EvansTour 15 - J20-21

The Numbers

1,002 km covered, 61 h in the saddle and 32,420 Cal burned according to the Garmin - 'that's about 50 bottles of wine' I hear S exclaim after a lightening quick mental calculation. Hmmm, that's pretty much accounted for then I think . . . oh well, back to the salad and water for the winter.

Here you can see S feeling smug at the 1000 km (i.e. The 50 bouteille du vin ) mark . . .

Our penultimate destination was La Grange de Coatelan, a lovely farmhouse just outside Morlaix where we tool advantage of the table d'hote in the company of French and Spanish guests. Then onwards to Morlaix for another dodgy AirBnB . . . Now, I know that the whole thing relies on reciprocal guest and host reviews to maintain trust between parties, but in my view there is one essential and preferentially weighted difference in the transactional arrangement, which is that . . .

I AM PAYING

I don't know about you but this seems to me to be the key point in the whole business. Call me old fashioned, but I do not feel like, nor want to be, a guest in someone's home. Rather, I feel like someone who is forking out a significant sum of money for a decent bed and a bit of nosh, which I feel tips the balance in my favour somewhat. Oh well, I won't be using it again . .

So we left Morlaix and had the traditional slap-up lunch at Roscoff before catching the ferry home to be welcomed by . . . a washing machine which had broken and a car which wouldn't start . . .

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EvansTour 15 - J18-19

Retour

And so it came to pass, we turned north to retrace our steps and return to Lescouet-Gouarec en route to the ferry, which essentially meant a continuously uphill and lumpy 90 km. But we had booked two nights avec le diner and, on the first night, some great company with a French family from Rennes with whom we passed the meal entirely speaking a mixture of English, crap French (us) and mostly Franglais (everyone).

The usual round of riverside picnics thereafter - shall I post yet another picture of 'le vin, la fromage et la pain'. . . yes, go on, why not . . .

The journey onwards from L-G to took us back up the voie verte where we encountered these enormous mushrooms . . .

I did suggest to S that these were edible mushrooms, but she was understandably sceptical given our last experience of fungal harvesting some twenty-odd years ago, where my foolproof (and entirely scientific, I assured S) method of identification entailed waiting for her to eat them first and then observing the outcome . . .

So, we left them, which was probably just as well because it seems that I had been inadverdently remiss in taking this photo while not leaving some sort of token, such as a silver sixpence or piece of cake; because later it was apparent that these very fungi were home to one of the denizens of the magical kingdoms, in this case the puncture fairy . . .

You would think, after all these years riding the length and breadth of France, that S would have learned to repair a puncture? But apparentley, like putting up shelves or fixing the guttering while swaying at the top of an overextended ladder, it is one of those things destined to remain solely within my personal ambit . . .

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EvansTour 15 - J16-17

Vannes

Our normal cycling regime can be described thus:

Eat . . . . . . .cycle, cycle, cycle . . . . . . . . Eat . . . . . . . . cycle, cycle, cycle. . . . . . .Eat

But the last four days have been:

Eat . . . . .. .. . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Eat . . . .. . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . Eat

So, after our soujourn at the beach, I informed S that it was high time we took to the road for our next destination of Vannes. I may have said this before, but I'm going to say it again is that one of the great things about cycling is you come across the unexpected in out of the way places, not least when you following the Garmin Touring. I think that I have figured out it's personality at last. It's best to ignore the various routing options, becuase it seems to me that it hardly makes a difference. What it does do is un-erringly take you away from any of the main roads, and utilises as many cycle paths as possible. Now this can be a bit of a pain in the a*** if you want to get from A to B quickly, but if you don't mind ambling all over the countryside it can be quite illuminating, taking in small villages, the wonders of nature and plenty of farmyard smells. For example, here you can see S trying to figure out what the bloody hell this is for . . .

