Thursday 10 August 2017

Bretagne en Velo 2017: 3

Grand Prix

Another day on the bike, so we cycled once more to Cleguerec to see another race, this time a 2nd and 3rd category criterium around the village. The course was 16 circuits of a 5.4 km course, so we positioned ourselves just before the the finish, which is invariably at at the crest of a hill to inflict maximum pain as the competitors vie for the intermediate sprints at the end of each circuit . . .

Prior to the race we enjoyed a leisurely lunch at the local créperie, then idled in the Sun as the racers busted a gut to grab the points. Here you can see S with an energy drink, somewhat selfishly failing to proffer it to the passing riders . . .



Saints and a Chaos of Champignons

I am serially astounded at the unusual attractions to found in central Brittany. We had decided to take a day off the bike and go out to lunch with Peter & Keith. They suggested that we first have a walk through the ‘chaos’ of Trémargat. Regular readers will be familiar with the boulder strewn valley at Huelgoat, which boasts the famous ‘Roche Tremblant’, the ‘Champignon’ and ‘Le Gouffré’. In this case, erosion had filled a narrow, wooded river-valley with a jumble of granite boulders at the base, through which the headwaters of the Blavet flowed . . .

The almost complete absence of visitors meant that the flora remained largely undisturbed, so it was with fascination that I encountered more different types of fungi growing on the forest floor than I have ever seen . . .

. . . family, genus and species on a postcard. I dread to think of the pranks their occupants will play upon us later?

After our trek through a this temperate rainforest we repaired to lunch at the Coriandre, a quite unexpected ‘new age’ restaurant in the middle of nowhere, where the food was reminiscent of an Ethiopian restaurant I once visited while in Detroit - which, dear readers, is quite another story . . . Detroit I mean. Anyhow, after lunch we were taken to yet another ‘who’d have bloody well thought that this was here’ attraction – a field full of monolithic granite sculptures that represented the celtic saints . . . arranged in a field near Carnoët. The site must originally have been some sort of neolithic settlement judging by its elevated aspect and the motte and bailey type structure at the summit and it was surrounded by scores of sculptures of varying design . . .

Here you can see S puzzling over the significance of this particular example . . .


Ça va

Monday 7 August 2017

Bretagne en Velo 2017: 2

Les Eglises

If you’re into compact, granite churches then Brittany is the place . . . in a close tie with Cornwall. We have stumbled across numerous places of worship in our travels, but lacking any particular religious leanings, or enough architectural knowledge to make curiosity worthwhile, they can be a bit of a ‘ho hum . . . yet another damp and musty church’ experience. Nevertheless, for completeness, I feel it incumbent upon me to document our latest stumbling.

A favourite ride takes us from the gîte to the town of Cléguérec of the famed bicycle pyramid we encountered just after Le Tour had passed through, (see Blog post from years ago, I can’t be bothered to look up which one) and thence on to Pontivy and the Blavet cycle path. This follows the winding course of the river Blavet to St Nicolas des Eaux. This is a 1* site on the Michelin map, which means there is something worth seeing. Last year we didn’t find it but, in possession of new information provided by our hosts, we followed directions to St Gildas and found the little Chapel built into the side of the cliff alongside a hidden bend in the river.

In contrast, the small village of Kernascleden boasts 2* on the Michelin map. On arrival we were faced with the dilemma of deciding which attraction merited this double accolade. Was it the Notre-Damne church of Kernascléden with its ‘finial-crowned pinnacles and the delicate tracery of its rose windows . . . twelve statues of the apostles in the portico . . . 15C frescoes’ and the ‘right transept dedicated to the representation of hell’ . . .?


Or was it the magic bat ears in the bat discovery centre across the road?I leave it you, the reader, to decide which of these two competing draws came top of S’s tick list of must-see holiday attractions . . .


Champignons

On our travels, due to the slow and measured progress that cycling affords, we frequently come across the sights and sounds of nature that would be missed when travelling by car or other forms of mechanised transport. The climatic conditions os this part of Brittany make it perfect mushroom territory, as evidenced by these beauties at the side of the road . . .

