When I say 'skip' I don't mean literally, holding hands as if in preparation for a musical cabaret. The hotel sits high above the river, and so enjoys a great view across the town to the water below. The breakfast room has wall to ceiling windows and a panoramic outlook taking in the church spire opposite, the tiled roofs, and swallows dancing between it all. What is more, is that there is blue sky. No one else is there of course, as they duly noted the 0900 rule, and so all the tables were cleared. No worries, we helped ourselves to glasses and cups and the other odd tools for self victualing. Madame enters and shows us that there is in fact a table still laid for us complete with croissants, bread and coffee cups. Madame is in fact receptionist, cleaner, breakfast maker...anything and everything it seems. I ask if she is the sole worker here. She is. I guess she is about mid thirties, quite pretty and wearing a low cut top (Sean tells me). I did not notice, due to being hungry. We set off about at about 1045 ish. We do not leave anything behind. except Sean has left his sunglasses, probably back in Beauvoir. We still have wet cycling kit to get dried out. Perhaps tonight's hotel will have a balcony in the sunshine so that we can hang out the wet gear. I'll not bore you with the empty roads, the courteous drivers, the wonderful road surfaces, cycle lanes, bucolic scenery, blue skies and fluffy white clouds. Just to say there was lots of all of that. Sunflowers turned up today, to join the fields of wheat, maize and cows. We climb into a village called La Chappelle au Riboul on the D113. As I admire the huge 'chapelle' that dominates both skyline and village, I hear a dull 'pling'. Now, bikes don't make

'pling' noises for fun. One gets used to the noise of one's bike and so anything like a 'pling' indicates something. Its a bit like an unsophisticated warning light. I think that I could just get off and check, but then we are far from any help. I therefore invoke the rule that says 'ignore it, its nothing'. Unconvinced by the application of that rule, nonetheless I carry on, pass Sean, who then informs me that the rear wheel is wobbling. Jellies wobble, toddler's lips wobble, a decent cleavage wobbles (I refer the reader to Madame in Mayenne), wheels on a bike don't wobble. Just like 'on the bus' they should go round and round. I stop and flick each spoke for the tell tale dull plunk. I duly find it, a snapped spoke. Bugger.

Our lunch stop is Villaine la Juhel about 6-7 miles further. The bike will have to make it. I hope there is a bike shop. If there is, it will of course be closed because everything closes between 1200 and 1400. No matter, we will have coffee and wait. The wheel keeps wobbling, I am making plans B and C to cover the eventuality of no bike shop. Villaine is about the size of Illogan (not very big) and is exactly like Illogan but without the pub, football team and incest. Does Illogan have a bike shop? What are the chances that Villaine has a bike shop? If it has no bike shop, do I wobble on to Alencon, take a taxi, burst into girly tears? Tomorrow is a long day to Chartres, over 80 miles. I'm not wobbling for 80 miles. Will Alencon have a bike shop, one that is open, and will they fix the bike today? I have insurance, will it pay for repairs and repatriation to the UK? I'm thinking all of this as we cycle to Villaine. Villaine's huge church looms, it seems they like big churches here. Right beside it, is a bar tabac where we get coffee and information that , that 'oui' there is a bike shop about 500 meters down the road. It is of course closed, as it is now 1230. The sun is out so we sit outside with our coffees while some french youth 'treat' us to hip hop playing from their nearby window. Nice. The only other people around is a couple of young men lounging about trying to think of something clever to do with a cigarette and a baseball cap, the cafe owner and what might pass as his wife? There are no dogs, cats or camels. All is quiet, except for the hip hop droning in the background. At about 1330 we decide to locate the bike shop. Indeed it is about 500 metres down the road, just where M'sieur said it would be. Is it closed for lunch? Of course it is, as we expected. Will it open later? The Sign says 'Horaires" Mercredi (today) Closed. Thats it, mid week closing. Plan B.

Cycle on to Alencon and hope there is a shop open. It is glorious cycling country, just a few hills and undulations. The rear brake makes odd noises due to wobbliness of wheel. I am aware of the weight pressing down on it and that, in my mind, it could collapse the wheel at any time. We enter another village called St Pierre de Nids, and there on the main street is a shop that sells fishing tackle, lawnmowers and chainsaws. There are also a couple of bikes parked outside. So, we stop we pop in. Madame behind the counter shouts to the chap in the workshop out back, along the lines of "Oi, Bill, we have a couple of english idiots who need a bike fixed, come and have a look will' ee?" Bill appears, blue oil spattered overalls, dirty blue cap, white beard and a head full of knowledge. The answer is "yes we can". We push the bikes out to the back of the shop where 'Bill' will fix the spoke. The workshop has been around since engineering was invented, and there are bits everywhere in some semblance of order. He has rack upon rack of little wooden boxes with screws, nails, and jubilee clips. He has tool boards, compressors, workbenches, drums of oil and degreaser. The radio is playing some nasty french pop and Phil Collins. On the wall he has pictures of barely clad young ladies showing their chests, underwear and charm. One picture is dated 1994. They all look to be from that era. Don't ask me how I know how old the pictures are, I just do. I don't think this is allowed now in modern workshops. There really ought to be an old 2CV being repaired but sadly no, just bikes, lawnmowers and chainsaws. We watch a master craftsman do his thing, changing the spoke, trueing the wheel. Soon, and 21 euros later, we are ready. This is a bargain. No appointment, straight off the street, a skilled workman. So. No need for plan B or C, and no panic. Alencon is only 12 miles away and the rest of the ride, as it has been all day, is in sunshine. The hotel is easily found, and it has a sunny balcony. We rig up a makeshift washing line and rinse and hang out the washing. Tonight's meal was a real find. Vietnamese. Some of the best food I've ever had. We had earlier gone into the 'Office du Tourisme' to ask if there was an Italian restaurant. This is akin to asking for free champagne, the way to the Brothel or sex in the car park. The look of incredulity was palpable, why on earth would there be an Italian restaurant in France when they have french restaurants? An answer was that of course we could have a pizza, but that was it. The Vietnamese restaurant, we found ourselves. If you are ever in Alencon, go there. In fact it is worth going to Alencon just for this restaurant. Tomorrow is Chartes, home to one of the best Gothic Cathedrals in Europe. I remember a rather wine soaked evening there several years ago with Ann. Happy days.