. . . well, it turns out to be a Fontaine, or well, a well - they do wells properly here it seems, probably with some baptismal sideline. And there are all those little creeks and yachting havens to explore if you don't mind going around the twiddly bits . . .

So we arrived at the medeivel town of Vannes, one of the locations of the moveable court of the Dukes of Brittany, with suitably impressive town walls . . .

Our next bed for the night here was going to be anothr one of my AirBnB gambles, so S was marginally concerned that it would be another dodgy affair at odds with the description of 'Magnifique Loft Zen' which had so attracted me on the shiny advertising page - much like those straight-to-video films which you rented on the strength of the picture on the box (joke for the over 30s only). But, as it turned out, it indeed lived up to all three appellations, and our host, Lydia, does Thai massage into the bargain; so you can imagine that this was a red rag to a bull as far as S is concerned, so she is currently availing herself of same, not having access to a personal soigneur on our cycling travels . . .

. . . whether she will be able to stand let alone cycle tomorrow is another matter.

Later . . .

Last night we had an excellent meal at Le Bistro d'Atlantique on the harbour, great oysters and tuna. But tonight the skinflinty gene kicked in and we went cheap - alas, you pay for what you get (will he never learn) and a case of distinctly dodgy stomach has taken a hefty chunk out of the lavender-scented feng shui-ness - I made use of both sets of sprayable ungents to re-establish the Zen . . .

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EvansTour 15 - J15

The Walrus and the Carpenter

I weep for you,' the Walrus said: 
      I deeply sympathize.' 
With sobs and tears he sorted out 
      Those of the largest size, 
Holding his pocket-handkerchief 
      Before his streaming eyes. 

O Oysters,' said the Carpenter, 
      You've had a pleasant run! 
Shall we be trotting home again?' 
      But answer came there none — 
And this was scarcely odd, because 
      They'd eaten every one."

Lewis Carroll

 

EvansTour 15 - J13-14

They say that every cloud has a silver lining, and so it proved; but little did we know this as we left Le Pellerin for our hurriedly re-arranged destination of La Baule . . .

La Baule

It just so happened that, while chatting to our mate the Marquis, he asked whether we would be visiting La Baule on our trip south. "Well, erm, not really" I replied in my most-knowledgable-about-the-delights-of-France manner. "But oh, you must" he retorted, clearly shocked at our lack of touristic nous to miss out on such a gem of the vacationing variety. So when, as it came to pass, that we would be leaving the cats early, the pin landed firmly on that part of the map (a real pin on a real map folks, not that bloody irritating google maps virtual pin which I can never get to stick where I want it).

So off we went, back across the Torpoint ferry to 'north of the river' - a significant thing becuase, as the Marquis ponted out, "Africa begins South of the Loire". . . The other, and more direct, alternative was to head west along the south bank and cross at the St Nazaire bridge. But after a bit of research on the internet, I read the descriptions of said journey on all the blogs and forums described variously as: 'a real bum clencher' or 'the closest I have got to death' and 'never again' . . . so I decided to give that a miss and take S by the scenic route. After crossing the ferry, and the commencement of considerable fannying around with the satnav, I elected to take her up the mian highway to St Nazaire so we could put a bit of distance in early, and experience the cool, fresh breeze generated by passing artics. Eventually, even S had enough of time-trialling with panniers - though, as I pointed out, she would not be allowed to draft my wheel for 30 km im a real time trial - and head off the beaten path which, after an initial nice bit, largely consisted of oil teminals, petrochemical plants and pasing tankers on the approach to St Nazaire, augmnented by that distictive smell of sulphurous cracking plant and heavy fraction distillate - a bit like cycling through Teeside really

But at least we did see the two becalmed Mistral aircraft carriers in St Nazaire military dockyard - no high wall and razor wire here - which the French built for Putin for he started stomping all over Ukraine and the Yanks said 'non'- some you lose eh . . . should stick to flogging jets to the flogging Saudis . . .