Now, regular readers will recall the last time we came across similar fungi (re. Blog post some years ago which I can’t be bothered to look up), and the subsequent realisation that they were home to anoccupant from the fairy kingdom who’s name shall not be mentioned when riding a bike. Being a scientist by training and, as I confidently informed S “lightening doesn’t strike twice in the same place”, we cycled on without leaving a token or offering prayers, or doing whatever is required in these circumstances. Suffice to say that, later that day as we cycled back along the Nantes-Brest canal, S reminded me that I had been correct in my prediction as I spent a happy hour with the tyre leavers and patches repairing not one but two simultaneous lightning strikes on both bikes . . .

Le dejeuner

We all know the famous quote that ‘cyclists pedal on their stomachs’. In practice, one of two daily alternatives present themselves: the baguette, which can be hastily prepare and secreted away in the back pocket or bought en route from a boulangerie (preferred, particularly when supplemented by a custard slice or equivalent) or supermarché (DIY version of previous); or the menu de jour from any restaurant which falls within the cyclists price window (i.e. low and narrow). The latter of these two options invariably means the moules et frites, which we have enjoyed once so far on the trip. The former option is a picnic table located in some sunny spot. S has previously admonished me for including too much food related material in the blog, thereby giving the impression that we are at an extended lunch rather than actually doing any cycling - evidence for us gaining weight while ostensibly on an ‘activity holiday’. The explanation is simple, I keep reminding her, it is all muscle . . .

Ça va

Wednesday 2 August 2017

Bretagne en Velo 2017

One of the advantages of living in Plymouth is the ease of access to the ferry to France. At the merest whim, S and I can throw a few items of clothing into panniers, freewheel down to the ferry-port, buy a ticket and, 6 hours later, we will be munching on a plât de fruits de mer in Roscoff. The reality, of course, is quite different when full time employment gets in the way of such impromptu moments; so instead, there is usually a prequel of spreadsheet-led planning: pre booking of tickets and cabins, hotels and gîtes; fettling of touring bikes and replenishment of anti-histamines and Diacalm; not to mention the pre-holiday haircut. One day, freed from the shackles of work, I will fulfil the freewheeling ideal and keep a set of panniers fully loaded for immediate departure as soon as the sun shines – I might even go camping again if it shines enough, there has to be an upside to global warming.

So it was that this year we made the customary annual départ on the Brittany ferries service to Roscoff. Up at 5.30 am to get the 7.30 am ferry meant that the cabin I’d booked allowed us to catch up on missed sleep. Thereafter, followed the standard routine of cycling to Morlaix, where we stayed at our usual hotel and ate at our usual restaurant. We are now welcomed as repeat customers because, although infrequent, we always turn up at the same time every year wearing the same clothes and ordering much the same meals; as the years slip by we lose track of which was which and can only recall be referring back to this blog.

It is after this interlude that the real holiday begins . . . when we set off on the voie verte from Morlaix towards Rostrenen in central Brittany. The voies vertes are a great way to get into the heart of France. They are cycle tracks, often made on disused railway lines and canal towpaths, so are either flat or gently graded. This avoids all the hills, and the old railway lines are generally a direct route from A to B, so shorter. However, surfaces can be variable, so wide tyres and mudguards are essential for a smooth ride – this year, rain made the surface of compacted gravelly-sand quite mushy so, it was harder going than usual and S, accustomed to latching on to my wheel, got more than she bargained for. Maybe I will attach mud-flaps, or maybe not pour descourager les autres . . .

It is possible to cycle off road all the way from Morlaix almost until Nantes, first on the old rail route, and then along the Nantes-Brest canal. The canal is actually very sinuous because it is a series of interlinked canalised rivers rather than a completely man-made canal, so it is much less direct, mostly through heavily wooded valleys, very peaceful and teeming with wildlife. We would be cycling as far as Rostrenen on the canal, then going on-road to our destination of Lescouet-Gouarec, on a high ridge of land that forms and east-west spine along this part of Western Brittany. Our, gîte in this quiet village would serve as our base for daily rides out into the surrounding Breton countryside which conceals many unexpected treasures. Luckily, our hosts who own the gîte and live in the old vicarage,have accumulated a list of interesting destinations which we would otherwise have no idea about because they are not the standard tourist fare – but suit us vey well.