***

Alencon to Chartres, snails and a good burgundy

Chartres Cathedral. By Ireneed (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Today is Sean's birthday. According to Facebook he is 40. methinks a glass of something nice later. Chalfont St Giles. Buckinghamshire. Given its name to an uncomfortable condition. Say no more. What are the sounds out on the roads of France? For over 6 hours, one just turns the cranks and listens. Usually it is silence, with only a hum of the tyres on tarmac. There are variations, however, depending on road surface, variations that over the hours one gets attuned to. There is of course the almost silent hum of black, smooth velvety newly laid road, then the rumble of cracked surfaces with worn away patches, and the gravel based crackle of cheap repairs. The bike itself responds to each one, transmitting the noises through frame and tyre. On the cracked roads, any loose items tingle and sing on the bike frame, threatening it seems to loose themselves out into the countryside. The panniers rumble at the slightest provocation. Otherwise it is the sound of fresh air, sunshine and birdsong. Another sound is the dull 'pling' of another spoke giving up the ghost. This time we are 20 miles out of Alencon with 60 to go to Chartres. The wheel does not collapse, it keeps going round and

round. This time I think plan D: buy a new wheel before any others go. I have not been able to get this one repaired. We've seen our first 2 CVs. These should be filmed. Imagine a cornfield, hay bales, blue sky and a line of plane trees. Add a few swallows and the cry of a buzzard. Then, the chug of a pale blue 2CV as it bimbles along the hedge free road. The morning sun catches its sides and radiates blue upon gold upon blue. I have to turn and watch it disappear off the D road into a small 'chemin' - which is basically just one road grade higher than 'path'. There are more agricultural vehicles than cars it seems. In one 10 kms stretch I count 4 tractors and 1 car. The tractors are the size of a battleship, but they don't try to kill us. Most often the road belongs only to us and the odd bit of road kill. Today I note hedgehog, squirrel, chaffinch, sparrowhawk and cat. No dogs or deer. We reach Chartres after 86 miles. The Twin Spires of the Cathedral can be seen from over 10 Kms away and are truly magnificent. As its Sean's birthday we go for a meal at a restaurant opposite the cathedral, the one that Ann and I enjoyed a few years ago. It is pastis time, escargots de Bourgogne, Rognons de veau, boeuf, a fine St Emillion, creme brulee and tarte du jour followed by a 15 year Calvados. To finish off the day, we are treated to Son et Lumiere at the Cathedral. I can't describe it, it really has to be seen. Tomorrow hopefully is 65 miles to Paris, I have to get the bike fixed or else I'm walking.

***

Chartres to Paris, with another spoke

The plan for the morning is to find a bike shop and get the wheel done. Here it gets a bit technical as it seems it is easier to knit with kittens than it is to change the wheel. I'm not confident that merely changing spokes is going to be suffice. M'sieur is 'helpful' in explaining in technical french why it will not be easy and the bike will not be ready until 1700. This sort of help is as useful a barrel full of monkeys at a garden party. We have to be in Paris 67 miles away. The plan is to strike for the capital and charge across the northern french plains like a panzer division on a mission. Except a head wind has other ideas. Not to mention the chalfonts. The countryside here is acre upon acre of open corn fields, stripped of hedges interspersed with the odd wood. We keep going hoping not to hear another 'plunk' of spoke. Every little bump in the road brings metal fatigue just that bit more inevitable, resulting in both bike and my arse skidding along the road probably in front of a large tractor. Putting such thoughts aside I keep turning the crank. the wheel has a slight wobble but keeps going.

After about 40 miles we stop for food at Ramboulliet. This is where it starts getting more urban as Paris looms closer still. A charming couple at the next table informs us that the car drivers here are faster and more dangerous than they are in the rest of France. Well, we are from the UK and are made of stern stuff. How bad can it be? As the way becomes very urban and industrial, we are helped enormously by cycle paths and painted cycle lanes and priority at lights. This makes it feel far more safe than at home. I don't have to shout 'tosser' once. Well, only once about 2 kms from the hotel in central Paris when a taxi cuts in from my left and and the car in front just stops. I'm faced with a choice: hit the car or try to run around the back of it. The taxi driver clearly thinks that it is his space, so panniers brushed the side of the taxi and 'tosser' was shouted. He stops. I go. He probably though I shouted 'touche', which would be about right. That aside Paris was hot and slow going. I think we had to stop at 100 red lights. On the way in we passed the palace of Versailles. This was the place for French Royalty to show off. Buckingham Palace looks like a garden shed in comparison. Versailles defines grandeur, majesty, largesse and 'let them eat cake' two fingers to 'ordinary people'. No wonder french peasants scraping a living on peas, pork and piss took umbrage and cut their heads off. Perhaps that is the secret of the British Monarchy, they hid their wealth rather than parading it around like a tart in a titty bar. We cycle right up the Eiffel tower to take in the scene. The Seine shimmers in the early evening light, the sky is cloudless blue and Paris hums contentedly like a cat in the lap of the fat lady who feeds her. As I stop I am aware that the rear wheel is wobblier than jelly in an earthquake. We have been hitting some bumps and lumps and kerbs, each one condemning the wheel to an early demise. The brakes contact the rim with every revolution. With only 8kms to go to the hotel, I have to negotiate the left bank, the Boulevard St Germaine and the Bridge over to the Gare de Bercy. Thankfully the Hotel Kyriad Bercy appears, unthankfully there is no record of a reservation in my name. It turn out that there are two Hotel Kyriads in this area and ours is a mere 5 mins away. Relief. We shower, find a great place for a beer before bedtime. This part of Paris is tourist free and feels very very relaxed. The plan is to find a bike shop and: fix spoke or buy a bike. we have been told that because the bike is old, new wheels will not fit (to do with the width of the cassette, thats the gear rings on the rear). It now gets complicated, as this morning I run around bike shops to find the solution. Long story short we find a really fantastic place and M'suer says "no problem". What, 'no problem?'