After this, it was a pleasant ride, passing through Saint-Marc-sur-Mer (the location of Monsieur Hulot's Holiday for all you classic French comedy film buffs who I know avidly read this blog) and on to the bowl of, well, La Baule. The resort was built to rival Biarritz; not havIng been to the latter I can't vouch for the veracity of this fact, but it does stretch 9 km along a lovely sandy beach and is packed with what are presumably all of the the people who normally occupy central France taking their vacation. The self catering apartment I had booked is great, so after stocking up the fridge from the local Carrefour, we headed out into the town to indulge in our second favourite activity of these cycling holidays (S contends that I have the order wrong, and who am I to contradict her after reviewing the photographic evidence) . . . le diner at a place called Nossy Be, right on (and I mean right on, practically in the surf) la plage. . . .

So today was another rest day with walks along the beach and the inevitable dejeuner. Now, I must say, and S concurs, that this was one of the finest lunches we have had in France - starter, main and glass of wine for €15.90 - maybe not in price but definitely in quality. Fierce competion amonget the densely packed restauranters has clearly driven up the noshometer here, so we will be back . . .

Ca va

 

EvansTour 15 - J11-12

Well, they say pride comes before a fall, and so it was with my smugness imbued by the chateau booking. Having spent one night in luxury, S now had to take a relative downgrade and, as it looked to be, endure seven with the chats - a distictly feline whiff which permeated the flat I had booked for the week. Admitting defeat, I decided to take a direct hit in the wallet, so have bailed out and made a 'get out of jail' booking at La Baule, a seaside resort 50 km towards Vannes - we leave tomorrow.

The Loire

But, while here, we did manage to squeeze in a bike ride and some other activites. There being not much (i.e. Zero) to do in Le Pellerin, we went for a short, 53 km, ride down the river on the Loire à Velo path towards St Nazaire. This we undertook in civvies - to the un-initiated this means wearing ordinary shorts and underpants as opposed to cycling shorts, which are, de rigeur, worn 'commando'. Unfortunately this was a monday, so we fell victim to the ferme lundi syndrome which appertains in large parts of France. When we got to our destination of Peimboeuf, despite the magnificent view across the estuary to the St Nazaire Oil Refinery . . .

everything was closed as Merthyr Tydfil on a wet sunday afternoon in the '70s.

No matter, we had thoughtfully stocked up at the local patisserie before leaving . . .

. . . and, as luck would have it, as we rounded a bend in the river, S shouted out "Look, what's that?" - being swift with the camera I managed to obtain a single grainy image of what I shall henceforth call the 'Loire Ness Monster'. It just goes to show that you have to be in the right place at the right time . . .

Nantes

Deciding to have a day off from le velo, we caught the bus to Nantes where we took in the sights, including the Chateau, which has a bigger well than Colin . . .

the Cathederal . . .

and Le Jardin des Plantes

. . . as well as the majestic beauty of the Loire in all her glory as she swept through this magnificant city, seat of the Lord of Brittany in erstwhile times. However, the highlight of the trip was, without doubt, Le Gallerie de Machines, with it's automated elephant . . .

"The kids would have loved this" I said to S . . . "You did" she replied . . .

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EvansTour 15 - J9-10

Phew, that was a tough two days on the bike - "70 MILES AND 65 MILES RESPECTIVELY WITH LOADED PANNIERS", S has just politely informed me in my left ear. So here is the tale . . .

To the Chateau

Today was the first big one, a 70 miler with luggage, to our overnight stop on the way to Le Pellerin on the Loire. The route took us along a tourist trail of central Brittany, via Pontivy, Josselin, Rohan, Ploërmel and thence to our destination. As always in France, even the main roads are deserted and the weather being sunny helped to make our progress swift and scenic. So, to Pontivy, where if you want a picture of the chateau see last year's blog because we did not linger after already having had one excursion there this year.