Keiz-Breizh Elites


On arrival, after stocking up on supplies, S and I attended a small arts and crafts fête in the village where we had almost been signed up for a 70 km rando event which was taking place the next day as part of a larger stage race (previously won by Warren Barguil, the Breton cyclist who won this years King of the Mountains in the Tour de France). Feeling a bit sceptical about this, though it was only 70 km, I did a bit of internet research and discovered it was ‘my chance to ride with previous Tour winners’ and join the race route for the last 45 kms to finish within a 3-hour cutoff, i.e. averaging 14.6 mph. Given our current state of fitness S and I decided to give it a miss this year, so we opted for a leisurely ride eastwards to Mûr de Bretagne. This is an oft used stage for the Tour, where the final hill or mûr (wall in French) provides a stiff uphill finish opposite the town, where the road is permanently painted with the names of local cycling heroes. This year, mindful of my previous cajolements to re-enact a final climb of Le Tour, S opted to bypass this signature ascent and opted instead for lunch.

So, with this in mind, we carried on to the Abbaye de Bon Repos, where the main race was scheduled to pass at about 14.25. The Abbaye was preparing for its annual son et lumière, which recounts Brittany’s history from Neolithic times to the Revolution. The show is complete with populated peasants’ village, mounted Knights and flaming torches; but that was for another time so, after an extended lunch of the usual baguette, fromage and a small glass of vin to ensure authenticity we awaited the arrival of the race. In France, even relatively small cycling events with pro and semi-pro teams have a rolling roll closure with police motorcycles and all the accoutrements of a full stage races, but in miniature. So first there was the local TV van getting ahead of the race to film the major climb, then the caravan of the sponsors (Le Télégramme, the local newspaper) handing out bags of tat, which S made a grab for in true Le Tour style. The gendarmerie on motorbikes to close he road were next, then the race itself and all the team cars following behind. As usual, the actual race itself occupied about 30 seconds of this 30 minute period.

One development which seems to be spreading is the 24/7 baguette vending machine. Regular readers will know that I first encountered one of these last year in Caurel – now one has appeared in Gouarec. Nevertheless, this was a welcome sight after the dissappontment of finding the boulangerie fermé after lunch on a Monday. This time S braved the mechanism and withdrew a fully formed pain rustique from within the whirring depths.


Drukpa

The next day we opted for a more leisurely cultivation of the mind. Central Brittany, probably because of its rural and unfashionable nature, is home to an eclectic bunch of arts & crafts types, including many British who have cashed in their overpriced, pebbledashed bungalows in the UK and decamped to a converted granite Barn for half the price. But there are other more exotic emigrés which you would never expect . . . so, it was that today we visited the Buddhist temple near Plouray. This is a branch of Buddhism called Drukpa, which was coincidentally celebrating its 1000 year anniversary this August, as evidenced by the marquees which had sprung up all around the grounds to cater for hordes of extra visitors. As usual, S and I cycled into the compound unobtrusively for a moment of quiet contemplation. Several monks wandered past as we inspected the temple; S took her shoes off and went inside to commune with the jos sticks while I inspected the newly scrubbed gold leaf on the exterior of the Stupa (temple) – a quite unexpected find in the midst of the Breton countryside which made the trip well worthwhile.


I left S to generate some watts at the prayer wheel . . .

Ça va

Monday 10 April 2017

Spring training 7

Last day on the bike today, which was just as well because there was nothing left in the tank. Legs were hurting, bum was hurting, feet were hurting; so S has sourced some alternative beachwear for our day off tomorrow . . .


. . . Yes, you neard correctly, Greg has allowed us a day off the bike; like good children we have earned a 'non-velo' reward - it will be interesting to see how the other, neglected, muscles work. So, today was treated very much as an end of term 'leisure ride', with attendant novelty wear . . .