So I choose the buy a whole new wheel and tyre, all that has to be done is to put the cassette on the axle. Tiz done in a flash and so back to the hotel where the rest of the bike is to fit new wheel. I'm so excited I leave the wheel in another bike shop on the way to the metro, thankfully we did not get far and so go back. This comes on the back of losing the iPhone in a taxi this morning (minor detail). Back at the hotel we could not get the wheel to fit. Perhaps M'sieur in Chartres was correct, perhaps it is not that easy? So, bike and wheel and growing angst go back onto the metro. Plan B is that if this all goes pear shape, I will hire a car and become support vehicle. The mechanic takes the wheel and frame and tries to fit it together. He fails. I wonder where the nearest Hertz or Europcar rental is. I wonder how far away the Seine is and if it takes old bicycles. But then with a bit of wizardy, it all fits. Just takes know how, and sure enough it is 'no problem'. I have not yet tested the rear brakes in anger. The rest of the evening was spent enjoying the sunshine in Paris, just avoid the busy bits, the rest of the city is chilled heaven. The queues for the Tower were far too long, so we just stood underneath and gazed upwards. We've also been riding the metro all day like citizens. Magic. Tomorrow is Sunday. We might starve as France closes for the day. At least the wheel is fixed, now for the chalfonts. All I need now is branding iron and a suturing kit.

***

Paris to Pithiviers and a broken chain

Boulevard St Germaine, Paris By Roboppy at en.wikipedia [Public domain], from Wikimedia Commons

Because the hotel is being renovated, meaning that the 'salle de petit dejeuner' is not available, the hotel manager at the Kyriad Hotel Bercy Gare de Lyon, has provided breakfast free of charge. Just as well because there is no butter for the bread, no 'confiture' for the croissants, no milk for the coffee, no plates, no cutlery save plastic knives which could not make a cutting remark let alone cut butter (if there was any). Suitably unvictualled, we set the bikes up outside the hotel. My bike requires back brake adjustment but we discover the multi tools don't have the required spanners. Never mind, I'll ride with even more care and stopping distance in mind. The good news is that the rear wheel goes round and round without a 'plunk' to be heard. Just as I'm about to leave the hotel, Sean asks if I'm going to take my panniers with me, as I've left them at the hotel entrance. I thought the bike was light. We make good progress out of Paris helped by Sunday traffic and cycle lanes. Another glorious blue sky accompanied with heat. We head south towards Pithiviers, about 62 miles away. We are now turning around to come back to Roscoff via the Loire valley. All is going sweetly until we reach a small town called Bellainvilliers about 20 miles out. This time there is no 'plunk'. The garmin directs us up a short 200 metre dirt track slope, complete with gravel, dust and dog turd. At this point the stresses on Sean's chain take their toll, resulting in a broken link. This means a full stop and bike repair roadside. The chain has to come off, Sean's bike is upside down and the heat must be high twenties to low thirties. The chain link tool is struggling to do the job and plan B ( taxi to Pithiviers) might be invoked. Sean is covered in sweat and grease trying to affect a repair. After about 10 minutes a helpful lady comes out of

her house to us with a hammer and pincers. This is a grand gesture but is as useful as a fart in a bottle. After another 5 minutes a car pulls up and out skips a chap in his late fifties or early sixties dressed in cycle club gear. He is wearing black cycling shorts and a yellow and red top with 'T'PU Billianvilliers' on it. This is the local club. He assesses the situation and goes back to his car to fetch an 'attach rapide' - a spare link and tool. However, after another 10 minutes it becomes clear that the broken link is just not going to be fixed. M'sieur then gets on the phone, calls his friend who then turns up in his car and in the same cycling gear but with more tools and links. There are now three people standing around an upturned bike beside the road in the middle of the village trying to fix the chain. I'm learning new french words for things like 'chain' , 'link' and 'bollocks it won't f*cking fit'. Marcel, the second chap, in a previous life has ridden the Paris- Brest- Paris so knows a thing or two about bikes. At last the thing is done. We offer some euros in thanks but they are having none of it, "amici" is the word uttered. I guess this is the cyclists equivalent of the masons but without the funny handshake and dodgy connections. They wave us off cheerily and not for the first time we have heard "Bonne Route" and "Bon Courage". The assistance given today is beyond praise, they both gave up best part of an hour, at lunch time, to lend a hand and get us going again. I could cry with joy. Soon we are running out of water in the heat and also require food. Again the scenery is stunning. At one point I'm riding on smooth black tarmac along a flat road lined on one side by plane trees through fields of sunflower, maize or corn, poppies dotting the verge. I look ahead and see the hedgeless road twisting and turning, a sparrowhawk swoops above and a tractor kicks up dust in a distant field. There is no sound except tyre on tarmac and the occasional grunt of slight exertion as the heat builds. If this was on the telly, you'd be singing the praises of the cameraman and director, and 'wishing you were here'. It is a classic high production values BBC travel programme right in front of one's face. All you need is a Michael Palin to make some pithy comment about France. The wind picks up and is in our faces for about 40 miles, we are drinking and drinking. I think we may not be drinking enough, so we stop at a tiny village called Auvers St George for two ice cold cokes and a plate of chips and chicken nuggets. It is not gourmet, it is carbs. As we sit outside the bar overlooked by willow trees and the church, 4 men in their 70's methinks, come outside to talk to the two mad Englishmen on bikes. They are very interested in both the journey and the fact of cycling. One tells me that he has been to England on a motorbike from Dover to Lancaster to Fort William and beyond. Chapeau! With yet another "bonne route" we are off. Pithiviers finally comes into view down a long 6 mile straight road. This countryside is flat, very flat. has been perhaps since we left the suburbs of Paris. Pithiviers high steeple is like a needle pointing skywards beckoning us on towards a shower and a cold beer. Tomorrow is Blois 71 miles away via Orleans and following the Loire for about 50 miles. Right now, sleep is the priority.