The Chateau at Josselin is vey impressive, towering as it does over the banks of the xxx. We stopped for lunch, which I had thoughtfully prepared from some left over camambert and brown bread, which was necessary to relieve our panniers of panniers of before the stench became unbearable - that, and a bit of Keith's lemon drizzle cake made for a fine repast.

Thence on to Rohan, which surprisingly doesn't have a chateau that I could ascertain, despite being the one place named after the Rohan family who seem to own the own the others. En route, we came across a monument to the 'battle of the thirty', a conflict between the French and English during the 100 years war. The fact that there were only 30 casualties was seen as one of the last 'chivalrous battles' . . .

Having got as far as Ploermel, S was beginning to visibly slow, so we stopped for a glass of coke at the local tabac and, reinvigorated, we set off for our final destination. Now, I may already have said that I have got a new gps but, strangely, the place we were going was not on it . . . nor were any of the roads around it . . . and then the battery ran out. Defaulting to my paper map, I found that it was not on that either . . . strange. But, just as I was grappling with this conundrum, I got a phone call from the owner, the Marquis de Guer, who gave me a set of rather indecipherable directions, albeit in excellent English. So, trusting to fate, we pedalled on, and eventually found the stone cross, turned left and up a long, curving drive; as we breasted the rise and rounded a stand of trees . . . there was the Le Chateau de Ville-Huë . . .

Now, I might have mentioned this before, but S is not averse to a bit of luxury, so I had booked this particular gaff to reward her for the effort of today's ride . . . and it did not disappoint. The Marquis de Guer greeted us on arrival and, after scrubbing up well, we had tea on the terrasse and chatted to the Marquis, who spoke excellent English. Apparently, his family tree dates back to the 13th century, and some his ancestors were involved in the aforementioned battle of the thirty. Having been schooled at Harrow, the Marquis was a bit of an Anglophile, but it wa clear that the 'House of Guer' had fallen on hard times, becuae it was he who made and served us dinner. Perhaps this had something to do with the chateau being gutted by fire in 1945, a disaster from which the family fortune perhaps never recovered?

The room is defintitely better than the Ibis, but as S commented "after cycling all that distance I'll be asleep as soon as my head hits this pillow" . . . and indeed it came to pass. Note to self: long bike rides and fancy accomodation do not mix (but only within limits - see later).

The next day we left bright and early and bade the Marqus farewell as we set off on our next 65 miler to Le Pellerin. As I breasted the top of the hill I chanced one last glance over my shoulder at the chateau but, due to some trick of the light, all I could make out was what looked like a charred and derelict shell . . . before the image was lost amongst the trees, and my bike took me south towards the Loire.

Le Pellerin

Our next stop was one of my AirBnb gambles, an erstwhile fisherman's cottage on the Loire. The day was hot (30 C) so we stopped frequently for food and drink, but being Sunday most of the route was fermé le dimanche. Neverthless, we managed to find an open 'Proxi' store (a bit like Netto) and stocked up on Brie and baguette. In addition, we had two pieces of Breton Far left over from yesterday, and this cycling superfood kept us going for the best part of 20 miles alone.

Now I knew that after the previous night's luxurious setting I was due for a fall, and the alarm bells started ringing loudly when we neared our destination and found ourselves on the Torpoint Ferry . . . and S, who was suffering from sugar drop, had to tear into a bit of brie and baguette sandwich which had been marinating in my saddlebag for the last 3 hours . . .

So, we alighted the ferry and arrived. Now, I am known, unfairly in my estomation, for a bit of skinflintyness, and, it must be said, that this paricular AirBnB booking did have the advantage of being particulalry cheap. But the old adage of 'you get what you pay for' kicked in as it usually does. So, while the accomodation is by no means bad (my words: see separate commentary from S wherever available in print and audio), it does have that frisson of 'McKenzie Beach Resort' about it (private Evans family joke), or should I say a bit of the Huelgoat's. Anyhow, if all else fails we can make use of this particular kitchen implement:

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