Buenas noches

Sunday 9 April 2017

Spring training 5 & 6

Two days, two climbs. Yesterday, Greg upped the pain on the two 'recovering' cyclists - me and S - and took us up the 8 km climb from Caimari to Lluc. My Spanish is very thin, but I now know that Lluc is pronounced Yook and, by extension and much more importantly, the beer Estrella is pronounced Estrooya. It's vital to get these nuances of communication correct. Anyhow, back to the story . . . having trained up for 4 solid days of 45 milers we upped the anti to a 62 miler with a solid 580 m continuous climb thrown in. This was S's first proper climb - you know what I mean, not up to Princetown or the Bwlch- so we were interested to see how she would fare. Well, she made it no problemo and even managed a celebration at the top amongst all the racing snakes and fancy-bike types (not a proper steel lugged frame in sight) . . .


The top of the climb is actually the Coll de sa Batalla and the monastery of Lluc is down below a few km - always a treat when you have to cycle up then down, knowing that you have to cycle back up again before you can go down. We returned the long way, and the lack of fitness certainly made itself felt, not to mention the lack of saddle hardening - Oh for my comfy Brooks saddle which is formed to the shape of my bum.

Today we set off along the coast to Cap Fermentor - another up-down-up sort of ride. The weather has been fantastic and we are in the pre-season before the 'Watneys Red Barrel' crowd turn some parts into Treco Bay on a an August bank holiday . . .

The ride to Cap Fermentor, a promentory in the northeastern tip of Mallorca, is spectacular . . .



But we did have to get there by bike, and S was wearing her camo' top again, so hard to spot her amongst the flora . . .

Buenas noches

Friday 7 April 2017

Spring training 4

It's easy to forget the day/time/century when on holiday. But we are in a catholic country and Easter is around the corner so, conditioned by school assembly and forced Sunday school attendance of yesteryear, we stopped in the local 15th century church for a look around - well, actually to use the toilets . . .

According to the brochure, the effigy of Jesus gets an outing once a year at Easter when he is transported to another loacal village and back again . . .


Thereafter, taking the back roads to Alcudia, the walled port on the north east of Mallorca, we once again came across another Jesus installed just inside the city gates, this time getting the 'wire brush and Dettol' treatment, presumably in preparation for another Easter outing around the town . . .


Initially I thought, as you probably do, that the bloke on the right was a sightseer. But no, he was actually there to hold the ladder - maybe this is one of those EU regulations that we are burdened by, to the detriment of all the entrepreneurial swashbuckling that British business will unleash in the near future . . .
. . . oh, yes, back to reality. The first real climb of the holiday took us up to the Mirador de la Victoria, on a headland near the port of Acludia where the views were magnificent. S even had a smile on her face at the top . . .


We returned via the beach, where things a starting to gear up now that the sunny weather is here . . .


Buenas noches

Thursday 6 April 2017

Spring training 3

Mountain biking is a variation of the sport of cycling which involves the use of specially reinforced frames with suspension forks, big tyres with nobbly bits, a helmet with a peak on the front; and in this case shaved legs are optional. However, Greg has invented a new variation whereby the carbon framed road bike with 23 mm tyres will do dual duty as a mountain bike - it is, after all, very light to carry. Road cleats? . . . no problem, they can be turned into makeshift crampons in extremis; and if you get a pinch flat while shuddering over the jumble of boulders and flinty rocks . . . well, those skinny tyres are easy to pump up again afterwards. So it was that we ventured forth, like Indiana Jones in search of the lost Arc, with Lou resplendent in her full camo' top . . .

. . . with spooky prescience from yesteday's post, if she had wandered too far from the trail we would never have found her. Alas, equipment failure curtailed our journey, but we did manage lunch amongst the gargantuan creatures that inhabit this forgotten realm, before starting the treacherous descent back to base camp. As you will have already concluded, dear reader, I survived to record our amazing adventure in what I can only describe as a 'Lost World'.

Back on the road then, to Artà and the Santuari Sant Salvador, a walled fortress high above the town, for a very windy café con leche . . .

Buenas Noches

Wednesday 5 April 2017

Spring training 2


Another day in the sun, another day on the bike, another day hanging off the back - now I know what Brian feels like . . .


Today we cycled up to the lovely cove of Cala Sant Vincenç where we stopped for a lazy repast of the filled buns robbed from the breakfast bar. Given the Germanic nature of breakfast this is better than it sounds, i.e. salami and cheese rolls. We are living up to the SBCC skinflintyness standard in this regard, or is it an over 50s national stereotype - votes on a postcard please. Talking of stereotypes we have found a great bar to go to tonight . . .