Escargots in garlic butter.

By J. Patrick Fischer (photo selfmade) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html), CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/ licenses/by-sa/3.0/) or CC BY 2.5 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.5)], via Wikimedia Commonsâ&#x20AC;Š

Pithiviers to Blois along the river 43. No, not my age, my waist in inches or the number of beers we drank in the hotel in Blois. This was the temperature today as recorded in green numbers beside the flashing green cross of a Pharmacy. We thought that the day was going to be warm as we sat outside enjoying breakfast. At 0830 the air was already very 'comfortable', even in the shade. A fly walked across the breakfast table fanning itself and a pigeon could not be bothered to 'coo'. Instead, it sat on branch sighing to itself. I overheard a few swallows discussing whether to migrate further north. There is a fantastic bike shop right opposite the hotel. Sean could do with a new chain and I could have my rear brakes checked. It looks quite a big place and advertises several types of bike, including Bianchi. They also do repairs. Except that it is closed on Mondays. Today is of course Monday. I don't like Mondays. Neither do French bike shop owners, they prefer to be at home or to shoot the whole day down. So we set off for Blois, as it turns out is 73 miles away. We have minor issues with brakes on my bike resulting in a ride that feels like wading through treacle. The French have a saying, 'au buerre', or 'in butter'. Butter in these temperatures would be as runny as water and as likely to stick to a tyre as grease in a codpiece. Add in a head wind, which was with us for all of those miles, and bike felt like it was made of lead. We had stopped at a garage and borrowed some tools, but later we had to stop at a 'bricolage' ( B and Q) for tools of our own. Only after 10 minutes fiddling with the bike outside the B and Q, were we informed of a bike shop just around the corner. Of course we arrived as it closed for lunch. A vey nice lady told us that all small bike shops would be closed "lundi". I really don't like Mondays. Undaunted we affect a running repair to the brakes and then off at a rate of knots across very very flat country. For all you Strava freaks the stats are: 73 miles and 2500 feet of 'climbing'. The route south of Orleans takes us alongside the Loire all the way to Blois, much of it on a cycle path. Generally the drivers, as noted, are great. Two days ago, I did have one chap open his car door and stepped out in front of me so closely I could see his dandruff, smell his diffidence while nearly having a 'touch the cloth' moment. Today a white van man clearly did not see us, first I knew was the sound of a horn and the van cutting me up at speed. Sean says the wing mirror and my head were close to touching. We also had fun with gravel and a dirt track as the usually tarmac'ed bike path gave way in places. We both hit one patch at over 12 miles an hour only to experience front wheel tucking and severe bike wobble. I might have said a naughty word out loud, and clearly the oncoming cyclist heard something judging by the huge grin on his face. 'Fuck' is universally understood if not universally practiced. The heat was relentless and learning from my Provenรงal experience, we drank litres. I'm not sure it was enough, but we got through the day. The water tasted like warm gnats piss tea, but without the tea or the gnat. So, really it tasted of warm piss. With only a mile to go we both nearly 'bonked', i.e. ran completely out of energy. In the UK, this route would be easy. but with panniers and over 40 degrees of heat, and a constant head wind, it had the makings of an 'epic'. We have similar to do tomorrow as we again follow the Loire to Saumur, another 70 miles away.

Tonights dinner was a fantastic Italian, accompanied by a pichet of the local sauvignon blanc. Sean's french pronunciation is 'improving''. As much as double incontinence is an improvement on piles.

Blois by the Loire. By Moreau.henri (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

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Blois to Saumur and a crisis Another number for you. 650. This refers to the price of a rental, in euros, from Amboise to Saumur (a distance of about 50 miles) by Europcar. Or as it should be called "Euroshaftyourarse". The day started well in warm sunny Blois as we found a fantastic bike shop. We really went to town on this one. Sean bought a new chain and a pair of Ortlieb Panniers and eyewear. I got my back brakes fixed and bought a new front wheel, two new drinking bottles and cycling shorts. The two chaps in the shop were brilliant, all was 'avec plaisir', they just got on with doing the necessary work without an appointment. Watching the mechanic fix the brakes was a wonder and demonstrated why we could not have possibly done it at the roadside. It required zen and the art of bicycle maintenance, coffee strong enough to stop your heart, and a certain 'je ne sais qoi'. the shop is called 'Detours de Loire' and is another fine example of a true service business that really adds value to us all, unlike the c*nts that work in finance. By 1200 we were ready to roll and faced a 92 mile stage to Saumur. It was going to be a long day. In preparation we stuffed our faces with jambon et Emmental baguette and packed a chorizo quiche, there being no pasties in France. The route again follows La Loire, which is one of the finest rivers in Europe, so a bit like the Tamar but without Devon. The Loire is a wide but shallow river flowing over chalk and clay beds, and as we crossed many bridges we could easily look down upon large fish swimming lazily upstream among the weed beds. The water is crystal clear and shimmers in the daytime sun. This is still very flat land and so the cycling is a dream. The river is home to shallow draft sailing boats used for fishing and generally mucking about. The sky again is blue but without the blast furnace heat of yesterday. The day is generally uneventful until we get to Amboise. This is a delightfully pretty riverside town complete with medieval street plan, eglise and chateau. There really is nothing wrong with Amboise. We indeed have a good lunch there. It is not until we have to leave that things turn. I refer the dear reader to 'Chalfonts', the scourge of every free born cornishman. Without going into graphic detail, just imagine having to perform what is, for some, a daily ritual. For me, this is turning into a thrice daily ritual that includes the pain of lucifer's three pronged fork being poked wickedly, and with vicious targeted skill, into an area of the body that only proctologists are normally interested in. Think of the baby eating Bishop of Bath and Wells and his sword and Blackadder's failure to repay his loan, think of red hot chilli peppers the morning after, think about white hot pokers and the damage they can do to orifices. Such was half the discomfort I felt after completing daily ritual number three at Amboise. I was not looking forward to getting back on the bike equipped as it is with a saddle as narrow as a Puritan's mind and as sharp as a newly forged razor.

Arrival at Saumur after a long day. After about 2 kms of standing in the pedals and with over 70 miles to go, we decide that this is just not going to be feasible. We turn back to Amboise with the express intention of hiring a vehicle. A very nice lady called Emilie in the Renault garage referred us to Europcar rentals. We decide that Sean should go ahead on his own while I rent a car. Plan A is to meet at Villandry, a very small village to the west of Tours. As Sean heads off with a map, we realise that I have his wallet, passport, food and the name and address of the Hotel we are staying in tonight. If we do not meet in Villandry we are f*cked. Neither of us has a working mobile phone. Do not underestimate the value of a working mobile phone. Ever. I have to cycle another 3 kms standing in the pedals to find the europcar rental office, only to be greeted with bemused ignorance as they do not have have a car available. The 'ring of fire' meanwhile is doing its best Vesuvius impersonation at Pompeii. This is when I find out that 650 euros will be the cost of getting my sorry arse to Saumur. So instead we call a taxi and 100 euros later I'm at the rendezvous at Villandry but without being able to call Sean who is still without

money, food and water. I fire up the ipad, connect to wifi and put out a call to those who might have his number. I know that he will connect to wifi at some point and will be at Villandry. I'm only there for about 10 minutes when Sean appears having helped someone with a puncture and having negotiating Tours. My chalfonts at this stage have relented and so I decide to cycle the 45 miles to Saumur. All is well. It would be boring to yet again describe the valley of the Loire, its chateaux, willow trees, the bridges over the rivers Indre and Char, its sweeping empty roads and the setting orange light of the sun, but its all true. We make good progress into Saumur, a riverside town dominated by its chateaux in cream coloured sandstone and finally end up meeting two french rugby players called Francois (an English teacher) and Fabian (who makes wine) at a bar. We eat and drink too much thanks to their hospitality.

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Saumur to Champtoceaux, a hill finish We are still following the Loire as it slowly flows towards the Atlantic. It is a wide shallow river flowing over many gravel banks of yellow and white chalk or sandstone. We joined it at Orleans 3 days and 270 miles away. Sunshine all the way, in our faces, as has been the wind. It has been a steady headwind of about 20 miles an hour. French weather forecasts put it at 50 kph. Try pointing a hairdryer at your face for three days, while also getting the ambient air temperature up to between 30 and 43 degrees. We have forgotten what a tail wind feels like. The good news is that in this wind a cyclist's fart reaches Paris way to the east long before the sound of it reaches the cyclist's ears. From Saumur there are small roads that hug the riverbank which we follow for about 10 miles. The river flows almost exactly from East to West and is flanked on its southern bank by rocky escarpments all the way. Vantage points allow a view across the the flat north bank while the rock on the south provide for many caves for storing wine. This is of course wine country, the many vineyards sitting on the southern hill and slopes. At one point we pass a cave called La Herpiniere selling sauvignon blanc. I know this because Ann and I visited here a few years ago. We still have the wine glasses. The wine we bought there itself is long gone. Whites predominate but we also pass through Anjou where a half decent rose can be found. We make steady progress towards lunchtime exchanging the occasional bonjour with passing cyclists. The day is getting hotter, we are drinking plenty of fluids but need to stop for food. The small towns seem uninterested in playing any role as a victualing station as time after time we find whole streets closed. With blood sugars getting low we reach a road that starts winding up a hill more than usual. The D751 from Saumur uses the southern bank and thus hits the escarpment from east to west. The result is a series of undulations and mini hills through the villages and towns. Very scenic, quite tiring. At a panoramic viewpoint we decide the stop and eat what remains of this morning's baguette. It is hot, we sit in the open air under a baking sun. The view across the northern bank extends for miles as we are high above the river. Time came

to move on to try and find some food. The road continues to climb and bend. We'd got no further than a few meters when we saw a restaurant with an 'open' sign. So, all the while when we'd been eating a bit of bread and cheese in the heat, just above us on the road was a terrace restaurant complete with sunshade. On seeing the sign we both burst out laughing, if only we had kept going just a few more meters.The sting however was that chef had just stopped cooking and so no more food orders were being taken. Instead of a decent meal, we sipped ice cold coke in the shade while the staff had their freshly cooked lunch.