S has been feeling the strain, with persistent neck ache bordering on migraine. The chiropractor was meant to have sorted it out despite my misgivings along the lines of: "What are doing seeing those bloody quacks for, you need a proper physio who will put you into excruciating agony . . ." That will teach me to keep my mouth shut, because I have now acquired the role of S's personal soigneur, having to massage her knotted muscles at every stop and break - my thumbs have had a better workout than the legs . . . But at least S got to wear her new shirt for the first time - if she falls off her bike into a flower bed we will never find her.

Lou and Greg have been taking the group selfies - see alternative Facebook (other social media sites are available) posts for information. In a moment of philosphical musing on the nature of infinity, I took it upon myself to take a selfie of the selfie, much like holding up two mirrors in opposition to one another and wondering where it ends . . .

On that profound note I am signing off.


Buenas noches

Tuesday 4 April 2017

Spring training

Since getting back from Oz, both S and I have both been laid low by a series of recurrent virus type ailments. The upshot of this is that we have done practically ZERO cycling this year. So, it was with some misgivings that we set off to Mallorca for some Easter 'pre-season training', in company with Greg and Lou, both of whom have already reached peak fitness after spending a fortnight cycling around the island of Cyprus.

Things got off to an inauspicious start when the pilot informed us, on landing at Palma airport, that we couldn't use the rear exit because they were 'fixing the engine'. Now, I don't know about you, but fixing an aircraft jet engine seems to me to fall into an altogether more serious category of engine fixing than say, failing your MOT because the clutch has worn . . . In retrospect, it had occurred to me half way through the flight that he was gunning it in a bit low and steep from way out . . . Anyhow, we landed; on the runway, and via the wheels, and the right way up - can't ask for more than that I suppose.

As if to compensate, the transfer coach was waiting to whisk us, away from the temptations of Magaluf to Can Picafort on the north east of the island, where we were booked in to the 1* Hotel Galaxia on an all inclusive deal organised through a dodgy internet 'cheap package holiday' outfit . . . what could possibly go wrong with that . . .

On arrrival I checked us all in and was handed two room keys and, in one of those moments when destiny decides the fates, I handed '402' to Lou and kept '401' for ourselves. I leave you, the reader, to decide by applying simple spatial logic, to divine the consequences of the proximity of our room door (brown left) to the elevator door (white right) . . .


. . . and the internal room layout. . . .

So, I was up twice in the night to demand a change of room and, when this was not forthcoming because it was outside the job description of the lad on the desk, waiting at reception in the morning for the manager to arrive. Needless to say, S is pleased with the new room . . .


So, to the cycling.

Mallorca, it seems, has evloved into a microcosm of the EU (pre-Brexit I hasten too add) with the various resorts taking on the character of the predominant clientel. Clearly, Can Picafort in the spring is displaced Germany. Breakfast in the hotel is just like breakfast when ski-ing in the Tyrol (OK, I know its Austria but you get the idea), and the bike hire shop is German (or Austrian), I suspect originally hiring mountain bikes in Mayrhofen judging by the logo; and just like the super-efficient ski-hire places you get at that resort, except that they have a pneumatic inside-leg-measuring device for estimating frame size -maybe from Hamburg - which I will describe in a later post when the chidren are in bed.

Bikes hired, we set off on a Greg-led mystery tour. Now, it is a curious thing, but most of the time while cycling you constantly curse car drivers for being dangerous/too many/BW-owning, and so on. But here, there are so many cyclists on the road you end up cursing the bloody cyclists . . . Every 30 seconds a peleton of super-efficient, graphically attired, metronomes would swoosh past us (I am avoiding national sterotypes here you understand, on strict instructions fom S) and into the distance. At every junction there are clutches of lycra legends wating to cross; around every bend in the road there is the flash of bare behind from someopne pulling up their shorts after a visit to the bushes; and the inevitable gathering of concerned rapha be-clad Brits calling an ambulance for one of their pals who had overcooked the corner and met with the limestone wall. No matter, it didn't talke S long to realise that you have to fight for your roadspace over here, so she has dusted off the old Karate skills and meted out summary punishment for anyone overtaking her. Don't Mess with S . . .