We cycle for another 16 kms until we reach a town that is open, sort of. Bar Tabacs might not serve food but they will allow you to eat what you bring. We find a boulangerie, buy the necessaries and sit in the shade at the Bar Tabac on the main street in Challones sur Loire. There are a few french loiterers, but otherwise any noises people might make are drowned by the tumble weed blowing down the street. Rural France is never open it seems, it is peace, heaven, unless you want something to eat apart from a baguette from a boulangerie. We've been on the road for 10 days and covered at least 1000 kms. It is a challenge, make no mistake and personally the biggest problem is chalfonts. It is a constant battle to prevent a full blown crisis down there. Yesterday's taxi was result of losing the battle temporarily. If you ever think of long distance cycling and even think about chalfonts being a problem then just get them sorted. Creams, a blow torch, pliers, it does not matter what you apply, just make it affective. The last 30 miles was through the heat of the day, sapping energy and judgement. The views continue to be stunning. We finally reach our destination but at mile 70 the road decides to go

into a series of uphill hairpins. We discover why later at the hotel. The town is an ancient fortress and thus is built at the top of a big hill overlooking the river and surrounding environs. There is a viewpoint just a few meters from the hotel. The Loire is silver in the evening sun which is setting while casting pinks, reds and oranges up to the clouds above. the viewpoint is atop a rocky escarpment probably 400 feet up. Way down in the valley on the northern bank runs the TGV to Nantes. words fail. we've just had dinner and a half bottle of Muscadet sur Lie and a nightcap of proper malt whisky. It could only get better if Ann were here. Tomorrow is another 70 miles north to Rennes. You just have to love France. By Agne27 (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

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Champtoceaux to Rennes, cocks at dawn

The Loire at Champtoceaux By Touriste (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Cockerels crowing at daybreak. About 3 at least. Daybreak is of course about 5:30. The hotel window is open, the shutters drawn halfway up, the town sleeps. The view from the third floor bedroom window looks over red pantile roofs, making this scene more like Spain than France. I can see house martins below us darting under eaves to their nests, I can't see any chickens. This is before bedtime. We have dinner and stroll to take in the panoramic view of the Loire. There are swifts, swallows and martins, we have seen bats, but no chickens. A nightcap of a Talisker and a Balvenie see us off to bed. All is quiet. The town clock chimes its bell in the stillness. No rowdy drunks, no sirens and no chickens. Until about 5:30. Neither of us can be arsed to get out of bed and close the window. So we both are half awake listening to cockerels. Nothing else, just a few Colonel Sanders volunteers if I had my way. They sound the same in England as they do in France; evoking the countryside like clean air, tractors and dung. Knowing the behavior pattern of the male chicken in the vicinity of a female chicken, each crow actually means "whose next for a damn good seeing to?". Well this is France, and I guess if a French Cock can't give french cock there is no justice in the world.

Sleep, however, would be nice. Undaunted we are up for breakfast at 8 and leave the Loire for Rennes, 70 miles away. At this stage we are both feeling the weight of the demands made upon us. We are both carrying 'minor' ailments onto the road. Both bikes are fine. No more spoke or chain issues. There is often a time during any long challenge, be it hill walking, cycling or pasty eating, when for a fleeting moment the thought occurs that the endeavour is a bit much. Day after day of the same routine while at the same time any bodily niggles get amplified because there is no rest, no time for the body to repair or recover, no recuperation or respite. Scott at the south pole probably thought "bollocks to this" but a bit late in the day, Nelson may have thought "cant be arsed" the day before Trafalgar and David Beckham, thinking he'd shagged Ginger Spice before waking up with Posh, thought "is this really worth it?" But we are all British and we just get on with it. No fannying about, JFDI. We stopped halfway at Chateaubriant for food, lots of it, and a chilled coke. Chalfonts had cooled down from 'fiery' to merely 'spicy' while Sean's old shoulder injury required some medication. As is often noted (by old farts) that youth is wasted on the young. Well, it is. The bastards. when was the last time you heard a teenager complaining of chalfonts or sore joints? Yes they moan about having no money, freedom or "justice in the world" but they don't go on about bits of the body not working. I would trade worries about spots, haircuts and being caught wanking for bodily malfunctions any day. We hit some super fine tarmac after a town called Janve. It is as smooth and as black as a snooker ball or the charred testicles of an Isis suicide bomber. On surfaces like this the bike goes quiet, just the gentle roll of tyre on road and swish of chain on cog. It becomes Zen* like. Even the road kill looks glad to be there. We reach Rennes in good time to shower, cold beer and a dinner including oysters and foie gras, accompanied by a Muscadet sur Lie. Life is hard. Vivre La France. So why are those at Calais trying to get across the channel? Have they not seen Dover on a cold grey January morning? If the Daily Mail is to be believed, all they will get upon setting foot in the UK is a hefty dose of racism served up alongside deportation.

Another 70 miles tomorrow to the seaside town of Vannes on the south coast of Brittany before a rest day. There is then an 89 miler up to Rosporden and then the last day to Roscoff of 46 miles.

*pseuds corner ***

Rennes to Vannes and so to rest Nothing happened in Rennes. Nada. Nowt. Well, if it did we were not there to see, hear or touch it. This was because we decided to stay at the hotel rather than tramp into town, pretty though it is. A lovely warm evening calls for a lovely cold beer, served by the lovely hotel receptionist/ barstaff/problem solver/breakfast preparer. Lets call her 'fifi trixie-belle' which is as good a name as any save 'Bert'. Fifi looks about 17 and I wonder what she is doing working here. She should still be in school. Many of the hotels seem to run on just one or two staff who do everything (apart from Thai massage and kitten fluffing). Fifi is no exception. Her english is pretty non existent and so my french had to suffice, and it is good enough now not to need hand signals, a book or an emergency call to the British Consulate to get me released from jail. She is a size 10, wearing a burgundy blouse, a figure hugging black skirt and has the eyes of Catherine Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's. She also has the teeth of a dog eating breakfast in a dumpster. I did not notice, but Sean did. I think he may have overstated the case. That was as good as Rennes got for us, except of course for dinner.

We set off the next morning for Vannes, another 72 miles away on the south coast of Brittany. Another blue sky greeted us, with temperatures set to 'very comfortable' rather than 'mad dogs and englishmen' of the past days. There is a boulangerie (isn't there always) beside the hotel so we stock up and go. Lunchtime finds a bar/restaurant rather than just a bar/tabac open. So, and for just 11 euros, we have salade nicoise/assiete of meat for starters then a steak frites. We passed on the desserts but it was all inclusive. Great value, good food. We sit outside on the terrace in warm shade. Food is of course very important as it is easy to get 'bonking' on a bicycle. Its that sinking, weak low energy feeling that results in cycling through treacle. We have found the heat to be

especially sapping of energy. Lunch is thus very welcome, in addition to packing our daily baguette, bananas and sweets. As this is Brittany, the country resembles Devon and Cornwall. This means hills rather than beaches, moorland and questionable locals. As we are inland there are no short sharp steep bastards like Portreath or Porthtowan. There are however long ascents that creep up on you like a paedo in a darkened cinema, if you know what I mean, kind of unexpected. The last 20-30 miles today began those hills in earnest, and despite lunch we were very near to bonking before we got to Vannes. I might have said some rude words at some hills and slopes given the energy required and energy available ratio getting really low. Sean was quiet which is always a sign of 'Trouble up Mill'. Fortunately, Vannes has a rest day planned for tomorrow to enable us to take stock, let chalfonts settle and prepare for the last push to the north coast. We have 61 miles to Rosporden, 88 to Landernau and 39 to Roscoff, For now, there is a cold beer waiting for me at the bar.

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Vannes, recovery 0920 rather than 0730 was the time I awoke this morning. The aircon was very gently humming, otherwise no sound. Not even the seemingly obligatory noises emanating from normal physiological functions associated with sleep, food digestion and eliminatory processes. At this point, it is probably a good idea to undertake a stock check of the body's functions and abilities. We rest today and so no, or very little, exertion is called for. This is just as well. The last 11 days cycling are beginning to catch up with us. If rest days are good enough for the Tour de France, then of course it should be designed in for us mere mortals. There are several ways one can go about cycling. One may purchase a sit up and beg bike complete with pannier on the front handle bar, the sort of wire or wicker basket used for carrying, well, bread and so hence the name 'pannier' (say it in french). This is for ladies old and young to swish about in pretty frocks and straw hats, at a speed that will not smudge the lipstick. Shoes can be slip on flat heeled varieties in whatever colour takes their fancies. Little white panties are optional but advised, due to passing summer breezes giving old men sight of 'remembrance of things past' inducing mild strokes and cardiac arrests. One may purchase a 'fixie', grow a beard and wear retro clothes involving turned up jeans, braces and check shirts. This requires that one moves to fashionable areas of the country or city one currently lives in. In Cornwall that might apply in Truro, but is unlikely in Bodmin. Another option is a sports bike, dress up like Chris Froome and try to kill yourself going up and down mountains in as little time as possible. Touring: load yerself up with luggage and just keep peddling. For miles and miles. And then some more. We have about 16 pounds of weight on the bikes, plus water, plus food for the day. This includes spare tools and tubes, maps, medications, creams, lotions and supplicants to the gods of the velo. If you ever consider doing the sort of miles we are doing, I would caution you. This is not for the faint hearted. Just about everyone we have met have looked at us in bemused amusement when informed of where we are going for the day, then when they find out the total the looks turn to a mixture of terror, awe and "where is the psychiatrist". I am understanding why. This is a cycling mad country, and to get shouts of encouragement, including 'chapeau', means something special. It is just beginning to dawn on us the just how far we have cycled already, just how much of France we have seen and the cumulative affects of just such a journey. Any minor aliment can be amplified by day after day use of musculature, bones and orifices one normally takes very little note of at all, and all without respite. If you ever consider going more than three or four days consecutively, and you are not 16-25, consider your options and how the cream can be applied. We have three days to go: 66, 88 and 39 miles respectively. The hills in between are Brittany's hills, we will go up and come back down again to sea level more than once. Brittany is beautiful, and though not as hot as Provence, is very sunny right now. In fact the best temperature for cycling is about 20-22 degrees, while today in Vannes it must be 25-28. The countryside is lush and green and pastoral. Morning riding is the easiest, as we are fresh and fit. The heat of the afternoon soon however starts taking its toll and what seems otherwise to be an easy 20 miles

can turn into a mission to survive. One loses water through sweat and respiration at a rate of knots, while the breeze as you peddle gives a false sense of well being through its cooling affect. In fact one is constantly being drained of water and energy. There is often no shelter, and in any case the destination beckons.

Vannes is a seaside, post fishing, town with a medieval heart complete with ramparts. There are many old timber framed buildings all built before the innovation of the plumb bob. The walls are at an angle what professional builders might call 'pissed'. The market is very busy with tourists and locals alike jostling for position around the myriad stalls, some with children attached (the people not the stalls - this is not a slave trade) and are busy losing money buying 'crafts', knick knacks and mementoes they will forget the day after they get home. There are more cafes and restaurants than is seemly and peopled by fashion victims and perpetrators alike. It is also good to see that the french reputation for haute couture does not apply here. Good dress sense is left behind in Paris, along with its bad manners, haughty snobbishness and disdain for poor people. Not that I'm making any generalizations about Parisiennes, some of whom might have fixed my bike. Well I am. After about an hour we both feel tired and go back to the hotel. A cold beer magically appeared and now we are sat outside on the terrace in the shade. It is about lunchtime (ish). The plan for the rest of the day is: rest. I've just eaten a half packet of 'Galettes Bretonnes', a very buttery short crust biscuit that is heaven on its own or dipped in coffee. That is today's lunch. An afternoon nap before evening dinner may be in order.