Day 1 has been a struggle. 40 miles on the flat has not quite done us in but there is nothing left in the tank. Just as well we were hanging off the back of Greg's wheel for most of the ride - that is until he buggered off to follow one of the passing peletons of pedalling terminators . . . only to pip them at the 'Can Picafort' town sign.

Tonight we will take advantage of the 'all inclusive' to replensish our energy . . .

Tuesday 3 January 2017

Blog Down Under - Melbourne and around

The last few days in Melbourne to squeeze in the maximum before we head back around the globe. Melbourne is a fantastic city which reminds me very much of Vancouver - a mixture of old-world British Empire outpost, modern vibrant city with a massive natural harbour, and a huge Asian influence with a good dose of other cultures mixed in. It has lots of old buildings and trams . . . and and it has bikes, loads and loads of bikes; in fact the city is fantastically bike friendlly with a young hipster bike culture, so I fitted right in . . . with the bike bit at least. But we werent finished with the sight seeing yet, so off'ed to the Dadenong Ranges Park to walk the Kokoda 1000 steps memorial trail, in memory of the fallen in a WW2 campaign . . .
The walk was up a hill, a mere bagatelle for such hardened ill-climbers such as us; we just pretended it was Pork Hill on a summer Sunday, but with Palm trees - and S adopting the usual position of lanterne rouge . . .
. . . with the added authentic touch of my Akubra hat with dayglo laces . . .

After all the outdoors exertion we dropped the cultural bar somewhat and went to the Crown Casino. This vast, neon-blinking temple to mammon is the largest casino in the southern hemisphere so, high-rollers that S and I are, we headed straight for the cheapest ($2.50 minimum bet) roulette where I proceeded to lose my standard $50 flutter in about 10 minutes. S fared no better, flushing her cash down the loo over a very slightly more extended timescale. With my plan to recoup the holiday outlay lying in tatters it was left to the offspring to uphold the family honour by raking in the lolly playing poker. The fact that they duly did, perhaps reflects not so well on that bit of parenting when we told them about the evils of cards and drink . . . particulalry since I probably won't see any of the profit; so remember folks, only mugs gamble and expect to win . . . . bollocks!
Next on the must-do list was a visit to a dumpling house in Chinatown. The last time I had the authentic thing was with Sam Wang in Vancouver Chinatown, where he proceeded to force-feed me every variation on the menu. This was not dissimilar; dumplings are definitely the best lunctime deal to be had, and come in a delicious variety, floating around in hot and sour soup in my case. The soup option does make them slightly tricky to eat with chopsticks, beause they acquire a slithery outer sheen, thus requiring a deft and subtle hand to elegantly steer them into the mouth . . .
Last day tomorrow, and then the looonnng flight back.
G'day

Sunday 1 January 2017

Blog Down Under - back to the city

And so, the road trip ended back in Melbourne on New Year's Eve, where we checked in to our 22nd floor apartment on the Southside with stunning views over the bay . . .

The plan was to offload all the clobber and set off to Geelong, sans offspring who were on the town with young people, to spend NYE with Neil annd Darlene, old friends from the 1980s. Some readers will know, from personal experience out on the bevy in the Dolphin with Neil, that a gruesome end awaits this sort of activity. I was banking on the fact that age must must have slowed him down consideraby in the intervening 29 years since we last spent NYE together - on that occasion in our student flat in Plymouth, where the air became like a 1950s London smog as the evening wore on because we smoked like Ivor the Engine at the time . . .

. . . note my excellent hairstyle and shoulder pads in S's dress.
This time the occasion called for a barbie in Neil's back yard because the temperature was in the 20s, plus numerous bottles of rather excellent red wine from his extensive cellar - so yes, I was feeling slightly jaded the next day, but perked up somewhat after the restorative of one of the Queenscliff, Rolling Pin Bakery Jumbo Chunky Beef Pie, judged Australia’s Best Pie 2013. Once my blood alcohol had metabolised to below the 50 mg/100 ml limit we bade farewell . . .
. . . and returned to Melbourne for a quiet night in watching the telly.
G'day