Vannes to Rosporden, back to the hills Some people like numbers. Take the number 10 for example, very useful indeed for common arithmetic especially in the decimal system for which it is a necessity. 0 and 1 of course are the foundations of current developed societies across the globe. Human life is now probably unlivable without the 0 and 1 binary system. Some like to live their lives in binary with simple yes/no alternatives to questions being suffice. These people are usually men. It would be rude to call number lovers geeks, but that has never held me back. So, for all the geeks out there today's numbers: 68 miles, 106 kms, 5 hours 8 mins in the saddle time, 0 punctures or broken spokes, average speed 12 mph, 2 ham and cheese baguettes, 4 coffees, 2 crepes, about 6-7 litres of water, 1 ice tea, 1 lemonade, 8 Breton biscuits, 2 bananas, 1 2CV, 25 degrees, and now 2 cold beers. For the geographers: towns ridden through: Aurey, Hennebont, Quimperle and now Rosporden. Quimperle seems especially pretty as it sits in the valley of the confluence of two rivers. Today is the Fete De l'Eau in which bunting and flowers decorate the riverside walks, market stalls abound, the cafes are thronged and an air of jollity and nonsense infuses everyone with...of course, 'bonhomie', a word we english have to borrow because our basic misanthropy prevents

us from developing it. There is a tug of war, with canoes, on the water and music from the 1970's. The two are not necessarily related. All of this of course in glorious sunshine. Women are wearing straw hats and smiles, the men are in the bars looking at the women in straw hats and smiling. Children are amusing themselves with ice cream and crepes. We've stopped at a bar to watch the riverside scene while stuffing our faces, one could sit here all day and let nothing happen. The French seem quite good at letting nothing happen, bar eating and drinking in the sunshine. They are bit like the Cornish in this regard who have let nothing happen for a few decades now. I encourage you to let nothing happen for a while, you might quite like it. Achievement is over rated and best left to Londoners, the insane and Germans. The hotel is right beside the railway station which for me is heaven. I think it might be the TGV line from Paris-Nantes-Brest. I could spend the evening just watching out for trains, but this might be anti social, a bit like picking your nose as you say "I Do" at the alter. As today is Sunday the hotel restaurant is closed. This happens here quite a lot. Sunday that is, about once a week and results in hotels closing their restaurants. So we will have to walk into 'town', a word I use loosely to describe this particular collection of houses. I'm not sure yet if this is the wild west of Brittany where they shoot your hat and eat your horse. I might have alluded to, or made reference, to the relationship between Brittany, or Briezh, and the rest of France being like that between Cornwall and England. Many of you will know of Breton culture and language and its celtic fringe nature. Both Cornwall and Briezh have a black and white flag, a language, a 'Lands End/Finisterre', stick out into the Atlantic, cider, colonised by the neighbouring country, a crushed rebellion, sea food, and 'attitude'. Their road sign are in two languages and they have a rivalry with a neighboring county. And cows. Lots of them. Differences include a very very fast train from the far west, Brest, to the capital and a motorway going both east and south. Perhaps the Cornish should try and burn down Paddington to make a point? The sunshine here can be very liquid as well but is currently of the 'hot variety'. They of course do not have decent ale or pasties. I think there is a an opportunity to sell the French both of these items. I know these would be as well received by the French as a free brothel on Sundays. Tomorrow is the last long day of 89 miles to Landernau. It will be warm, it will be hilly. There will be beer at the end of it.

Rosporden to Landernau and Roscoff, nearly there Penultimate, next to the last, the one before, nearly. I have built this up in my head to be a big one, a long hard day in the saddle not so much because of the distance but because of the elevation to climb. Rosporden to Landernau is 89 miles and over 6500 feet climbing. That is like climbing 10 Carn Breas without a pasty. Landernau to Roscoff is only 39 miles. Piece of cake. As it turned out 89 miles is no problem. We are hard. We arrive finally in Roscoff having completed about 1600 kms of cycling. No one died.

The hotel is a four star spa hotel and well worth it. We have been upgraded to a 'suite', complete with sauna, massage and other stuff. The staff are very helpful, as have the majority of the people we have met here. Today has been relaxing with wine, food and more wine. In fact it is probably fair to say that we have enjoyed the hospitality that France has to offer to the maximum. We are now being comforted with what we call a 'nightcap' but the French call a 'derniere pour les autres' which means the 'last before others'. This difference seems to really differentiate the Anglo Saxon from the Gallic. 'Night cap' has a finality about it, a sort of puritanical end point which says 'this far and no further', whereas the gallic 'derniere pour les autres' invokes the feeling that , yes this is tonights last one, but by jimminy there will be more'. Vive La France!

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Dear reader, I would very much like to entertain you with tales of derring do, but the sea air of Roscoff do overcome me with with 'ennui' and other abstract french concepts. Not only that, there are weird sounds that resemble dogs being interfered with. Tonights dinner involved Moules, a fish I've no idea were it came from, and four fromages. It was necessary to drink two demi bottles of Pouilly Fouisse and then some. I think it it best if I finish now for fear of incoherence, bonhomie or immanent arrest. Thank you all for bothering to read such drivel. â&#x20AC;Š